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Leaves of Grass, "There Was a Child Went Forth Every"

THERE was a child went forth every day, And the first object he looked upon and received with wonder or pity or love  
 or dread, that object he became,
And that object became part of him for the day or a certain part of the day . . . . or  
 for many years or stretching cycles of years.
The early lilacs became part of this child, And grass, and white and red morningglories, and white and red clover, and the song  
 of the phœbe-bird,
And the March-born lambs, and the sow's pink-faint litter, and the mare's foal, and  
 the cow's calf, and the noisy brood of the barnyard or by the mire of the pond- 
 side . . and the fish suspending themselves so curiously below there . . and the  
 beautiful curious liquid . . and the water-plants with their graceful flat heads . .   
 all became part of him.
And the field-sprouts of April and May became part of him  . . . . wintergrain sprouts,  
 and those of the light-yellow corn, and of the esculent roots of the garden,
And the appletrees covered with blossoms, and the fruit afterward . . . . and wood- 
 berries . . and the commonest weeds by the road;
  [ begin page 91 ]ppp.00271.098.jpg And the old drunkard staggering home from the outhouse of the tavern whence he  
 had lately risen,
And the schoolmistress that passed on her way to the school . . and the friendly boys  
 that passed . . and the quarrelsome boys . . and the tidy and freshcheeked girls . .   
 and the barefoot negro boy and girl,
And all the changes of city and country wherever he went.
His own parents . . he that had propelled the fatherstuff at night, and fathered him . .   
 and she that conceived him in her womb and birthed him . . . . they gave this  
 child more of themselves than that,
They gave him afterward every day . . . . they and of them became part of him.
The mother at home quietly placing the dishes on the suppertable, The mother with mild words . . . . clean her cap and gown  . . . . a wholesome odor  
 falling off her person and clothes as she walks by:
The father, strong, selfsufficient, manly, mean, angered, unjust, The blow, the quick loud word, the tight bargain, the crafty lure, The family usages, the language, the company, the furniture . . . . the yearning and  
 swelling heart,
Affection that will not be gainsayed . . . . The sense of what is real . . . . the thought  
 if after all it should prove unreal,
The doubts of daytime and the doubts of nighttime . . . the curious whether and how, Whether that which appears so is so . . . . Or is it all flashes and specks? Men and women crowding fast in the streets . . if they are not flashes and specks  
 what are they?
The streets themselves, and the facades of houses . . . . the goods in the windows, Vehicles . . teams . . the tiered wharves, and the huge crossing at the ferries; The village on the highland seen from afar at sunset . . . . the river between, Shadows . . aureola and mist . . light falling on roofs and gables of white or brown,  
 three miles off,
The schooner near by sleepily dropping down the tide . .  the little boat slacktowed  
 astern,
The hurrying tumbling waves and quickbroken crests and slapping; The strata of colored clouds . . . . the long bar of maroontint away solitary by  
 itself . . . . the spread of purity it lies motionless in,
The horizon's edge, the flying seacrow, the fragrance of saltmarsh and shoremud; These became part of that child who went forth every day, and who now goes and  
 will always go forth every day,
And these become of him or her that peruses them now.
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