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Title: Leaves of Grass

Creator: Walt Whitman

Date: 1881–1882

Whitman Archive ID: ppp.01663

Source: Leaves of Grass (Boston: James R. Osgood and Company, 1881–1882). Albert and Shirley Small Special Collections Library, University of Virginia, PS3201 1882a, copy 2. The original e-text for this file was prepared by Primary Source Media for Major Authors on CD-ROM: Walt Whitman (1997). The source text for the Primary Source Media edition was Walt Whitman, Complete Poetry and Collected Prose, ed. Justin Kaplan (New York: Literary Classics of the United States, 1982). After receiving the e-text from Primary Source Media, Whitman Archive staff checked and corrected the transcription against images of the University of Virginia copy. For a description of the editorial rationale behind our treatment of editions of Leaves of Grass, see our statement of editorial policy.

Contributors to digital file: Said Hail Fallaha, Elizabeth Lorang, Brett Barney, Stacey Provan, Nicole Gray, Ed Folsom, Kenneth M. Price, and Kevin McMullen

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LEAVES
of
GRASS

BOSTON
JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY
1881-82

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CONTENTS.

—————

INSCRIPTIONS.	PAGE
ONE'S-SELF I SING . . . . . . . . .	9
AS I PONDER'D IN SILENCE . . . . . . .	9
IN CABIN'D SHIPS AT SEA . . . . . . . .	10
TO FOREIGN LANDS . . . . . . . . .	11
TO A HISTORIAN . . . . . . . . . .	11
TO THEE OLD CAUSE . . . . . . . .	11
EIDÓLONS . . . . . . . . . . .	12
FOR HIM I SING . . . . . . . . .	14
WHEN I READ THE BOOK . . . . . . . .	14
BEGINNING MY STUDIES . . . . . . . .	14
BEGINNERS . . . . . . . . . . .	15
TO THE STATES . . . . . . . . . .	15
ON JOURNEYS THROUGH THE STATES . . . . . .	15
TO A CERTAIN CANTATRICE . . . . . . .	16
ME IMPERTURBE . . . . . . . . . .	16
SAVANTISM . . . . . . . . . . .	16
THE SHIP STARTING . . . . . . . . .	16
I HEAR AMERICA SINGING . . . . . . .	17
WHAT PLACE IS BESIEGED? . . . . . . . .	17
STILL THOUGH THE ONE I SING . . . . . .	17
SHUT NOT YOUR DOORS . . . . . . . .	17
POETS TO COME . . . . . . . . . .	18
TO YOU . . . . . . . . . . . .	18
THOU READER . . . . . . . . . .	18

STARTING FROM PAUMANOK . . . . . . . .	18
SONG OF MYSELF . . . . . . . . . .	29

CHILDREN OF ADAM.
TO THE GARDEN THE WORLD . . . . . . .	79
FROM PENT-UP ACHING RIVERS . . . . . .	79
I SING THE BODY ELECTRIC . . . . . . .	81
A WOMAN WAITS FOR ME . . . . . . .	88
SPONTANEOUS ME . . . . . . . . . .	89
ONE HOUR TO MADNESS AND JOY . . . . . .	91
OUT OF THE ROLLING OCEAN THE CROWD . . . .	92
AGES AND AGES RETURNING AT INTERVALS . . . .	92
WE TWO, HOW LONG WE WERE FOOL'D . . . . .	93
O HYMEN! O HYMENEE! . . . . . . . .	93
I AM HE THAT ACHES WITH LOVE . . . . . .	93
NATIVE MOMENTS . . . . . . . . .	94
ONCE I PASS'D THROUGH A POPULOUS CITY . . . .	94
I HEARD YOU SOLEMN-SWEET PIPES OF THE ORGAN . .	94
FACING WEST FROM CALIFORNIA'S SHORES . . . .	95
AS ADAM EARLY IN THE MORNING . . . . .	95

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CALAMUS.	PAGE
IN PATHS UNTRODDEN . . . . . . . . .	95
SCENTED HERBAGE OF MY BREAST . . . . . .	96
WHOEVER YOU ARE HOLDING ME NOW IN HAND . . .	97
FOR YOU O DEMOCRACY . . . . . . . .	99
THESE I SINGING IN SPRING . . . . . . .	99
NOT HEAVING FROM MY RIBB'D BREAST ONLY . . .	100
OF THE TERRIBLE DOUBT OF APPEARANCES . . . .	101
THE BASE OF ALL METAPHYSICS . . . . . .	101
RECORDERS AGES HENCE . . . . . . . .	102
WHEN I HEARD AT THE CLOSE OF THE DAY . . .	102
ARE YOU THE NEW PERSON DRAWN TOWARD ME? . . .	103
ROOTS AND LEAVES THEMSELVES ALONE . . . .	103
NOT HEAT FLAMES UP AND CONSUMES . . . . .	104
TRICKLE DROPS . . . . . . . . . .	104
CITY OF ORGIES . . . . . . . . . .	105
BEHOLD THIS SWARTHY FACE . . . . . .	105
I SAW IN LOUISIANA A LIVE-OAK GROWING . . . .	105
TO A STRANGER . . . . . . . . . .	106
THIS MOMENT YEARNING AND THOUGHTFUL . . . .	106
I HEAR IT WAS CHARGED AGAINST ME . . . . .	107
THE PRAIRIE-GRASS DIVIDING . . . . . . .	107
WHEN I PERUSE THE CONQUER'D FAME . . . .	107
WE TWO BOYS TOGETHER CLINGING . . . . . .	108
A PROMISE TO CALIFORNIA . . . . . . .	108
HERE THE FRAILEST LEAVES OF ME . . . . . .	108
NO LABOR-SAVING MACHINE . . . . . . .	108
A GLIMPSE . . . . . . . . . . .	109
A LEAF FOR HAND IN HAND . . . . . . .	109
EARTH MY LIKENESS . . . . . . . . .	109
I DREAM'D IN A DREAM . . . . . . . .	109
WHAT THINK YOU I TAKE MY PEN IN HAND? . . .	110
TO THE EAST AND TO THE WEST . . . . . .	110
SOMETIMES WITH ONE I LOVE . . . . . . .	110
TO A WESTERN BOY . . . . . . . . .	110
FAST-ANCHOR'D ETERNAL O LOVE . . . . . .	111
AMONG THE MULTITUDE . . . . . . . .	111
O YOU WHOM I OFTEN AND SILENTLY COME . . . .	111
THAT SHADOW MY LIKENESS . . . . . . .	111
FULL OF LIFE NOW . . . . . . . . .	111

SALUT AU MONDE! . . . . . . . . . .	112
SONG OF THE OPEN ROAD . . . . . . . .	120
CROSSING BROOKLYN FERRY . . . . . . . .	129
SONG OF THE ANSWERER . . . . . . . . .	134
OUR OLD FEUILLAGE . . . . . . . . .	138
A SONG OF JOYS . . . . . . . . . . .	142
SONG OF THE BROAD-AXE . . . . . . . .	148
SONG OF THE EXPOSITION . . . . . . . . .	157
SONG OF THE REDWOOD-TREE . . . . . . .	165
A SONG FOR OCCUPATIONS . . . . . . . . .	169
A SONG OF THE ROLLING EARTH . . . . . . .	176
YOUTH, DAY, OLD AGE, AND NIGHT . . . . . .	180

BIRDS OF PASSAGE.
SONG OF THE UNIVERSAL . . . . . . . .	181
PIONEERS! O PIONEERS! . . . . . . . .	183
TO YOU . . . . . . . . . . .	186

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BIRDS OF PASSAGE.	PAGE
FRANCE THE 18TH YEAR OF THESE STATES . . . .	188
MYSELF AND MINE . . . . . . . . .	189
YEAR OF METEORS (1859-60) . . . . . . .	190
WITH ANTECEDENTS . . . . . . . . .	191

A BROADWAY PAGEANT . . . . . . . . .	193

SEA-DRIFT.
OUT OF THE CRADLE ENDLESSLY ROCKING . . . .	196
AS I EBB'D WITH THE OCEAN OF LIFE . . . . .	202
TEARS . . . . . . . . . . . .	204
TO THE MAN-OF-WAR-BIRD . . . . . . .	204
ABOARD AT A SHIP'S HELM . . . . . . . .	205
ON THE BEACH AT NIGHT . . . . . . .	205
THE WORLD BELOW THE BRINE . . . . . . .	206
ON THE BEACH AT NIGHT ALONE . . . . . .	207
SONG FOR ALL SEAS, ALL SHIPS . . . . . .	207
PATROLING BARNEGAT . . . . . . . .	208
AFTER THE SEA-SHIP . . . . . . . . .	209

BY THE ROADSIDE.
A BOSTON BALLAD—1854 . . . . . . .	209
EUROPE THE 72D AND 73D YEARS OF THESE STATES . .	211
A HAND-MIRROR . . . . . . . . .	213
GODS . . . . . . . . . . . .	213
GERMS . . . . . . . . . . . .	214
THOUGHTS . . . . . . . . . . .	214
WHEN I HEARD THE LEARN'D ASTRONOMER . . .	214
PERFECTIONS . . . . . . . . . . .	214
O ME! O LIFE! . . . . . . . . .	215
TO A PRESIDENT . . . . . . . . . .	215
I SIT AND LOOK OUT . . . . . . . .	215
TO RICH GIVERS . . . . . . . . . .	216
THE DALLIANCE OF THE EAGLES . . . . . .	216
ROAMING IN THOUGHT . . . . . . . . .	216
A FARM PICTURE . . . . . . . . .	216
A CHILD'S AMAZE . . . . . . . . . .	217
THE RUNNER . . . . . . . . . .	217
BEAUTIFUL WOMEN . . . . . . . . .	217
MOTHER AND BABE . . . . . . . . .	217
THOUGHT . . . . . . . . . . .	217
VISOR'D . . . . . . . . . . .	217
THOUGHT . . . . . . . . . . .	217
GLIDING O'ER ALL . . . . . . . . .	218
HAST NEVER COME TO THEE AN HOUR . . . . .	218
THOUGHT . . . . . . . . . . .	218
TO OLD AGE . . . . . . . . . . .	218
LOCATIONS AND TIMES . . . . . . . .	218
OFFERINGS . . . . . . . . . . .	218
TO IDENTIFY THE 16TH, 17TH OR 18TH PRESIDENTIAD . .	218

DRUM-TAPS.
FIRST O SONGS FOR A PRELUDE . . . . . . .	219
EIGHTEEEN SIXTY-ONE . . . . . . . .	221
BEAT! BEAT! DRUMS! . . . . . . . .	222
FROM PAUMANOK STARTING I FLY LIKE A BIRD . . .	222
SONG OF THE BANNER AT DAYBREAK . . . . .	223
RISE O DAYS FROM YOUR FATHOMLESS DEEPS . . .	228

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DRUM-TAPS.	PAGE
VIRGINIA—THE WEST . . . . . . . .	230
CITY OF SHIPS . . . . . . . . . .	230
THE CENTENARIAN'S STORY . . . . . . .	231
CAVALRY CROSSING A FORD . . . . . . .	235
BIVOUAC ON A MOUNTAIN SIDE . . . . . .	235
AN ARMY CORPS ON THE MARCH . . . . . .	236
BY THE BIVOUAC'S FITFUL FLAME . . . . . .	236
COME UP FROM THE FIELDS FATHER . . . . . .	236
VIGIL STRANGE I KEPT ON THE FIELD ONE NIGHT . .	238
A MARCH IN THE RANKS HARD-PREST . . . . .	239
A SIGHT IN CAMP IN THE DAYBREAK GRAY AND DIM .	240
AS TOILSOME I WANDER'D VIRGINIA'S WOODS . . .	240
NOT THE PILOT . . . . . . . . . .	241
YEAR THAT TREMBLED AND REEL'D BENEATH ME . . .	241
THE WOUND-DRESSER . . . . . . . .	241
LONG, TOO LONG AMERICA . . . . . . .	244
GIVE ME THE SPLENDID SILENT SUN . . . . .	244
DIRGE FOR TWO VETERANS . . . . . . . .	246
OVER THE CARNAGE ROSE PROPHETIC A VOICE . . .	247
I SAW OLD GENERAL AT BAY . . . . . . .	247
THE ARTILLERYMAN'S VISION . . . . . . .	248
ETHIOPIA SALUTING THE COLORS . . . . . .	249
NOT YOUTH PERTAINS TO ME . . . . . .	249
RACE OF VETERANS . . . . . . . . .	250
WORLD TAKE GOOD NOTICE . . . . . . .	250
O TAN-FACED PRAIRIE-BOY . . . . . . . .	250
LOOK DOWN FAIR MOON . . . . . . . .	250
RECONCILIATION . . . . . . . . . .	250
HOW SOLEMN AS ONE BY ONE . . . . . .	251
AS I LAY WITH MY HEAD IN YOUR LAP CAMERADO . .	251
DELICATE CLUSTER . . . . . . . . .	252
TO A CERTAIN CIVILIAN . . . . . . . .	252
LO, VICTRESS ON THE PEAKS . . . . . . .	252
SPIRIT WHOSE WORK IS DONE . . . . . . .	253
ADIEU TO A SOLDIER . . . . . . . .	253
TURN O LIBERTAD . . . . . . . . .	254
TO THE LEAVEN'D SOIL THEY TROD . . . . .	254

