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to top of show Out of the cradle endlessly rocking,
Out of the mocking-bird's throat,
the musical shuttle,
Out of the Ninth-month midnight,
Over the sterile sands and the
fields beyond, where the child
leaving his
bed wander'd alone, bareheaded, barefoot,
Down from the shower'd halo,
Up from the mystic play of shadows
twining and twisting as if they
were alive,
Out from the patches of briers
and blackberries,
From the memories of the bird
that chanted to me,
From your memories sad brother,
from the fitful risings and fallings
I heard,
From under that yellow half-moon
late-risen and swollen as if with
tears,
From those beginning notes of
yearning and love there in the mist,
From the thousand responses of
my heart never to cease,
From the myriad thence-arous'd
words,
From the word stronger and more
delicious than any,
From such as now they start the
scene revisiting,
As a flock, twittering, rising,
or overhead passing,
Borne hither, ere all eludes me,
hurriedly,
A man, yet by these tears a little
boy again,
Throwing myself on the sand, confronting
the waves,
I, chanter of pains and joys,
uniter of here and hereafter,
Taking all hints to use them,
but swiftly leaping beyond them,
A reminiscence sing.
Once Paumanok,
When the lilac-scent was in the
air and Fifth-month grass was
growing,
Up this seashore in some briers,
Two feather'd guests from Alabama,
two together,
And their nest, and four light-green
eggs spotted with brown,
And every day the he-bird to and
fro near at hand,
And every day the she-bird crouch'd
on her nest, silent, with bright
eyes,
And every day I, a curious boy,
never too close, never disturbing
them,
Cautiously peering, absorbing,
translating.
Shine! shine! shine!
Pour down your warmth, great sun.'
While we bask, we two together.
Two together!
Winds blow south, or winds blow
north,
Day come white, or night come
black,
Home, or rivers and mountains
from home,
Singing all time, minding no time,
While we two keep together.
Till of a sudden,
May-be kill'd, unknown to her
mate,
One forenoon the she-bird crouch'd
not on the nest,
Nor return'd that afternoon, nor
the next,
Nor ever appear'd again.
And thenceforward all summer in
the sound of the sea,
And at night under the full of
the moon in calmer weather,
Over the hoarse surging
of the sea,
Or flitting from brier to
brier by day,
I saw, I heard at intervals
the remaining one, the he-bird,
The solitary guest from
Alabama.
Blow! blow! blow!
Blow up sea-winds along
Paumanok's shore,-
I wait and I wait till you
blow my mate to me.
Yes, when the stars glisten'd,
All night long on the prong
of a moss-scallop'd stake,
Down almost amid the slapping
waves,
Sat the lone singer wonderful
causing tears.
He call'd on his mate,
He pour'd forth the meanings
which I of all men know.
Yes my brother I know,
The rest might not, but
I have treasur'd every note,
For more than once dimly
down to the beach gliding,
Silent, avoiding the moonbeams,
blending myself with the shadows,
Recalling now the obscure
shapes, the echoes, the sounds and sights
after
their sorts,
The white arms out in the
breakers tirelessly tossing,
I, with bare feet, a child,
the wind waiting my hair,
Listen'd long and long.
Listen'd to keep, to sing,
now translating the notes,
Following you my brother.
Soothe! soothe! soothe!
Close on its wave soothes
the wave behind,
And again another behind
embracing and lapping, every one close,
But my love soothes not
me, not me.
Low hangs the moon, it rose
late,
It is lagging-O I think
it is heavy with love, with love.
O madly the sea pushes upon
the land,
With love, with love.
O night! do I not see my
love fluttering out among the breakers?
What is that little black
thing I see there in the white?
Loud! loud! loud!
Loud I call to you, my love!.
High and clear I shoot my voice
over the waves,
Surely you must know who is here,
is here,
You must know who I am, my love.
Low-hanging moon!
What is that dusky spot in your
brown yellow?
O it is the shape, the shape of
my mate.'
O moon do not keep her from me
any longer.
Land! land! O land!
Whichever way I turn, O I think
you could give me my mate back again
if you only
would,
For I am almost sure I see her
dimly whichever way I look.
O rising stars!