MEMORIES OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN.
WHEN LILACS LAST IN THE DOORYARD BLOOM'D . . .	255
O CAPTAIN, MY CAPTAIN . . . . . . . .	262
HUSH'D BE THE CAMPS TO-DAY . . . . . . .	263
THIS DUST WAS ONCE THE MAN . . . . . .	263

BY BLUE ONTARIO'S SHORE . . . . . . . .	264
REVERSALS . . . . . . . . . . . .	276

AUTUMN RIVULETS.
AS CONSEQUENT . . . . . . . . . .	277
THE RETURN OF THE HEROES . . . . . . .	278
THERE WAS A CHILD WENT FORTH . . . . . .	282
OLD IRELAND . . . . . . . . . .	284
THE CITY DEAD-HOUSE . . . . . . . .	284
THIS COMPOST . . . . . . . . . .	285
TO A FOIL'D EUROPEAN REVOLUTIONAIRE . . . . .	287
UNNAMED LANDS . . . . . . . . .	288
SONG OF PRUDENCE . . . . . . . . .	289

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AUTUMN RIVULETS.	PAGE
THE SINGER IN THE PRISON . . . . . . .	292
WARBLE FOR LILAC-TIME . . . . . . . .	293
OUTLINES FOR A TOMB . . . . . . . .	294
OUT FROM BEHIND THIS MASK . . . . . . .	296
VOCALISM . . . . . . . . . . .	297
TO HIM THAT WAS CRUCIFIED . . . . . . .	298
YOU FELONS ON TRIAL IN COURTS . . . . . .	298
LAWS FOR CREATIONS . . . . . . . . .	299
TO A COMMON PROSTITUTE . . . . . . .	299
I WAS LOOKING A LONG WHILE . . . . . . .	300
THOUGHT . . . . . . . . . . .	300
MIRACLES . . . . . . . . . . .	301
SPARKLES FROM THE WHEEL . . . . . . .	301
TO A PUPIL . . . . . . . . . . .	302
UNFOLDED OUT OF THE FOLDS . . . . . .	302
WHAT AM I AFTER ALL . . . . . . . .	303
KOSMOS . . . . . . . . . . .	303
OTHERS MAY PRAISE WHAT THEY LIKE . . . . .	304
WHO LEARNS MY LESSON COMPLETE . . . . .	304
TESTS . . . . . . . . . . . .	305
THE TORCH . . . . . . . . . .	305
O STAR OF FRANCE (1870-71) . . . . . . .	306
THE OX-TAMER . . . . . . . . . .	307
AN OLD MAN'S THOUGHT OF SCHOOL . . . . .	308
WANDERING AT MORN . . . . . . . .	308
ITALIAN MUSIC IN DAKOTA . . . . . . .	309
WITH ALL THY GIFTS . . . . . . . .	309
MY PICTURE-GALLERY . . . . . . . . .	310
THE PRAIRIE STATES . . . . . . . .	310

PROUD MUSIC OF THE STORM . . . . . . . .	310
PASSAGE TO INDIA . . . . . . . . . .	315
PRAYER OF COLUMBUS . . . . . . . . . .	323
THE SLEEPERS . . . . . . . . . . .	325
TRANSPOSITIONS . . . . . . . . . . .	332
TO THINK OF TIME . . . . . . . . . .	333

WHISPERS OF HEAVENLY DEATH.
DAREST THOU NOW O SOUL . . . . . . .	338
WHISPERS OF HEAVENLY DEATH . . . . . .	338
CHANTING THE SQUARE DEIFIC . . . . . . .	339
OF HIM I LOVE DAY AND NIGHT . . . . . .	340
YET, YET, YE DOWNCAST HOURS . . . . . .	341
AS IF A PHANTOM CARESS'D ME . . . . . .	341
ASSURANCES . . . . . . . . . . .	342
QUICKSAND YEARS . . . . . . . . .	342
THAT MUSIC ALWAYS ROUND ME . . . . . .	343
WHAT SHIP PUZZLED AT SEA . . . . . . .	343
A NOISELESS PATIENT SPIDER . . . . . . .	343
O LIVING ALWAYS, ALWAYS DYING . . . . .	344
TO ONE SHORTLY TO DIE . . . . . . . .	344
NIGHT ON THE PRAIRIES . . . . . . . .	344
THOUGHT . . . . . . . . . . .	345
THE LAST INVOCATION . . . . . . . .	346
AS I WATCH'D THE PLOUGHMAN PLOUGHING . . .	346
PENSIVE AND FALTERING . . . . . . . .	346

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	PAGE
THOU MOTHER WITH THY EQUAL BROOD . . . . .	346
A PAUMANOK PICTURE . . . . . . . . .	351

FROM NOON TO STARRY NIGHT.
THOU ORB ALOFT FULL-DAZZLING . . . . . .	352
FACES . . . . . . . . . . . .	353
THE MYSTIC TRUMPETER . . . . . . . .	356
TO A LOCOMOTIVE IN WINTER . . . . . .	358
O MAGNET-SOUTH . . . . . . . . . .	359
MANNAHATTA . . . . . . . . . .	360
ALL IS TRUTH . . . . . . . . . .	361
A RIDDLE SONG . . . . . . . . .	362
EXCELSIOR . . . . . . . . . . .	363
AH POVERTIES, WINCINGS, AND SULKY RETREATS . .	364
THOUGHTS . . . . . . . . . . .	364
MEDIUMS . . . . . . . . . . .	364
WEAVE IN, MY HARDY LIFE . . . . . . .	365
SPAIN, 1873-74 . . . . . . . . . .	365
BY BROAD POTOMAC'S SHORE . . . . . . .	366
FROM FAR DAKOTA'S CAÑONS (JUNE 25, 1876) . . .	366
OLD WAR-DREAMS . . . . . . . . . .	367
THICK-SPRINKLED BUNTING . . . . . . .	367
WHAT BEST I SEE IN THEE . . . . . . .	368
SPIRIT THAT FORM'D THIS SCENE . . . . . .	368
AS I WALK THESE BROAD MAJESTIC DAYS . . . .	369
A CLEAR MIDNIGHT . . . . . . . . .	369

SONGS OF PARTING.
AS THE TIME DRAWS NIGH . . . . . . . .	370
YEARS OF THE MODERN . . . . . . . .	370
ASHES OF SOLDIERS . . . . . . . . .	371
THOUGHTS . . . . . . . . . . .	373
SONG AT SUNSET . . . . . . . . . .	374
AS AT THY PORTALS ALSO DEATH . . . . . .	376
MY LEGACY . . . . . . . . . . .	376
PENSIVE ON HER DEAD GAZING . . . . . .	377
CAMPS OF GREEN . . . . . . . . . .	377
THE SOBBING OF THE BELLS . . . . . . .	378
AS THEY DRAW TO A CLOSE . . . . . . .	379
JOY, SHIPMATE, JOY . . . . . . . . .	379
THE UNTOLD WANT . . . . . . . . .	379
PORTALS . . . . . . . . . . .	379
THESE CAROLS . . . . . . . . . .	379
NOW FINALÈ TO THE SHORE . . . . . . .	380
SO LONG! . . . . . . . . . . .	380

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INSCRIPTIONS.

—————

ONE'S-SELF I SING.

ONE'S-SELF I sing, a simple separate person,

Yet utter the word Democratic, the word En-Masse.

Of physiology from top to toe I sing,

Not physiognomy alone nor brain alone is worthy for the Muse, I
say the Form complete is worthier far,

The Female equally with the Male I sing.

Of Life immense in passion, pulse, and power,

Cheerful, for freest action form'd under the laws divine,

The Modern Man I sing.

AS I PONDER'D IN SILENCE.

AS I ponder'd in silence,

Returning upon my poems, considering, lingering long,

A Phantom arose before me with distrustful aspect,

Terrible in beauty, age, and power,

The genius of poets of old lands,

As to me directing like flame its eyes,

With finger pointing to many immortal songs,

And menacing voice, What singest thou? it said,

Know'st thou not there is but one theme for ever-enduring bards?

And that is the theme of War, the fortune of battles,

The making of perfect soldiers.

Be it so, then I answered,

I too haughty Shade also sing war, and a longer and greater one
than any,

Waged in my book with varying fortune, with flight, advance and
retreat, victory deferr'd and wavering,

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(Yet methinks certain, or as good as certain, at the last,) the field
the world,

For life and death, for the Body and for the eternal Soul,

Lo, I too am come, chanting the chant of battles,

I above all promote brave soldiers.

IN CABIN'D SHIPS AT SEA.

IN cabin'd ships at sea,

The boundless blue on every side expanding,

With whistling winds and music of the waves, the large imperious
waves,

Or some lone bark buoy'd on the dense marine,

Where joyous full of faith, spreading white sails,

She cleaves the ether mid the sparkle and the foam of day, or
under many a star at night,

By sailors young and old haply will I, a reminiscence of the land,
be read,

In full rapport at last.

Here are our thoughts, voyagers' thoughts,

Here not the land, firm land, alone appears, may then by them be
said,

The sky o'erarches here, we feel the undulating deck beneath our
feet,

We feel the long pulsation, ebb and flow of endless motion,

The tones of unseen mystery, the vague and vast suggestions of the
briny world, the liquid-flowing syllables,

The perfume, the faint creaking of the cordage, the melancholy
rhythm,

The boundless vista and the horizon far and dim are all here,

And this is ocean's poem.

Then falter not O book, fulfil your destiny,

You not a reminiscence of the land alone,

You too as a lone bark cleaving the ether, purpos'd I know not
whither, yet ever full of faith,

Consort to every ship that sails, sail you!

Bear forth to them folded my love, (dear mariners, for you I fold
it here in every leaf;)

Speed on my book! spread your white sails my little bark athwart
the imperious waves,

Chant on, sail on, bear o'er the boundless blue from me to every
sea,

This song for mariners and all their ships.

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TO FOREIGN LANDS.

I HEARD that you ask'd for something to prove this puzzle the New
World,

And to define America, her athletic Democracy,

Therefore I send you my poems that you behold in them what you
wanted.

TO A HISTORIAN.

YOU who celebrate bygones,

Who have explored the outward, the surfaces of the races, the life
that has exhibited itself,

Who have treated of man as the creature of politics, aggregates,
rulers and priests,

I, habitan of the Alleghanies, treating of him as he is in himself
in his own rights,

Pressing the pulse of the life that has seldom exhibited itself, (the
great pride of man in himself,)

Chanter of Personality, outlining what is yet to be,

I project the history of the future.

TO THEE OLD CAUSE.

TO thee old cause!

Thou peerless, passionate, good cause,

Thou stern, remorseless, sweet idea,

Deathless throughout the ages, races, lands,

After a strange sad war, great war for thee,

(I think all war through time was really fought, and ever will be
really fought, for thee,)

These chants for thee, the eternal march of thee.

(A war O soldiers not for itself alone,

Far, far more stood silently waiting behind, now to advance in
this book.)

Thou orb of many orbs!

Thou seething principle! thou well-kept, latent germ! thou centre!

Around the idea of thee the war revolving,

With all its angry and vehement play of causes,

(With vast results to come for thrice a thousand years,)

These recitatives for thee,—my book and the war are one,

Merged in its spirit I and mine, as the contest hinged on thee,

As a wheel on its axis turns, this book unwitting to itself,

Around the idea of thee.

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EIDÓLONS.

I MET a seer,

Passing the hues and objects of the world,

The fields of art and learning, pleasure, sense,

To glean eidólons.

Put in thy chants said he,

No more the puzzling hour nor day, nor segments, parts, put in,

Put first before the rest as light for all and entrance-song of all,

That of eidólons.

Ever the dim beginning,

Ever the growth, the rounding of the circle,

Ever the summit and the merge at last, (to surely start again,)

Eidólons! eidólons!

Ever the mutable,

Ever materials, changing, crumbling, re-cohering,

Ever the ateliers, the factories divine,

Issuing eidólons.

Lo, I or you,

Or woman, man, or state, known or unknown,

We seeming solid wealth, strength, beauty build,

But really build eidólons.

The ostent evanescent,

The substance of an artist's mood or savan's studies long,

Or warrior's, martyr's, hero's toils,

To fashion his eidólon.

Of every human life,

(The units gather'd, posted, not a thought, emotion, deed, left out,)

The whole or large or small summ'd, added up,

In its eidólon.

The old, old urge,

Based on the ancient pinnacles, lo, newer, higher pinnacles,

From science and the modern still impell'd,

The old, old urge, eidólons.

The present now and here,

America's busy, teeming, intricate whirl,

Of aggregate and segregate for only thence releasing,

To-day's eidólons.

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These with the past,

Of vanish'd lands, of all the reigns of kings across the sea,

Old conquerors, old campaigns, old sailors' voyages,

Joining eidólons.

Densities, growth, façades,

Strata of mountains, soils, rocks, giant trees,

Far-born, far-dying, living long, to leave,

Eidólons everlasting.

Exaltè, rapt, ecstatic,

The visible but their womb of birth,

Of orbic tendencies to shape and shape and shape,

The mighty earth-eidólon.

All space, all time,

(The stars, the terrible perturbations of the suns,

Swelling, collapsing, ending, serving their longer, shorter use,)

Fill'd with eidólons only.

The noiseless myriads,

The infinite oceans where the rivers empty,

The separate countless free identities, like eyesight,

The true realities, eidólons.

Not this the world,

Nor these the universes, they the universes,

Purport and end, ever the permanent life of life,

Eidólons, eidólons.

Beyond thy lectures learn'd professor,

Beyond thy telescope or spectroscope observer keen, beyond all
mathematics,

Beyond the doctor's surgery, anatomy, beyond the chemist with
his chemistry,

The entities of entities, eidólons.

Unfix'd yet fix'd,

Ever shall be, ever have been and are,

Sweeping the present to the infinite future,

Eidólons, eidólons, eidólons.

The prophet and the bard,

Shall yet maintain themselves, in higher stages yet,

Shall mediate to the Modern, to Democracy, interpret yet to them,

God and eidólons.

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And thee my soul,

Joys, ceaseless exercises, exaltations,

Thy yearning amply fed at last, prepared to meet,

Thy mates, eidólons.

Thy body permanent,

The body lurking there within thy body,

The only purport of the form thou art, the real I myself,

An image, an eidólon.

Thy very songs not in thy songs,

No special strains to sing, none for itself,

But from the whole resulting, rising at last and floating,

A round full-orb'd eidólon.

FOR HIM I SING.

FOR him I sing,

I raise the present on the past,

(As some perennial tree out of its roots, the present on the past,)

With time and space I him dilate and fuse the immortal laws,

To make himself by them the law unto himself.

WHEN I READ THE BOOK.

WHEN I read the book, the biography famous,

And is this then (said I) what the author calls a man's life?

And so will some one when I am dead and gone write my life?

(As if any man really knew aught of my life,

Why even I myself I often think know little or nothing of my real
life,

Only a few hints, a few diffused faint clews and indirections

I seek for my own use to trace out here.)

BEGINNING MY STUDIES.

BEGINNING my studies the first step pleas'd me so much,

The mere fact consciousness, these forms, the power of motion,

The least insect or animal, the senses, eyesight, love,

The first step I say awed me and pleas'd me so much,

I have hardly gone and hardly wish'd to go any farther,

But stop and loiter all the time to sing it in ecstatic songs.

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BEGINNERS.

HOW they are provided for upon the earth, (appearing at inter-
vals,)

How dear and dreadful they are to the earth,

How they inure to themselves as much as to any—what a paradox
appears their age,

How people respond to them, yet know them not,

How there is something relentless in their fate all times,

How all times mischoose the objects of their adulation and re-
ward,

And how the same inexorable price must still be paid for the same
great purchase.

TO THE STATES.

TO the States or any one of them, or any city of the States, Resist
much, obey little,

Once unquestioning obedience, once fully enslaved,

Once fully enslaved, no nation, state, city of this earth, ever after-
ward resumes its liberty.

ON JOURNEYS THROUGH THE STATES.

ON journeys through the States we start,

(Ay through the world, urged by these songs,

Sailing henceforth to every land, to every sea,)

We willing learners of all, teachers of all, and lovers of all.

We have watch'd the seasons dispensing themselves and passing
on,

And have said, Why should not a man or woman do as much as
the seasons, and effuse as much?

We dwell a while in every city and town,

We pass through Kanada, the North-east, the vast valley of the
Mississippi, and the Southern States,

We confer on equal terms with each of the States,

We make trial of ourselves and invite men and women to hear,

We say to ourselves, Remember, fear not, be candid, promulge the
body and the soul,

Dwell a while and pass on, be copious, temperate, chaste, mag-
netic,

And what you effuse may then return as the seasons return,

And may be just as much as the seasons.

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TO A CERTAIN CANTATRICE.

HERE, take this gift,

I was reserving it for some hero, speaker, or general,

One who should serve the good old cause, the great idea, the prog-
ress and freedom of the race,

Some brave confronter of despots, some daring rebel;

But I see that what I was reserving belongs to you just as much as
to any.

ME IMPERTURBE.

ME imperturbe, standing at ease in Nature,

Master of all or mistress of all, aplomb in the midst of irrational
things,

Imbued as they, passive, receptive, silent as they,

Finding my occupation, poverty, notoriety, foibles, crimes, less im-
portant than I thought,

Me toward the Mexican sea, or in the Mannahatta or the Tennes-
see, or far north or inland,

A river man, or a man of the woods or of any farm-life of these
States or of the coast, or the lakes or Kanada,

Me wherever my life is lived, O to be self-balanced for contingen-
cies,

To confront night, storms, hunger, ridicule, accidents, rebuffs, as
the trees and animals do.

SAVANTISM.

THITHER as I look I see each result and glory retracing itself and
nestling close, always obligated,

Thither hours, months, years—thither trades, compacts, establish-
ments, even the most minute,

Thither every-day life, speech, utensils, politics, persons, estates;

Thither we also, I with my leaves and songs, trustful, admirant,

As a father to his father going takes his children along with him.

THE SHIP STARTING.

LO, the unbounded sea,

On its breast a ship starting, spreading all sails, carrying even her
moonsails,

The pennant is flying aloft as she speeds she speeds so stately—
below emulous waves press forward,

They surround the ship with shining curving motions and foam.

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I HEAR AMERICA SINGING.

I HEAR America singing, the varied carols I hear,

Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe
and strong,

The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,

The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off
work,

The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deck-
hand singing on the steamboat deck,

The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing
as he stands,

The wood-cutter's song, the ploughboy's on his way in the morn-
ing, or at noon intermission or at sundown,

The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work,
or of the girl sewing or washing,

Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,

The day what belongs to the day—at night the party of young
fellows, robust, friendly,

Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.

WHAT PLACE IS BESIEGED?

WHAT place is besieged, and vainly tries to raise the siege?

Lo, I send to that place a commander, swift, brave, immortal,

And with him horse and foot, and parks of artillery,

And artillery-men, the deadliest that ever fired gun.

STILL THOUGH THE ONE I SING.

STILL though the one I sing,

(One, yet of contradictions made,) I dedicate to Nationality,

I leave in him revolt, (O latent right of insurrection! O quench-
less, indispensable fire!)

SHUT NOT YOUR DOORS.

SHUT not your doors to me proud libraries,

For that which was lacking on all your well-fill'd shelves, yet
needed most, I bring,

Forth from the war emerging, a book I have made,

The words of my book nothing, the drift of it every thing,

A book separate, not link'd with the rest nor felt by the intellect,

But you ye untold latencies will thrill to every page.

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POETS TO COME.

POETS to come! orators, singers, musicians to come!

Not to-day is to justify me and answer what I am for,

But you, a new brood, native, athletic, continental, greater than
before known,

Arouse! for you must justify me.

I myself but write one or two indicative words for the future,

I but advance a moment only to wheel and hurry back in the
darkness.

I am a man who, sauntering along without fully stopping, turns a
casual look upon you and then averts his face,

Leaving it to you to prove and define it,

Expecting the main things from you.

TO YOU.

STRANGER, if you passing meet me and desire to speak to me, why
should you not speak to me?

And why should I not speak to you?

THOU READER.

THOU reader throbbest life and pride and love the same as I,

Therefore for thee the following chants.

—————

STARTING FROM PAUMANOK.

STARTING from fish-shape Paumanok where I was born,

Well-begotten, and rais'd by a perfect mother,

After roaming many lands, lover of populous pavements,

Dweller in Mannahatta my city, or on southern savannas,

Or a soldier camp'd or carrying my knapsack and gun, or a miner
in California,

Or rude in my home in Dakota's woods, my diet meat, my drink
from the spring,

Or withdrawn to muse and meditate in some deep recess,

Far from the clank of crowds intervals passing rapt and happy,

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Aware of the fresh free giver the flowing Missouri, aware of mighty
Niagara,

Aware of the buffalo herds grazing the plains, the hirsute and
strong-breasted bull,

Of earth, rocks, Fifth-month flowers experienced, stars, rain, snow,
my amaze,

Having studied the mocking-bird's tones and the flight of the
mountain-hawk,

And heard at dawn the unrivall'd one, the hermit thrush from the
swamp-cedars,

Solitary, singing in the West, I strike up for a New World.

Victory, union, faith, identity, time,

The indissoluble compacts, riches, mystery,

Eternal progress, the kosmos, and the modern reports.

This then is life,

Here is what has come to the surface after so many throes and
convulsions.

How curious! how real!

Underfoot the divine soil, overhead the sun.

See revolving the globe,

The ancestor-continents away group'd together,

The present and future continents north and south, with the
isthmus between.

See, vast trackless spaces,

As in a dream they change, they swiftly fill,

Countless masses debouch upon them,

They are now cover'd with the foremost people, arts, institutions,
known.

See, projected through time,

For me an audience interminable.

With firm and regular step they wend, they never stop,

Successions of men, Americanos, a hundred millions,

One generation playing its part and passing on,

Another generation playing its part and passing on in its turn,

With faces turn'd sideways or backward towards me to listen,

With eyes retrospective towards me.

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Americanos! conquerors! marches humanitarian!

Foremost! century marches! Libertad! masses!

For you a programme of chants.

Chants of the prairies,

Chants of the long-running Mississippi, and down to the Mexican
sea,

Chants of Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Iowa, Wisconsin and Minnesota,

Chants going forth from the centre from Kansas, and thence equi-
distant,

Shooting in pulses of fire ceaseless to vivify all.

Take my leaves America, take them South and take them North,

Make welcome for them everywhere, for they are your own off-
spring,

Surround them East and West, for they would surround you,

And you precedents, connect lovingly with them, for they connect
lovingly with you.

I conn'd old times,

I sat studying at the feet of the great masters,

Now if eligible O that the great masters might return and study me.

In the name of these States shall I scorn the antique?

Why these are the children of the antique to justify it.

Dead poets, philosophs, priests,

Martyrs, artists, inventors, governments long since,

Language-shapers on other shores,

Nations once powerful, now reduced, withdrawn, or desolate,

I dare not proceed till I respectfully credit what you have left
wafted hither,

I have perused it, own it is admirable, (moving awhile among it,)

Think nothing can ever be greater, nothing can ever deserve more
than it deserves,

Regarding it all intently a long while, then dismissing it,

I stand in my place with my own day here.

Here lands female and male,

Here the heir-ship and heiress-ship of the world, here the flame of
materials,

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Here spirituality the translatress, the openly-avow'd,

The ever-tending, the finale of visible forms,

The satisfier, after due long-waiting now advancing,

Yes here comes my mistress the soul.

The soul,

Forever and forever—longer than soil is brown and solid—longer
than water ebbs and flows.

I will make the poems of materials, for I think they are to be the
most spiritual poems,

And I will make the poems of my body and of mortality,

For I think I shall then supply myself with the poems of my soul
and of immortality.

I will make a song for these States that no one State may under
any circumstances be subjected to another State,

And I will make a song that there shall be comity by day and by
night between all the States, and between any two of them,

And I will make a song for the ears of the President, full of weap-
ons with menacing points,

And behind the weapons countless dissatisfied faces;

And a song make I of the One form'd out of all,

The fang'd and glittering One whose head is over all,

Resolute warlike One including and over all,

(However high the head of any else that head is over all.)

I will acknowledge contemporary lands,

I will trail the whole geography of the globe and salute courte-
ously every city large and small,

And employments! I will put in my poems that with you is hero-
ism upon land and sea,

And I will report all heroism from an American point of view.

I will sing the song of companionship,

I will show what alone must finally compact these,

I believe these are to found their own ideal of manly love, indi-
cating it in me,

I will therefore let flame from me the burning fires that were
threatening to consume me,

I will lift what has too long kept down those smouldering fires,

I will give them complete abandonment,

I will write the evangel-poem of comrades and of love,

For who but I should understand love with all its sorrow and joy?

And who but I should be the poet of comrades?

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I am the credulous man of qualities, ages, races,

I advance from the people in their own spirit,

Here is what sings unrestricted faith.

Omnes! omnes! let others ignore what they may,

I make the poem of evil also, I commemorate that part also,

I am myself just as much evil as good, and my nation is—and I
say there is in fact no evil,

(Or if there is I say it is just as important to you, to the land or
to me, as any thing else.)

I too, following many and follow'd by many, inaugurate a religion,
I descend into the arena,

(It may be I am destin'd to utter the loudest cries there, the win
ner's pealing shouts,

Who knows? they may rise from me yet, and soar above every thing.)

Each is not for its own sake,

I say the whole earth and all the stars in the sky are for religion's
sake.

I say no man has ever yet been half devout enough,

None has ever yet adored or worship'd half enough,

None has begun to think how divine he himself is, and how cer-
tain the future is.

I say that the real and permanent grandeur of these States must
be their religion,

Otherwise there is no real and permanent grandeur;

(Nor character nor life worthy the name without religion,

Nor land nor man or woman without religion.)

What are you doing young man?

Are you so earnest, so given up to literature, science, art, amours?

These ostensible realities, politics, points?

Your ambition or business whatever it may be?

It is well—against such I say not a word, I am their poet also,

But behold! such swiftly subside, burnt up for religion's sake,

For not all matter is fuel to heat, impalpable flame, the essential
life of the earth,

Any more than such are to religion.

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What do you seek so pensive and silent?

What do you need camerado?

Dear son do you think it is love?

Listen dear son—listen America, daughter or son,

It is a painful thing to love a man or woman to excess, and yet it
satisfies, it is great,

But there is something else very great, it makes the whole coin-
cide,

It, magnificent, beyond materials, with continuous hands sweeps
and provides for all.