Perhaps the one I want so much
will rise, will rise with some of
you.
O throat! O trembling throat!
Sound clearer through the atmosphere!
Pierce the woods, the earth,
Somewhere listening to catch you
must be the one I want.
Shake out carols!
Solitary here, the night's carols!
Carols of lonesome love! death's
carols!
Carols under that lagging, yellow,
waning moon!
O under that moon where she droops
almost down into the sea!
O reckless despairing carols.
But soft! sink low!
Soft! let me just murmur,
And do you wait a moment you husky-nois'd
sea,
For somewhere I believe I heard
my mate responding to me,
So faint, I must be still, be
still to listen,
But not altogether still, for
then she might not come immediately to
me.
Hither my love!
Here I am! here!
With this just-sustain'd note
I announce myself to you,
This gentle call is for you my
love, for you.
Do not be decoy'd elsewhere,
That is the whistle of the wind,
it is not my voice,
That is the fluttering, the fluttering
of the spray,
Those are the shadows of leaves.
O darkness! O in vain!
O I am very sick and sorrowful
O brown halo in the sky near the
moon, drooping upon the sea!
O troubled reflection in the sea!
O throat! O throbbing heart!
And I singing uselessly, uselessly
all the night.
O past! O happy life! O songs of
joy!
In the air, in the woods, over
fields,
Loved! loved! loved! loved! loved!
But my mate no more, no more with
me!
We two together no more.
The aria sinking,
All else continuing, the stars
shining,
The winds blowing, the notes of
the bird continuous echoing,
With angry moans the fierce old
mother incessantly moaning,
On the sands of Paumanok's shore
gray and rustling,
The yellow half-moon enlarged,
sagging down, drooping, the face of
the sea almost
touching,
The boy ecstatic, with his bare
feet the waves, with his hair the
atmosphere dallying,
The love in the heart long pent,
now loose, now at last tumultuously
bursting,
The aria's meaning, the ears,
the soul, swiftly depositing,
The strange tears down the cheeks
coursing,
The colloquy there, the trio,
each uttering,
The undertone, the savage old
mother incessantly crying,
To the boy's soul's questions
sullenly timing, some drown'd secret
hissing,
To the outsetting bard.
Demon or bird! (said the boy's
soul,)
Is it indeed toward your mate
you sing? or is it really to me?
For I, that was a child, my tongue's
use sleeping, now I have heard
you,
Now in a moment I know what I
am for, I awake,
And already a thousand singers,
a thousand songs, clearer, louder
and more sorrowful
than yours,
A thousand warbling echoes have
started to life within me, never to
die.
O you singer solitary, singing
by yourself, projecting me,
O solitary me listening, never
more shall I cease perpetuating you,
Never more shall I escape, never
more the reverberations,
Never more the cries of unsatisfied
love be absent from me,
Never again leave me to be the
peaceful child I was before what
there in the
night,
By the sea under the yellow and
sagging moon,
The messenger there arous'd, the
fire, the sweet hell within,
The unknown want, the destiny
of me.
O give me the clew! (it lurks in
the night here somewhere,)
O if I am to have so much, let
me have more!
A word then, (for I will conquer
it,)
The word final, superior to all,
Subtle, sent up-what is it?-I
listen;
Are you whispering it, and have
been all the time, you sea-waves?
Is that it from your liquid rims
and wet sands?
Whereto answering, the sea,
Delaying not, hurrying not,
Whisper'd me through the night,
and very plainly before daybreak,
Lisp'd to me the low and delicious
word death,
And again death, death, death,
death
Hissing melodious, neither like
the bird nor like my arous'd child's
heart,
But edging near as privately for
me rustling at my feet,
Creeping thence steadily up to
my ears and laving me softly all
over,
Death, death, death, death, death.
Which I do not forget.
But fuse the song of my dusky
demon and brother,
That he sang to me in the moonlight
on Paumanok's gray beach,
With the thousand responsive songs
at random,
My own songs awaked from that
hour,
And with them the key, the word
up from the waves,
The word of the sweetest song
and all songs,
That strong and delicious word
which, creeping to my feet,
(Or like some old crone rocking
the cradle, swathed in sweet
garments, bending
aside,)
The sea whisper'd me.