Know you, solely to drop in the earth the germs of a greater
religion,

The following chants each for its kind I sing.

My comrade!

For you to share with me two greatnesses, and a third one rising
inclusive and more resplendent,

The greatness of Love and Democracy, and the greatness of Reli-
gion.

Melange mine own, the unseen and the seen,

Mysterious ocean where the streams empty,

Prophetic spirit of materials shifting and flickering around me,

Living beings, identities now doubtless near us in the air that we
know not of,

Contact daily and hourly that will not release me,

These selecting, these in hints demanded of me.

Not he with a daily kiss onward from childhood kissing me,

Has winded and twisted around me that which holds me to him,

Any more than I am held to the heavens and all the spiritual
world,

After what they have done to me, suggesting themes.

O such themes—equalities! O divine average!

Warblings under the sun, usher'd as now, or at noon, or setting,

Strains musical flowing through ages, now reaching hither,

I take to your reckless and composite chords, add to them, and
cheerfully pass them forward.

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As I have walk'd in Alabama my morning walk,

I have seen where the she-bird the mocking-bird sat on her nest
in the briers hatching her brood.

I have seen the he-bird also,

I have paus'd to hear him near at hand inflating his throat and
joyfully singing.

And while I paus'd it came to me that what he really sang for was
not there only,

Nor for his mate nor himself only, nor all sent back by the echoes,

But subtle, clandestine, away beyond,

A charge transmitted and gift occult for those being born.

Democracy! near at hand to you a throat is now inflating itself
and joyfully singing.

Ma femme! for the brood beyond us and of us,

For those who belong here and those to come,

I exultant to be ready for them will now shake out carols stronger
and haughtier than have ever yet been heard upon earth.

I will make the songs of passion to give them their way,

And your songs outlaw'd offenders, for I scan you with kindred
eyes, and carry you with me the same as any.

I will make the true poem of riches,

To earn for the body and the mind whatever adheres and goes
forward and is not dropt by death;

I will effuse egotism and show it underlying all, and I will be the
bard of personality,

And I will show of male and female that either is but the equal
of the other,

And sexual organs and acts! do you concentrate in me, for I am
determin'd to tell you with courageous clear voice to prove
you illustrious,

And I will show that there is no imperfection in the present, and
can be none in the future,

And I will show that whatever happens to anybody it may be
turn'd to beautiful results,

And I will show that nothing can happen more beautiful than
death,

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And I will thread a thread through my poems that time and events
are compact,

And that all the things of the universe are perfect miracles, each
as profound as any.

I will not make poems with reference to parts,

But I will make poems, songs, thoughts, with reference to ensemble,

And I will not sing with reference to a day, but with reference to
all days,

And I will not make a poem nor the least part of a poem but has
reference to the soul,

Because having look'd at the objects of the universe, I find there
is no one nor any particle of one but has reference to the
soul.

Was somebody asking to see the soul?

See, your own shape and countenance, persons, substances, beasts,
the trees, the running rivers, the rocks and sands.

All hold spiritual joys and afterwards loosen them;

How can the real body ever die and be buried?

Of your real body and any man's or woman's real body,

Item for item it will elude the hands of the corpse-cleaners and
pass to fitting spheres,

Carrying what has accrued to it from the moment of birth to the
moment of death.

Not the types set up by the printer return their impression,
the meaning, the main concern,

Any more than a man's substance and life or a woman's substance
and life return in the body and the soul,

Indifferently before death and after death.

Behold, the body includes and is the meaning, the main concern,
and includes and is the soul;

Whoever you are, how superb and how divine is your body, or any
part of it!

Whoever you are, to you endless announcements!

Daughter of the lands did you wait for your poet?

Did you wait for one with a flowing mouth and indicative hand?

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Toward the male of the States, and toward the female of the States,

Exulting words, words to Democracy's lands.

Interlink'd, food-yielding lands!

Land of coal and iron! land of gold! land of cotton, sugar, rice!

Land of wheat, beef, pork! land of wool and hemp! land of the
apple and the grape!

Land of the pastoral plains, the grass-fields of the world! land of
those sweet-air'd interminable plateaus!

Land of the herd, the garden, the healthy house of adobie!

Lands where the north-west Columbia winds, and where the south-
west Colorado winds!

Land of the eastern Chesapeake! land of the Delaware!

Land of Ontario, Erie, Huron, Michigan!

Land of the Old Thirteen! Massachusetts land! land of Vermont
and Connecticut!

Land of the ocean shores! land of sierras and peaks!

Land of boatmen and sailors! fishermen's land!

Inextricable lands! the clutch'd together! the passionate ones!

The side by side! the elder and younger brothers! the bony-
limb'd!

The great women's land! the feminine! the experienced sisters
and the inexperienced sisters!

Far breath'd land! Arctic braced! Mexican breez'd! the diverse!
the compact!

The Pennsylvanian! the Virginian! the double Carolinian!

O all and each well-loved by me! my intrepid nations! O I at
any rate include you all with perfect love!

I cannot be discharged from you! not from one any sooner than
another!

O death! O for all that, I am yet of you unseen this hour with
irrepressible love,

Walking New England, a friend, a traveler,

Splashing my bare feet in the edge of the summer ripples on Pau-
manok's sands,

Crossing the prairies, dwelling again in Chicago, dwelling in every
town,

Observing shows, births, improvements, structures, arts,

Listening to orators and oratresses in public halls,

Of and through the States as during life, each man and woman
my neighbor,

The Louisianian, the Georgian, as near to me, and I as near to
him and her,

The Mississippian and Arkansian yet with me, and I yet with any
of them,

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Yet upon the plains west of the spinal river, yet in my house of
adobie,

Yet returning eastward, yet in the Seaside State or in Maryland,

Yet Kanadian cheerily braving the winter, the snow and ice wel-
come to me,

Yet a true son either of Maine or of the Granite State, or the
Narragansett Bay State, or the Empire State,

Yet sailing to other shores to annex the same, yet welcoming every
new brother,

Hereby applying these leaves to the new ones from the hour they
unite with the old ones,

Coming among the new ones myself to be their companion and
equal, coming personally to you now,

Enjoining you to acts, characters, spectacles, with me.

With me with firm holding, yet haste, haste on.

For your life adhere to me,

(I may have to be persuaded many times before I consent to give
myself really to you, but what of that?

Must not Nature be persuaded many times?)

No dainty dolce affettuoso I,

Bearded, sun-burnt, gray-neck'd, forbidding, I have arrived,

To be wrestled with as I pass for the solid prizes of the universe,

For such I afford whoever can persevere to win them.

On my way a moment I pause,

Here for you! and here for America!

Still the present I raise aloft, still the future of the States I
harbinge glad and sublime,

And for the past I pronounce what the air holds of the red
aborigines.

The red aborigines,

Leaving natural breaths, sounds of rain and winds, calls as of birds
and animals in the woods, syllabled to us for names,

Okonee, Koosa, Ottawa, Monongahela, Sauk, Natchez, Chatta-
hoochee, Kaqueta, Oronoco,

Wabash, Miami, Saginaw, Chippewa, Oshkosh, Walla-Walla,

Leaving such to the States they melt, they depart, charging the
water and the land with names.

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Expanding and swift, henceforth,

Elements, breeds, adjustments, turbulent, quick and audacious,

A world primal again, vistas of glory incessant and branching,

A new race dominating previous ones and grander far, with new
contests,

New politics, new literatures and religions, new inventions and arts.

These, my voice announcing—I will sleep no more but arise,

You oceans that have been calm within me! how I feel you, fathom-
less, stirring, preparing unprecedented waves and storms.

See, steamers steaming through my poems,

See, in my poems immigrants continually coming and landing,

See, in arriere, the wigwam, the trail, the hunter's hut, the flat-boat,
the maize-leaf, the claim, the rude fence, and the backwoods
village,

See, on the one side the Western Sea and on the other the Eastern
Sea, how they advance and retreat upon my poems as upon
their own shores,

See, pastures and forests in my poems—see, animals wild and
tame—see, beyond the Kaw, countless herds of buffalo
feeding on short curly grass,

See, in my poems, cities, solid, vast, inland, with paved streets,
with iron and stone edifices, ceaseless vehicles, and com-
merce,

See, the many-cylinder'd steam printing-press—see, the electric
telegraph stretching across the continent,

See, through Atlantica's depths pulses American Europe reaching,
pulses of Europe duly return'd,

See, the strong and quick locomotive as it departs, panting, blowing
the steam-whistle,

See, ploughmen ploughing farms—see, miners digging mines—
see, the numberless factories,

See, mechanics busy at their benches with tools—see from among
them superior judges, philosophs, Presidents, emerge, drest
in working dresses,

See, lounging through the shops and fields of the States, me well-
belov'd, close-held by day and night,

Hear the loud echoes of my songs there—read the hints come at
last.

O camerado close! O you and me at last, and us two only.

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O a word to clear one's path ahead endlessly!

O something ecstatic and undemonstrable! O music wild!

O now I triumph—and you shall also;

O hand in hand—O wholesome pleasure—O one more desirer
and lover!

O to haste firm holding—to haste, haste on with me.

—————

SONG OF MYSELF.

I CELEBRATE myself, and sing myself,

And what I assume you shall assume,

For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul,

I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this
air,

Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their
parents the same,

I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,

Hoping to cease not till death.

Creeds and schools in abeyance,

Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,

I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,

Nature without check with original energy.

Houses and rooms are full of perfumes, the shelves are crowded
with perfumes,

I breathe the fragrance myself and know it and like it,

The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it.

The atmosphere is not a perfume, it has no taste of the distillation,
it is odorless,

It is for my mouth forever, I am in love with it,

I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and
naked,

I am mad for it to be in contact with me.

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The smoke of my own breath,

Echoes, ripples, buzz'd whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and
vine,

My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the pass-
ing of blood and air through my lungs,

The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore and
dark-color'd sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn,

The sound of the belch'd words of my voice loos'd to the eddies
of the wind,

A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms,

The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs
wag,

The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields
and hill-sides,

The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising from
bed and meeting the sun.

Have you reckon'd a thousand acres much? have you reckon'd
the earth much?

Have you practis'd so long to learn to read?

Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?

Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin
of all poems,

You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions
of suns left,)

You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look
through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in
books,

You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,

You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self.

I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the begin-
ning and the end,

But I do not talk of the beginning or the end.

There was never any more inception than there is now,

Nor any more youth or age than there is now,

And will never be any more perfection than there is now,

Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.

Urge and urge and urge,

Always the procreant urge of the world.

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Out of the dimness opposite equals advance, always substance and
increase, always sex,

Always a knit of identity, always distinction, always a breed of life.

To elaborate is no avail, learn'd and unlearn'd feel that it is so.

Sure as the most certain sure, plumb in the uprights, well entretied,
braced in the beams,

Stout as a horse, affectionate, haughty, electrical,

I and this mystery here we stand.

Clear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not
my soul.

Lack one lacks both, and the unseen is proved by the seen,

Till that becomes unseen and receives proof in its turn.

Showing the best and dividing it from the worst age vexes age,

Knowing the perfect fitness and equanimity of things, while they
discuss I am silent, and go bathe and admire myself.

Welcome is every organ and attribute of me, and of any man
hearty and clean,

Not an inch nor a particle of an inch is vile, and none shall be
less familiar than the rest.

I am satisfied—I see, dance, laugh, sing;

As the hugging and loving bed-fellow sleeps at my side through
the night, and withdraws at the peep of the day with
stealthy tread,

Leaving me baskets cover'd with white towels swelling the house
with their plenty,

Shall I postpone my acceptation and realization and scream at my
eyes,

That they turn from gazing after and down the road,

And forthwith cipher and show me to a cent,

Exactly the value of one and exactly the value of two, and which
is ahead?

Trippers and askers surround me,

People I meet, the effect upon me of my early life or the ward
and city I live in, or the nation,

The latest dates, discoveries, inventions, societies, authors old and
new,

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My dinner, dress, associates, looks, compliments, dues,

The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman I love,

The sickness of one of my folks or of myself, or ill-doing or loss or
lack of money, or depressions or exaltations,

Battles, the horrors of fratricidal war, the fever of doubtful news,
the fitful events;

These come to me days and nights and go from me again,

But they are not the Me myself.

Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am,

Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary,

Looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain
rest,

Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next,

Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it.

Backward I see in my own days where I sweated through fog with
linguists and contenders,

I have no mockings or arguments, I witness and wait.

I believe in you my soul, the other I am must not abase itself to you,

And you must not be abased to the other.

Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat,

Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture, not
even the best,

Only the lull I like, the hum of your valvèd voice.

I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning,

How you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turn'd over
upon me,

And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your
tongue to my bare-stript heart,

And reach'd till you felt my beard, and reach'd till you held my
feet.

Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and knowledge that
pass all the argument of the earth,

And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own,

And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own,

And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the
women my sisters and lovers,

And that a kelson of the creation is love,

And limitless are leaves stiff or drooping in the fields,

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And brown ants in the little wells beneath them,

And mossy scabs of the worm fence, heap'd stones, elder, mullein
and poke-weed.

A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;

How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any
more than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green
stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,

A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt,

Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may
see and remark, and say Whose?

Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the
vegetation.

Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,

And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,

Growing among black folks as among white,

Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I
receive them the same.

And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.

Tenderly will I use you curling grass,

It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,

It may be if I had known them I would have loved them,

It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken soon
out of their mothers' laps,

And here you are the mothers' laps.

This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,

Darker than the colorless beards of old men,

Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.

O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues,

And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for
nothing.

I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and
women,

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And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken
soon out of their laps.

What do you think has become of the young and old men?

And what do you think has become of the women and chil-
dren?

They are alive and well somewhere,

The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,

And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the
end to arrest it,

And ceas'd the moment life appear'd.

All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,

And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.

Has any one supposed it lucky to be born?

I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I
know it.

I pass death with the dying and birth with the new-wash'd babe,
and am not contain'd between my hat and boots,

And peruse manifold objects, no two alike and every one good,

The earth good and the stars good, and their adjuncts all good.

I am not an earth nor an adjunct of an earth,

I am the mate and companion of people, all just as immortal and
fathomless as myself,

(They do not know how immortal, but I know.)

Every kind for itself and its own, for me mine male and female,

For me those that have been boys and that love women,

For me the man that is proud and feels how it stings to be
slighted,

For me the sweet-heart and the old maid, for me mothers and the
mothers of mothers,

For me lips that have smiled, eyes that have shed tears,

For me children and the begetters of children.

Undrape! you are not guilty to me, nor stale nor discarded,

I see through the broadcloth and gingham whether or no,

And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot be
shaken away.

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The little one sleeps in its cradle,

I lift the gauze and look a long time, and silently brush away flies
with my hand.

The youngster and the red-faced girl turn aside up the bushy hill,

I peeringly view them from the top.

The suicide sprawls on the bloody floor of the bedroom,

I witness the corpse with its dabbled hair, I note where the pistol
has fallen.

The blab of the pave, tires of carts, sluff of boot-soles, talk of the
promenaders,

The heavy omnibus, the driver with his interrogating thumb, the
clank of the shod horses on the granite floor,

The snow-sleighs, clinking, shouted jokes, pelts of snow-balls,

The hurrahs for popular favorites, the fury of rous'd mobs,

The flap of the curtain'd litter, a sick man inside borne to the
hospital,

The meeting of enemies, the sudden oath, the blows and fall,

The excited crowd, the policeman with his star quickly working
his passage to the centre of the crowd,

The impassive stones that receive and return so many echoes,

What groans of over-fed or half-starv'd who fall sunstruck or in
fits,

What exclamations of women taken suddenly who hurry home and
give birth to babes,

What living and buried speech is always vibrating here, what howls
restrain'd by decorum,

Arrests of criminals, slights, adulterous offers made, acceptances,
rejections with convex lips,

I mind them or the show or resonance of them—I come and I
depart.

The big doors of the country barn stand open and ready,

The dried grass of the harvest-time loads the slow-drawn wagon,

The clear light plays on the brown gray and green intertinged,

The armfuls are pack'd to the sagging mow.

I am there, I help, I came stretch'd atop of the load,

I felt its soft jolts, one leg reclined on the other,

I jump from the cross-beams and seize the clover and timothy,

And roll head over heels and tangle my hair full of wisps.

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Alone far in the wilds and mountains I hunt,

Wandering amazed at my own lightness and glee,

In the late afternoon choosing a safe spot to pass the night,

Kindling a fire and broiling the fresh-kill'd game,

Falling asleep on the gather'd leaves with my dog and gun by my
side.

The Yankee clipper is under her sky-sails, she cuts the sparkle and
scud,

My eyes settle the land, I bend at her prow or shout joyously from
the deck.

The boatmen and clam-diggers arose early and stopt for me,

I tuck'd my trowser-ends in my boots and went and had a good
time;

You should have been with us that day round the chowder-kettle.

I saw the marriage of the trapper in the open air in the far west,
the bride was a red girl,

Her father and his friends sat near cross-legged and dumbly
smoking, they had moccasins to their feet and large thick
blankets hanging from their shoulders,

On a bank lounged the trapper, he was drest mostly in skins, his
luxuriant beard and curls protected his neck, he held his
bride by the hand,

She had long eyelashes, her head was bare, her coarse straight
locks descended upon her voluptuous limbs and reach'd to
her feet.

The runaway slave came to my house and stopt outside,

I heard his motions crackling the twigs of the woodpile,

Through the swung half-door of the kitchen I saw him limpsy and
weak,

And went where he sat on a log and led him in and assured him,

And brought water and fill'd a tub for his sweated body and bruis'd
feet,

And gave him a room that enter'd from my own, and gave him
some coarse clean clothes,

And remember perfectly well his revolving eyes and his awkwardness,

And remember putting plasters on the galls of his neck and ankles;

He staid with me a week before he was recuperated and pass'd
north,

I had him sit next me at table, my fire-lock lean'd in the corner.

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Twenty-eight young men bathe by the shore,

Twenty-eight young men and all so friendly;

Twenty-eight years of womanly life and all so lonesome.

She owns the fine house by the rise of the bank,

She hides handsome and richly drest aft the blinds of the window.

Which of the young men does she like the best?

Ah the homeliest of them is beautiful to her.

Where are you off to, lady? for I see you,

You splash in the water there, yet stay stock still in your room.

Dancing and laughing along the beach came the twenty-ninth bather,

The rest did not see her, but she saw them and loved them.

The beards of the young men glisten'd with wet, it ran from their
long hair,

Little streams pass'd all over their bodies.

An unseen hand also pass'd over their bodies,

It descended tremblingly from their temples and ribs.

The young men float on their backs, their white bellies bulge to
the sun, they do not ask who seizes fast to them,

They do not know who puffs and declines with pendant and bend-
ing arch,

They do not think whom they souse with spray.

The butcher-boy puts off his killing-clothes, or sharpens his knife
at the stall in the market,

I loiter enjoying his repartee and his shuffle and break-down.

Blacksmiths with grimed and hairy chests environ the anvil,

Each has his main-sledge, they are all out, there is a great heat in
the fire.

From the cinder-strew'd threshold I follow their movements,

The lithe sheer of their waists plays even with their massive arms,

Overhand the hammers swing, overhand so slow, overhand so
sure,

They do not hasten, each man hits in his place.

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The negro holds firmly the reins of his four horses, the block swags
underneath on its tied-over chain,

The negro that drives the long dray of the stone-yard, steady and
tall he stands pois'd on one leg on the string-piece,

His blue shirt exposes his ample neck and breast and loosens over
his hip-band,

His glance is calm and commanding, he tosses the slouch of his
hat away from his forehead,

The sun falls on his crispy hair and mustache, falls on the black
of his polish'd and perfect limbs.

I behold the picturesque giant and love him, and I do not stop
there,

I go with the team also.

In me the caresser of life wherever moving, backward as well as
forward sluing,

To niches aside and junior bending, not a person or object miss-
ing,

Absorbing all to myself and for this song.

Oxen that rattle the yoke and chain or halt in the leafy shade,
what is that you express in your eyes?

It seems to me more than all the print I have read in my life.

My tread scares the wood-drake and wood-duck on my distant and
day-long ramble,

They rise together, they slowly circle around.

I believe in those wing'd purposes,

And acknowledge red, yellow, white, playing within me,

And consider green and violet and the tufted crown intentional,

And do not call the tortoise unworthy because she is not something
else,

And the jay in the woods never studied the gamut, yet trills pretty
well to me,

And the look of the bay mare shames silliness out of me.

The wild gander leads his flock through the cool night,

Ya-honk he says, and sounds it down to me like an invitation,

The pert may suppose it meaningless, but I listening close,

Find its purpose and place up there toward the wintry sky.

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The sharp-hoof'd moose of the north, the cat on the house-sill,
the chickadee, the prairie-dog,

The litter of the grunting sow as they tug at her teats,

The brood of the turkey-hen and she with her half-spread wings,

I see in them and myself the same old law.

The press of my foot to the earth springs a hundred affections,

They scorn the best I can do to relate them.

I am enamour'd of growing out-doors,

Of men that live among cattle or taste of the ocean or woods,

Of the builders and steerers of ships and the wielders of axes and
mauls, and the drivers of horses,

I can eat and sleep with them week in and week out.

What is commonest, cheapest, nearest, easiest, is Me,

Me going in for my chances, spending for vast returns,

Adorning myself to bestow myself on the first that will take me,

Not asking the sky to come down to my good will,

Scattering it freely forever.

The pure contralto sings in the organ loft,

The carpenter dresses his plank, the tongue of his foreplane whistles
its wild ascending lisp,

The married and unmarried children ride home to their Thanks-
giving dinner,

The pilot seizes the king-pin, he heaves down with a strong arm,

The mate stands braced in the whale-boat, lance and harpoon are
ready,

The duck-shooter walks by silent and cautious stretches,

The deacons are ordain'd with cross'd hands at the altar,

The spinning-girl retreats and advances to the hum of the big
wheel,

The farmer stops by the bars as he walks on a First-day loafe and
looks at the oats and rye,

The lunatic is carried at last to the asylum a confirm'd case,

(He will never sleep any more as he did in the cot in his mother's
bed-room;)

The jour printer with gray head and gaunt jaws works at his case,

He turns his quid of tobacco while his eyes blurr with the manu-
script;

The malform'd limbs are tied to the surgeon's table,

What is removed drops horribly in a pail;

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The quadroon girl is sold at the auction-stand, the drunkard nods
by the bar-room stove,

The machinist rolls up his sleeves, the policeman travels his beat,
the gate-keeper marks who pass,

The young fellow drives the express-wagon, (I love him, though
I do not know him;)

The half-breed straps on his light boots to compete in the race,

The western turkey-shooting draws old and young, some lean on
their rifles, some sit on logs,

Out from the crowd steps the marksman, takes his position, levels
his piece;

The groups of newly-come immigrants cover the wharf or levee,

As the woolly-pates hoe in the sugar-field, the overseer views them
from his saddle,

The bugle calls in the ball-room, the gentlemen run for their part-
ners, the dancers bow to each other,

The youth lies awake in the cedar-roof'd garret and harks to the
musical rain,

The Wolverine sets traps on the creek that helps fill the Huron,

The squaw wrapt in her yellow-hemm'd cloth is offering moccasins
and bead-bags for sale,

The connoisseur peers along the exhibition-gallery with half-shut
eyes bent sideways,

As the deck-hands make fast the steamboat the plank is thrown for
the shore-going passengers,

The young sister holds out the skein while the elder sister winds it
off in a ball, and stops now and then for the knots,

The one-year wife is recovering and happy having a week ago
borne her first child,

The clean-hair'd Yankee girl works with her sewing-machine or in
the factory or mill,

The paving-man leans on his two-handed rammer, the reporter's
lead flies swiftly over the note-book, the sign-painter is
lettering with blue and gold,

The canal boy trots on the tow-path, the book-keeper counts at
his desk, the shoemaker waxes his thread,

The conductor beats time for the band and all the performers
follow him,

The child is baptized, the convert is making his first professions,

The regatta is spread on the bay, the race is begun, (how the
white sails sparkle!)

The drover watching his drove sings out to them that would
stray,

The pedler sweats with his pack on his back, (the purchaser hig-
gling about the odd cent;)

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The bride unrumples her white dress, the minute-hand of the clock
moves slowly,

The opium-eater reclines with rigid head and just-open'd lips,

The prostitute draggles her shawl, her bonnet bobs on her tipsy
and pimpled neck,

The crowd laugh at her blackguard oaths, the men jeer and wink
to each other,

(Miserable! I do not laugh at your oaths nor jeer you;)

The President holding a cabinet council is surrounded by the great
Secretaries,

On the piazza walk three matrons stately and friendly with twined
arms,

The crew of the fish-smack pack repeated layers of halibut in the
hold,

The Missourian crosses the plains toting his wares and his cattle,

As the fare-collector goes through the train he gives notice by the
jingling of loose change,

The floor-men are laying the floor, the tinners are tinning the roof,
the masons are calling for mortar,

In single file each shouldering his hod pass onward the laborers;

Seasons pursuing each other the indescribable crowd is gather'd,
it is the fourth of Seventh-month, (what salutes of cannon
and small arms!)

Seasons pursuing each other the plougher ploughs, the mower mows,
and the winter-grain falls in the ground;

Off on the lakes the pike-fisher watches and waits by the hole in
the frozen surface,

The stumps stand thick round the clearing, the squatter strikes
deep with his axe,

Flatboatmen make fast towards dusk near the cotton-wood or
pecan-trees,

Coon-seekers go through the regions of the Red river or through
those drain'd by the Tennessee, or through those of the
Arkansas,

Torches shine in the dark that hangs on the Chattahooche or
Altamahaw,

Patriarchs sit at supper with sons and grandsons and great-grand-
sons around them,

In walls of adobie, in canvas tents, rest hunters and trappers after
their day's sport,

The city sleeps and the country sleeps,

The living sleep for their time, the dead sleep for their time,

The old husband sleeps by his wife and the young husband sleeps
by his wife;

And these tend inward to me, and I tend outward to them,

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And such as it is to be of these more or less I am,

And of these one and all I weave the song of myself.

I am of old and young, of the foolish as much as the wise,

Regardless of others, ever regardful of others,

Maternal as well as paternal, a child as well as a man,

Stuff'd with the stuff that is coarse and stuff'd with the stuff that
is fine,

One of the Nation of many nations, the smallest the same and the
largest the same,

A Southerner soon as a Northerner, a planter nonchalant and
hospitable down by the Oconee I live,

A Yankee bound my own way ready for trade, my joints the
limberest joints on earth and the sternest joints on
earth,

A Kentuckian walking the vale of the Elkhorn in my deer-skin
leggings, a Louisianian or Georgian,

A boatman overlakes or bays or along coasts, a Hoosier, Badger,
Buckeye;

At home on Kanadian snow-shoes or up in the bush, or with
fishermen off Newfoundland,

At home in the fleet of ice-boats, sailing with the rest and tack-
ing,

At home on the hills of Vermont or in the woods of Maine, or the
Texan ranch,

Comrade of Californians, comrade of free North-Westerners, (lov-
ing their big proportions,)

Comrade of raftsmen and coalmen, comrade of all who shake
hands and welcome to drink and meat,

A learner with the simplest, a teacher of the thoughtfullest,

A novice beginning yet experient of myriads of seasons,

Of every hue and caste am I, of every rank and religion,

A farmer, mechanic, artist, gentleman, sailor, quaker,

Prisoner, fancy-man, rowdy, lawyer, physician, priest.

I resist any thing better than my own diversity,

Breathe the air but leave plenty after me,

And am not stuck up, and am in my place.

(The moth and the fish-eggs are in their place,

The bright suns I see and the dark suns I cannot see are in their
place,

The palpable is in its place and the impalpable is in its place.)

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - [begin page 43] - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

These are really the thoughts of all men in all ages and lands, they
are not original with me,

If they are not yours as much as mine they are nothing, or next
to nothing,

If they are not the riddle and the untying of the riddle they are nothing,

If they are not just as close as they are distant they are
nothing.

This is the grass that grows wherever the land is and the water is,

This the common air that bathes the globe.

With music strong I come, with my cornets and my drums,

I play not marches for accepted victors only, I play marches for
conquer'd and slain persons.

Have you heard that it was good to gain the day?

I also say it is good to fall, battles are lost in the same spirit in
which they are won.

I beat and pound for the dead,

I blow through my embouchures my loudest and gayest for
them.

Vivas to those who have fail'd!

And to those whose war-vessels sank in the sea!

And to those themselves who sank in the sea!

And to all generals that lost engagements, and all overcome heroes!

And the numberless unknown heroes equal to the greatest heroes
known!

This is the meal equally set, this the meat for natural hunger,

It is for the wicked just the same as the righteous, I make appoint-
ments with all,

I will not have a single person slighted or left away,

The kept-woman, sponger, thief, are hereby invited,

The heavy-lipp'd slave is invited, the venerealee is invited;

There shall be no difference between them and the rest.

This is the press of a bashful hand, this the float and odor of hair,

This the touch of my lips to yours, this the murmur of yearning,

This the far-off depth and height reflecting my own face,

This the thoughtful merge of myself, and the outlet again.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - [begin page 44] - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Do you guess I have some intricate purpose?

Well I have, for the Fourth-month showers have, and the mica on
the side of a rock has.

Do you take it I would astonish?

Does the daylight astonish? does the early redstart twittering
through the woods?

Do I astonish more than they?

This hour I tell things in confidence,

I might not tell everybody, but I will tell you.

Who goes there? hankering, gross, mystical, nude;

How is it I extract strength from the beef I eat?

What is a man anyhow? what am I? what are you?

All I mark as my own you shall offset it with your own,

Else it were time lost listening to me.

I do not snivel that snivel the world over,

That months are vacuums and the ground but wallow and filth.

Whimpering and truckling fold with powders for invalids, con-
formity goes to the fourth-remov'd,

I wear my hat as I please indoors or out.

Why should I pray? why should I venerate and be ceremonious?

Having pried through the strata, analyzed to a hair, counsel'd with
doctors and calculated close,

I find no sweeter fat than sticks to my own bones.

In all people I see myself, none more and not one a barley-corn
less,

And the good or bad I say of myself I say of them.

I know I am solid and sound,

To me the converging objects of the universe perpetually flow,

All are written to me, and I must get what the writing means.

I know I am deathless,

I know this orbit of mine cannot be swept by a carpenter's
compass,

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - [begin page 45] - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I know I shall not pass like a child's carlacue cut with a burnt
stick at night.

I know I am august,

I do not trouble my spirit to vindicate itself or be understood,

I see that the elementary laws never apologize,

(I reckon I behave no prouder than the level I plant my house by,
after all.)

I exist as I am, that is enough,

If no other in the world be aware I sit content,

And if each and all be aware I sit content.

One world is aware and by far the largest to me, and that is my-
self,

And whether I come to my own to-day or in ten thousand or ten
million years,

I can cheerfully take it now, or with equal cheerfulness I can wait.

My foothold is tenon'd and mortis'd in granite,

I laugh at what you call dissolution,

And I know the amplitude of time.

I am the poet of the Body and I am the poet of the Soul,

The pleasures of heaven are with me and the pains of hell are
with me,

The first I graft and increase upon myself, the latter I translate
into a new tongue.

I am the poet of the woman the same as the man,

And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man,

And I say there is nothing greater than the mother of men.

I chant the chant of dilation or pride,

We have had ducking and deprecating about enough,

I show that size is only development.

Have you outstript the rest? are you the President?

It is a trifle, they will more than arrive there every one, and still
pass on.

I am he that walks with the tender and growing night,

I call to the earth and sea half-held by the night.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - [begin page 46] - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Press close bare-bosom'd night—press close magnetic nourishing
night!

Night of south winds—night of the large few stars!

Still nodding night—mad naked summer night.

Smile O voluptuous cool-breath'd earth!

Earth of the slumbering and liquid trees!

Earth of departed sunset—earth of the mountains misty-topt!

Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon just tinged with blue!

Earth of shine and dark mottling the tide of the river!

Earth of the limpid gray of clouds brighter and clearer for my
sake!

Far-swooping elbow'd earth—rich apple-blossom'd earth!

Smile, for your lover comes.

Prodigal, you have given me love—therefore I to you give love!

O unspeakable passionate love.

You sea! I resign myself to you also—I guess what you mean,

I behold from the beach your crooked inviting fingers,

I believe you refuse to go back without feeling of me,

We must have a turn together, I undress, hurry me out of sight of
the land,

Cushion me soft, rock me in billowy drowse,

Dash me with amorous wet, I can repay you.

Sea of stretch'd ground-swells,

Sea breathing broad and convulsive breaths,

Sea of the brine of life and of unshovell'd yet always-ready graves,

Howler and scooper of storms, capricious and dainty sea,

I am integral with you, I too am of one phase and of all phases.

Partaker of influx and efflux I, extoller of hate and conciliation,

Extoller of amies and those that sleep in each others' arms.

I am he attesting sympathy,

(Shall I make my list of things in the house and skip the house
that supports them?)

I am not the poet of goodness only, I do not decline to be the
poet of wickedness also.

What blurt is this about virtue and about vice?

Evil propels me and reform of evil propels me, I stand indifferent,

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - [begin page 47] - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

My gait is no fault-finder's or rejecter's gait,

I moisten the roots of all that has grown.

Did you fear some scrofula out of the unflagging pregnancy?

Did you guess the celestial laws are yet to be work'd over and
rectified?

I find one side a balance and the antipodal side a balance,

Soft doctrine as steady help as stable doctrine,

Thoughts and deeds of the present our rouse and early start.

This minute that comes to me over the past decillions,

There is no better than it and now.

What behaved well in the past or behaves well to-day is not such a
wonder,

The wonder is always and always how there can be a mean man
or an infidel.

Endless unfolding of words of ages!

And mine a word of the modern, the word En-Masse.

A word of the faith that never balks,

Here or henceforward it is all the same to me, I accept Time abso-
lutely.

It alone is without flaw, it alone rounds and completes all,

That mystic baffling wonder alone completes all.

I accept Reality and dare not question it,

Materialism first and last imbuing.

Hurrah for positive science! long live exact demonstration!

Fetch stonecrop mixt with cedar and branches of lilac,

This is the lexicographer, this the chemist, this made a grammar
of the old cartouches,

These mariners put the ship through dangerous unknown seas.

This is the geologist, this works with the scalpel, and this is a
mathematician.

Gentlemen, to you the first honors always!

Your facts are useful, and yet they are not my dwelling,

I but enter by them to an area of my dwelling.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - [begin page 48] - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Less the reminders of properties told my words,

And more the reminders they of life untold, and of freedom and
extrication,

And make short account of neuters and geldings, and favor men
and women fully equipt,

And beat the gong of revolt, and stop with fugitives and them that
plot and conspire.

Walt Whitman, a kosmos, of Manhattan the son,

Turbulent, fleshy, sensual, eating, drinking and breeding,

No sentimentalist, no stander above men and women or apart from
them,

No more modest than immodest.

Unscrew the locks from the doors!

Unscrew the doors themselves from their jambs!

Whoever degrades another degrades me,

And whatever is done or said returns at last to me.

Through me the afflatus surging and surging, through me the cur-
rent and index.

I speak the pass-word primeval, I give the sign of democracy,

By God! I will accept nothing which all cannot have their coun-
terpart of on the same terms.

Through me many long dumb voices,

Voices of the interminable generations of prisoners and slaves,

Voices of the diseas'd and despairing and of thieves and dwarfs,

Voices of cycles of preparation and accretion,

And of the threads that connect the stars, and of wombs and of
the father-stuff,

And of the rights of them the others are down upon,

Of the deform'd, trivial, flat, foolish, despised,

Fog in the air, beetles rolling balls of dung.

Through me forbidden voices,

Voices of sexes and lusts, voices veil'd and I remove the veil,

Voices indecent by me clarified and transfigur'd.

I do not press my fingers across my mouth,

I keep as delicate around the bowels as around the head and heart,

Copulation is no more rank to me than death is.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - [begin page 49] - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I believe in the flesh and the appetites,

Seeing, hearing, feeling, are miracles, and each part and tag of me
is a miracle.

Divine am I inside and out, and I make holy whatever I touch or
am touch'd from,

The scent of these arm-pits aroma finer than prayer,

This head more than churches, bibles, and all the creeds.

If I worship one thing more than another it shall be the spread of
my own body, or any part of it,

Translucent mould of me it shall be you!

Shaded ledges and rests it shall be you!

Firm masculine colter it shall be you!

Whatever goes to the tilth of me it shall be you!

You my rich blood! your milky stream pale strippings of my life!

Breast that presses against other breasts it shall be you!

My brain it shall be your occult convolutions!

Root of wash'd sweet-flag! timorous pond-snipe! nest of guarded
duplicate eggs! it shall be you!

Mix'd tussled hay of head, beard, brawn, it shall be you!

Trickling sap of maple, fibre of manly wheat, it shall be you!

Sun so generous it shall be you!

Vapors lighting and shading my face it shall be you!

You sweaty brooks and dews it shall be you!

Winds whose soft-tickling genitals rub against me it shall be you!

Broad muscular fields, branches of live oak, loving lounger in my
winding paths, it shall be you!

Hands I have taken, face I have kiss'd, mortal I have ever
touch'd, it shall be you.

I dote on myself, there is that lot of me and all so luscious,

Each moment and whatever happens thrills me with joy,

I cannot tell how my ankles bend, nor whence the cause of my
faintest wish,

Nor the cause of the friendship I emit, nor the cause of the friend-
ship I take again.

That I walk up my stoop, I pause to consider if it really be,

A morning-glory at my window satisfies me more than the meta-
physics of books.

To behold the day-break!

The little light fades the immense and diaphanous shadows,

The air tastes good to my palate.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - [begin page 50] - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Hefts of the moving world at innocent gambols silently rising
freshly exuding,

Scooting obliquely high and low.

Something I cannot see puts upward libidinous prongs,

Seas of bright juice suffuse heaven.

The earth by the sky staid with, the daily close of their junction,

The heav'd challenge from the east that moment over my head,

The mocking taunt, See then whether you shall be master!

Dazzling and tremendous how quick the sun-rise would kill me,

If I could not now and always send sun-rise out of me.

We also ascend dazzling and tremendous as the sun,

We found our own O my soul in the calm and cool of the day-
break.

My voice goes after what my eyes cannot reach,

With the twirl of my tongue I encompass worlds and volumes of
worlds.

Speech is the twin of my vision, it is unequal to measure itself,

It provokes me forever, it says sarcastically,

Walt you contain enough, why don't you let it out then?

Come now I will not be tantalized, you conceive too much of
articulation,

Do you not know O speech how the buds beneath you are folded?

Waiting in gloom, protected by frost,

The dirt receding before my prophetical screams,

I underlying causes to balance them at last,

My knowledge my live parts, it keeping tally with the meaning of
all things,

Happiness, (which whoever hears me let him or her set out in
search of this day.)

My final merit I refuse you, I refuse putting from me what I really
am,

Encompass worlds, but never try to encompass me,

I crowd your sleekest and best by simply looking toward you.

Writing and talk do not prove me,

I carry the plenum of proof and every thing else in my face,

With the hush of my lips I wholly confound the skeptic.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - [begin page 51] - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Now I will do nothing but listen,

To accrue what I hear into this song, to let sounds contribute
toward it.

I hear bravuras of birds, bustle of growing wheat, gossip of flames,
clack of sticks cooking my meals,

I hear the sound I love, the sound of the human voice,

I hear all sounds running together, combined, fused or following,

Sounds of the city and sounds out of the city, sounds of the day
and night,

Talkative young ones to those that like them, the loud laugh of
work-people at their meals,

The angry base of disjointed friendship, the faint tones of the sick,

The judge with hands tight to the desk, his pallid lips pronoun-
cing a death-sentence,

The heave'e'yo of stevedores unlading ships by the wharves, the
refrain of the anchor-lifters,

The ring of alarm-bells, the cry of fire, the whirr of swift-streak-
ing engines and hose-carts with premonitory tinkles and
color'd lights,

The steam-whistle, the solid roll of the train of approaching cars,

The slow march play'd at the head of the association marching
two and two,

(They go to guard some corpse, the flag-tops are draped with
black muslin.)

I hear the violoncello, ('tis the young man's heart's complaint,)

I hear the key'd cornet, it glides quickly in through my ears,

It shakes mad-sweet pangs through my belly and breast.

I hear the chorus, it is a grand opera,

Ah this indeed is music—this suits me.

A tenor large and fresh as the creation fills me,

The orbic flex of his mouth is pouring and filling me full.

I hear the train'd soprano (what work with hers is this?)

The orchestra whirls me wider than Uranus flies,

It wrenches such ardors from me I did not know I possess'd
them,

It sails me, I dab with bare feet, they are lick'd by the indolent
waves,

I am cut by bitter and angry hail, I lose my breath,

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - [begin page 52] - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Steep'd amid honey'd morphine, my windpipe throttled in fakes
of death,

At length let up again to feel the puzzle of puzzles,

And that we call Being.

To be in any form, what is that?

(Round and round we go, all of us, and ever come back thither,)

If nothing lay more develop'd the quahaug in its callous shell were
enough.

Mine is no callous shell,

I have instant conductors all over me whether I pass or stop,

They seize every object and lead it harmlessly through me.

I merely stir, press, feel with my fingers, and am happy,

To touch my person to some one else's is about as much as I can
stand.

Is this then a touch? quivering me to a new identity,

Flames and ether making a rush for my veins,

Treacherous tip of me reaching and crowding to help them,

My flesh and blood playing out lightning to strike what is hardly
different from myself,

On all sides prurient provokers stiffening my limbs,

Straining the udder of my heart for its withheld drip,

Behaving licentious toward me, taking no denial,

Depriving me of my best as for a purpose,

Unbuttoning my clothes, holding me by the bare waist,

Deluding my confusion with the calm of the sunlight and pasture-
fields,

Immodestly sliding the fellow-senses away,

They bribed to swap off with touch and go and graze at the edges
of me,

No consideration, no regard for my draining strength or my anger,

Fetching the rest of the herd around to enjoy them a while,

Then all uniting to stand on a headland and worry me.

The sentries desert every other part of me,

They have left me helpless to a red marauder,

They all come to the headland to witness and assist against me.

I am given up by traitors,

I talk wildly, I have lost my wits, I and nobody else am the
greatest traitor,

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I went myself first to the headland, my own hands carried me
there.

You villain touch! what are you doing? my breath is tight in its
throat,

Unclench your floodgates, you are too much for me.

Blind loving wrestling touch, sheath'd hooded sharp-tooth'd
touch!

Did it make you ache so, leaving me?

Parting track'd by arriving, perpetual payment of perpetual loan,

Rich showering rain, and recompense richer afterward.

Sprouts take and accumulate, stand by the curb prolific and vital,

Landscapes projected masculine, full-sized and golden.

All truths wait in all things,

They neither hasten their own delivery nor resist it,

They do not need the obstetric forceps of the surgeon,

The insignificant is as big to me as any,

(What is less or more than a touch?)

Logic and sermons never convince,

The damp of the night drives deeper into my soul.

(Only what proves itself to every man and woman is so,

Only what nobody denies is so.)

A minute and a drop of me settle my brain,

I believe the soggy clods shall become lovers and lamps,

And a compend of compends is the meat of a man or woman,

And a summit and flower there is the feeling they have for each other,

And they are to branch boundlessly out of that lesson until it
becomes omnific,

And until one and all shall delight us, and we them.

I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars,

And the pismire is equally perfect, and a grain of sand, and the
egg of the wren,

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And the tree-toad is a chef-d'oeuvre for the highest,

And the running blackberry would adorn the parlors of heaven,

And the narrowest hinge in my hand puts to scorn all machinery,

And the cow crunching with depress'd head surpasses any statue,

And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels.

I find I incorporate gneiss, coal, long-threaded moss, fruits, grains,
esculent roots,

And am stucco'd with quadrupeds and birds all over,

And have distanced what is behind me for good reasons,

But call any thing back again when I desire it.

In vain the speeding or shyness,

In vain the plutonic rocks send their old heat against my approach,

In vain the mastodon retreats beneath its own powder'd bones,

In vain objects stand leagues off and assume manifold shapes,

In vain the ocean settling in hollows and the great monsters lying
low,

In vain the buzzard houses herself with the sky,

In vain the snake slides through the creepers and logs,

In vain the elk takes to the inner passes of the woods,

In vain the razor-bill'd auk sails far north to Labrador,

I follow quickly, I ascend to the nest in the fissure of the cliff.

I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and
self-contain'd,

I stand and look at them long and long.

They do not sweat and whine about their condition,

They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins,

They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God,

Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of
owning things,

Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of
years ago,

Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth.

So they show their relations to me and I accept them,

They bring me tokens of myself, they evince them plainly in their
possession.

I wonder where they get those tokens,

Did I pass that way huge times ago and negligently drop them?

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - [begin page 55] - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Myself moving forward then and now and forever,

Gathering and showing more always and with velocity,

Infinite and omnigenous, and the like of these among them,

Not too exclusive toward the reachers of my remembrancers,

Picking out here one that I love, and now go with him on brotherly
terms.

A gigantic beauty of a stallion, fresh and responsive to my caresses,

Head high in the forehead, wide between the ears,

Limbs glossy and supple, tail dusting the ground,

Eyes full of sparkling wickedness, ears finely cut, flexibly moving.

His nostrils dilate as my heels embrace him,

His well-built limbs tremble with pleasure as we race around and
return.

I but use you a minute, then I resign you, stallion,

Why do I need your paces when I myself out-gallop them?

Even as I stand or sit passing faster than you.

Space and Time! now I see it is true, what I guess'd at,

What I guess'd when I loaf'd on the grass,

What I guess'd while I lay alone in my bed,

And again as I walk'd the beach under the paling stars of the
morning.

My ties and ballasts leave me, my elbows rest in sea-gaps,

I skirt sierras, my palms cover continents,

I am afoot with my vision.

By the city's quadrangular houses—in log huts, camping with
lumbermen,

Along the ruts of the turnpike, along the dry gulch and rivulet bed,

Weeding my onion-patch or hoeing rows of carrots and parsnips,
crossing savannas, trailing in forests,

Prospecting, gold-digging, girdling the trees of a new purchase,

Scorch'd ankle-deep by the hot sand, hauling my boat down the
shallow river,

Where the panther walks to and fro on a limb overhead, where
the buck turns furiously at the hunter,

Where the rattlesnake suns his flabby length on a rock, where the
otter is feeding on fish,

Where the alligator in his tough pimples sleeps by the bayou,

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - [begin page 56] - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Where the black bear is searching for roots or honey, where the
beaver pats the mud with his paddle-shaped tail;

Over the growing sugar, over the yellow-flower'd cotton plant, over
the rice in its low moist field,

Over the sharp-peak'd farm house, with its scallop'd scum and
slender shoots from the gutters,

Over the western persimmon, over the long-leav'd corn, over the
delicate blue-flower flax,

Over the white and brown buckwheat, a hummer and buzzer there
with the rest,

Over the dusky green of the rye as it ripples and shades in the
breeze;

Scaling mountains, pulling myself cautiously up, holding on by low
scragged limbs,

Walking the path worn in the grass and beat through the leaves of
the brush,

Where the quail is whistling betwixt the woods and the wheat-lot,

Where the bat flies in the Seventh-month eve, where the great gold-
bug drops through the dark,

Where the brook puts out of the roots of the old tree and flows to
the meadow,

Where cattle stand and shake away flies with the tremulous shud-
dering of their hides,

Where the cheese-cloth hangs in the kitchen, where andirons
straddle the hearth-slab, where cobwebs fall in festoons
from the rafters;

Where trip-hammers crash, where the press is whirling its cylinders,

Wherever the human heart beats with terrible throes under its
ribs,

Where the pear-shaped balloon is floating aloft, (floating in it my-
self and looking composedly down,)

Where the life-car is drawn on the slip-noose, where the heat
hatches pale-green eggs in the dented sand,

Where the she-whale swims with her calf and never forsakes it,

Where the steam-ship trails hind-ways its long pennant of smoke,

Where the fin of the shark cuts like a black chip out of the water,

Where the half-burn'd brig is riding on unknown currents,

Where shells grow to her slimy deck, where the dead are corrupt-
ing below;

Where the dense-starr'd flag is borne at the head of the regiments,

Approaching Manhattan up by the long-stretching island,

Under Niagara, the cataract falling like a veil over my countenance,

Upon a door-step, upon the horse-block of hard wood outside,

Upon the race-course, or enjoying picnics or jigs or a good game
of base-ball,

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At he-festivals, with blackguard gibes, ironical license, bull-dances,
drinking, laughter,

At the cider-mill tasting the sweets of the brown mash, sucking
the juice through a straw,

At apple-peelings wanting kisses for all the red fruit I find,

At musters, beach-parties, friendly bees, huskings, house-raisings;

Where the mocking-bird sounds his delicious gurgles, cackles,
screams, weeps,

Where the hay-rick stands in the barn-yard, where the dry-stalks
are scatter'd, where the brood-cow waits in the hovel,

Where the bull advances to do his masculine work, where the stud
to the mare, where the cock is treading the hen,

Where the heifers browse, where geese nip their food with short
jerks,

Where sun-down shadows lengthen over the limitless and lonesome
prairie,

Where herds of buffalo make a crawling spread of the square
miles far and near,

Where the humming-bird shimmers, where the neck of the long-
lived swan is curving and winding,

Where the laughing-gull scoots by the shore, where she laughs her
near-human laugh,

Where bee-hives range on a gray bench in the garden half hid by
the high weeds,

Where band-neck'd partridges roost in a ring on the ground with
their heads out,

Where burial coaches enter the arch'd gates of a cemetery,

Where winter wolves bark amid wastes of snow and icicled trees,

Where the yellow-crown'd heron comes to the edge of the marsh
at night and feeds upon small crabs,

Where the splash of swimmers and divers cools the warm noon,

Where the katy-did works her chromatic reed on the walnut-tree
over the well,

Through patches of citrons and cucumbers with silver-wired leaves,

Through the salt-lick or orange glade, or under conical firs,

Through the gymnasium, through the curtain'd saloon, through the
office or public hall;

Pleas'd with the native and pleas'd with the foreign, pleas'd with
the new and old,

Pleas'd with the homely woman as well as the handsome,

Pleas'd with the quakeress as she puts off her bonnet and talks
melodiously,

Pleas'd with the tune of the choir of the whitewash'd church,

Pleas'd with the earnest words of the sweating Methodist preach-
er, impress'd seriously at the camp-meeting;

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Looking in at the shop-windows of Broadway the whole forenoon,
flatting the flesh of my nose on the thick plate glass,

Wandering the same afternoon with my face turn'd up to the
clouds, or down a lane or along the beach,

My right and left arms round the sides of two friends, and I in the
middle;

Coming home with the silent and dark-cheek'd bush-boy, (behind
me he rides at the drape of the day,)

Far from the settlements studying the print of animals' feet, or
the moccasin print,

By the cot in the hospital reaching lemonade to a feverish patient,

Nigh the coffin'd corpse when all is still, examining with a candle;

Voyaging to every port to dicker and adventure,

Hurrying with the modern crowd as eager and fickle as any,

Hot toward one I hate, ready in my madness to knife him,

Solitary at midnight in my back yard, my thoughts gone from me
a long while,

Walking the old hills of Judaea with the beautiful gentle God by
my side,

Speeding through space, speeding through heaven and the stars,

Speeding amid the seven satellites and the broad ring, and the
diameter of eighty thousand miles,

Speeding with tail'd meteors, throwing fire-balls like the rest,

Carrying the crescent child that carries its own full mother in
its belly,

Storming, enjoying, planning, loving, cautioning,

Backing and filling, appearing and disappearing,

I tread day and night such roads.

I visit the orchards of spheres and look at the product,

And look at quintillions ripen'd and look at quintillions green.

I fly those flights of a fluid and swallowing soul,

My course runs below the soundings of plummets.

I help myself to material and immaterial,

No guard can shut me off, no law prevent me.

I anchor my ship for a little while only,

My messengers continually cruise away or bring their returns to me.

I go hunting polar furs and the seal, leaping chasms with a pike-
pointed staff, clinging to topples of brittle and blue.

I ascend to the foretruck,

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I take my place late at night in the crow's-nest,

We sail the arctic sea, it is plenty light enough,

Through the clear atmosphere I stretch around on the wonderful
beauty,

The enormous masses of ice pass me and I pass them, the scenery
is plain in all directions,

The white-topt mountains show in the distance, I fling out my
fancies toward them,

We are approaching some great battle-field in which we are soon
to be engaged,

We pass the colossal outposts of the encampment, we pass with
still feet and caution,

Or we are entering by the suburbs some vast and ruin'd city,

The blocks and fallen architecture more than all the living cities
of the globe.

I am a free companion, I bivouac by invading watchfires,

I turn the bridegroom out of bed and stay with the bride myself,

I tighten her all night to my thighs and lips.

My voice is the wife's voice, the screech by the rail of the stairs,

They fetch my man's body up dripping and drown'd.

I understand the large hearts of heroes,

The courage of present times and all times,

How the skipper saw the crowded and rudderless wreck of the
steam-ship, and Death chasing it up and down the storm,

How he knuckled tight and gave not back an inch, and was faith
ful of days and faithful of nights,

And chalk'd in large letters on a board, Be of good cheer, we will
not desert you;

How he follow'd with them and tack'd with them three days and
would not give it up,

How he saved the drifting company at last,

How the lank loose-gown'd women look'd when boated from the
side of their prepared graves,

How the silent old-faced infants and the lifted sick, and the sharp-
lipp'd unshaved men;

All this I swallow, it tastes good, I like it well, it becomes mine,

I am the man, I suffer'd, I was there.

The disdain and calmness of martyrs,

The mother of old, condemn'd for a witch, burnt with dry wood,
her children gazing on,

The hounded slave that flags in the race, leans by the fence, blow-
ing, cover'd with sweat,

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The twinges that sting like needles his legs and neck, the mur-
derous buckshot and the bullets,

All these I feel or am.

I am the hounded slave, I wince at the bite of the dogs,

Hell and despair are upon me, crack and again crack the marks-
men,

I clutch the rails of the fence, my gore dribs, thinn'd with the
ooze of my skin,

I fall on the weeds and stones,

The riders spur their unwilling horses, haul close,

Taunt my dizzy ears and beat me violently over the head with
whip-stocks.

Agonies are one of my changes of garments,

I do not ask the wounded person how he feels, I myself become
the wounded person,

My hurts turn livid upon me as I lean on a cane and observe.

I am the mash'd fireman with breast-bone broken,

Tumbling walls buried me in their debris,

Heat and smoke I inspired, I heard the yelling shouts of my com-
rades,

I heard the distant click of their picks and shovels,

They have clear'd the beams away, they tenderly lift me forth.

I lie in the night air in my red shirt, the pervading hush is for my
sake,

Painless after all I lie exhausted but not so unhappy,

White and beautiful are the faces around me, the heads are bared
of their fire-caps,

The kneeling crowd fades with the light of the torches.

Distant and dead resuscitate,

They show as the dial or move as the hands of me, I am the clock
myself.

I am an old artillerist, I tell of my fort's bombardment,

I am there again.

Again the long roll of the drummers,

Again the attacking cannon, mortars,

Again to my listening ears the cannon responsive.

I take part, I see and hear the whole,

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The cries, curses, roar, the plaudits for well-aim'd shots,

The ambulanza slowly passing trailing its red drip,

Workmen searching after damages, making indispensable repairs,

The fall of grenades through the rent roof, the fan-shaped explo-
sion,

The whizz of limbs, heads, stone, wood, iron, high in the air.

Again gurgles the mouth of my dying general, he furiously waves
with his hand,

He gasps through the clot Mind not me—mind—the entrench-
ments.

Now I tell what I knew in Texas in my early youth,

(I tell not the fall of Alamo,

Not one escaped to tell the fall of Alamo,

The hundred and fifty are dumb yet at Alamo,)

'Tis the tale of the murder in cold blood of four hundred and
twelve young men.

Retreating they had form'd in a hollow square with their baggage
for breastworks,

Nine hundred lives out of the surrounding enemy's, nine times
their number, was the price they took in advance,

Their colonel was wounded and their ammunition gone,

They treated for an honorable capitulation, receiv'd writing and
seal, gave up their arms and march'd back prisoners of war.

They were the glory of the race of rangers,

Matchless with horse, rifle, song, supper, courtship,

Large, turbulent, generous, handsome, proud, and affectionate,

Bearded, sunburnt, drest in the free costume of hunters,

Not a single one over thirty years of age.

The second First-day morning they were brought out in squads
and massacred, it was beautiful early summer,

The work commenced about five o'clock and was over by eight.

None obey'd the command to kneel,

Some made a mad and helpless rush, some stood stark and
straight,

A few fell at once, shot in the temple or heart, the living and dead
lay together,

The maim'd and mangled dug in the dirt, the new-comers saw
them there,

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Some half-kill'd attempted to crawl away,

These were despatch'd with bayonets or batter'd with the blunts
of muskets,

A youth not seventeen years old seiz'd his assassin till two more
came to release him,

The three were all torn and cover'd with the boy's blood.

At eleven o'clock began the burning of the bodies;

That is the tale of the murder of the four hundred and twelve
young men.

Would you hear of an old-time sea-fight?

Would you learn who won by the light of the moon and stars?

List to the yarn, as my grandmother's father the sailor told it to me.

Our foe was no skulk in his ship I tell you, (said he,)

His was the surly English pluck, and there is no tougher or truer,
and never was, and never will be;

Along the lower'd eve he came horribly raking us.

We closed with him, the yards entangled, the cannon touch'd,

My captain lash'd fast with his own hands.

We had receiv'd some eighteen pound shots under the water,

On our lower-gun-deck two large pieces had burst at the first fire,
killing all around and blowing up overhead.

Fighting at sun-down, fighting at dark,

Ten o'clock at night, the full moon well up, our leaks on the gain,
and five feet of water reported,

The master-at-arms loosing the prisoners confined in the after-hold
to give them a chance for themselves.

The transit to and from the magazine is now stopt by the sentinels,

They see so many strange faces they do not know whom to trust.

Our frigate takes fire,

The other asks if we demand quarter?

If our colors are struck and the fighting done?

Now I laugh content, for I hear the voice of my little captain,

We have not struck, he composedly cries, we have just begun our
part of the fighting.

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Only three guns are in use,

One is directed by the captain himself against the enemy's main-
mast,

Two well serv'd with grape and canister silence his musketry and
clear his decks.

The tops alone second the fire of this little battery, especially the
main-top,

They hold out bravely during the whole of the action.

Not a moment's cease,

The leaks gain fast on the pumps, the fire eats toward the powder-
magazine.

One of the pumps has been shot away, it is generally thought we
are sinking.

Serene stands the little captain,

He is not hurried, his voice is neither high nor low,

His eyes give more light to us than our battle-lanterns.

Toward twelve there in the beams of the moon they surrender to
us.

Stretch'd and still lies the midnight,

Two great hulls motionless on the breast of the darkness,

Our vessel riddled and slowly sinking, preparations to pass to the
one we have conquer'd,

The captain on the quarter-deck coldly giving his orders through
a countenance white as a sheet,

Near by the corpse of the child that serv'd in the cabin,

The dead face of an old salt with long white hair and carefully
curl'd whiskers,

The flames spite of all that can be done flickering aloft and below,

The husky voices of the two or three officers yet fit for duty,

Formless stacks of bodies and bodies by themselves, dabs of flesh
upon the masts and spars,

Cut of cordage, dangle of rigging, slight shock of the soothe of
waves,

Black and impassive guns, litter of powder-parcels, strong scent,

A few large stars overhead, silent and mournful shining,

Delicate sniffs of sea-breeze, smells of sedgy grass and fields by the
shore, death-messages given in charge to survivors,

The hiss of the surgeon's knife, the gnawing teeth of his saw,

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Wheeze, cluck, swash of falling blood, short wild scream, and long,
dull, tapering groan,

These so, these irretrievable.

You laggards there on guard! look to your arms!

In at the conquer'd doors they crowd! I am possess'd!

Embody all presences outlaw'd or suffering,

See myself in prison shaped like another man,

And feel the dull unintermitted pain.

For me the keepers of convicts shoulder their carbines and keep
watch,

It is I let out in the morning and barr'd at night.

Not a mutineer walks handcuff'd to jail but I am handcuff'd to
him and walk by his side,

(I am less the jolly one there, and more the silent one with sweat
on my twitching lips.)

Not a youngster is taken for larceny but I go up too, and am tried
and sentenced.

Not a cholera patient lies at the last gasp but I also lie at the last
gasp,

My face is ash-color'd, my sinews gnarl, away from me people
retreat.

Askers embody themselves in me and I am embodied in them,

I project my hat, sit shame-faced, and beg.

Enough! enough! enough!

Somehow I have been stunn'd. Stand back!

Give me a little time beyond my cuff'd head, slumbers, dreams,
gaping,

I discover myself on the verge of a usual mistake.

That I could forget the mockers and insults!

That I could forget the trickling tears and the blows of the bludg-
eons and hammers!

That I could look with a separate look on my own crucifixion and
bloody crowning.

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I remember now,

I resume the overstaid fraction,

The grave of rock multiplies what has been confided to it, or to
any graves,

Corpses rise, gashes heal, fastenings roll from me.

I troop forth replenish'd with supreme power, one of an average
unending procession,

Inland and sea-coast we go, and pass all boundary lines,

Our swift ordinances on their way over the whole earth,

The blossoms we wear in our hats the growth of thousands of
years.

Eleves, I salute you! come forward!

Continue your annotations, continue your questionings.

The friendly and flowing savage, who is he?

Is he waiting for civilization, or past it and mastering it?

Is he some Southwesterner rais'd out-doors? is he Kanadian?

Is he from the Mississippi country? Iowa, Oregon, California?

The mountains? prairie-life, bush-life? or sailor from the sea?

Wherever he goes men and women accept and desire him,

They desire he should like them, touch them, speak to them, stay
with them.

Behavior lawless as snow-flakes, words simple as grass, uncomb'd
head, laughter, and naivetè,

Slow-stepping feet, common features, common modes and ema-
nations,

They descend in new forms from the tips of his fingers,

They are wafted with the odor of his body or breath, they fly out
of the glance of his eyes.

Flaunt of the sunshine I need not your bask—lie over!

You light surfaces only, I force surfaces and depths also.

Earth! you seem to look for something at my hands,

Say, old top-knot, what do you want?

Man or woman, I might tell how I like you, but cannot,

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And might tell what it is in me and what it is in you, but cannot,

And might tell that pining I have, that pulse of my nights and
days.

Behold, I do not give lectures or a little charity,

When I give I give myself.

You there, impotent, loose in the knees,

Open your scarf'd chops till I blow grit within you,

Spread your palms and lift the flaps of your pockets,

I am not to be denied, I compel, I have stores plenty and to spare,

And any thing I have I bestow.

I do not ask who you are, that is not important to me,

You can do nothing and be nothing but what I will infold you.

To cotton-field drudge or cleaner of privies I lean,

On his right cheek I put the family kiss,

And in my soul I swear I never will deny him.

On women fit for conception I start bigger and nimbler babes,

(This day I am jetting the stuff of far more arrogant republics.)

To any one dying, thither I speed and twist the knob of the door,

Turn the bed-clothes toward the foot of the bed,

Let the physician and the priest go home.

I seize the descending man and raise him with resistless will,

O despairer, here is my neck,

By God, you shall not go down! hang your whole weight upon me.

I dilate you with tremendous breath, I buoy you up,

Every room of the house do I fill with an arm'd force,

Lovers of me, bafflers of graves.

Sleep—I and they keep guard all night,

Not doubt, not decease shall dare to lay finger upon you,

I have embraced you, and henceforth possess you to myself,

And when you rise in the morning you will find what I tell you is so.

I am he bringing help for the sick as they pant on their backs,

And for strong upright men I bring yet more needed help.

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I heard what was said of the universe,

Heard it and heard it of several thousand years;

It is middling well as far as it goes—but is that all?

Magnifying and applying come I,

Outbidding at the start the old cautious hucksters,

Taking myself the exact dimensions of Jehovah,

Lithographing Kronos, Zeus his son, and Hercules his grandson,

Buying drafts of Osiris, Isis, Belus, Brahma, Buddha,

In my portfolio placing Manito loose, Allah on a leaf, the crucifix
engraved,

With Odin and the hideous-faced Mexitli and every idol and image,

Taking them all for what they are worth and not a cent more,

Admitting they were alive and did the work of their days,

(They bore mites as for unfledg'd birds who have now to rise and
fly and sing for themselves,)

Accepting the rough deific sketches to fill out better in myself,
bestowing them freely on each man and woman I see,

Discovering as much or more in a framer framing a house,

Putting higher claims for him there with his roll'd-up sleeves driving
the mallet and chisel,

Not objecting to special revelations, considering a curl of smoke
or a hair on the back of my hand just as curious as any
revelation,

Lads ahold of fire-engines and hook-and-ladder ropes no less to
me than the gods of the antique wars,

Minding their voices peal through the crash of destruction,

Their brawny limbs passing safe over charr'd laths, their white
foreheads whole and unhurt out of the flames;

By the mechanic's wife with her babe at her nipple interceding for
every person born,

Three scythes at harvest whizzing in a row from three lusty angels
with shirts bagg'd out at their waists,

The snag-tooth'd hostler with red hair redeeming sins past and to
come,

Selling all he possesses, traveling on foot to fee lawyers for his
brother and sit by him while he is tried for forgery;

What was strewn in the amplest strewing the square rod about
me, and not filling the square rod then,

The bull and the bug never worshipp'd half enough,

Dung and dirt more admirable than was dream'd,

The supernatural of no account, myself waiting my time to be one
of the supremes,

The day getting ready for me when I shall do as much good as
the best, and be as prodigious;

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By my life-lumps! becoming already a creator,

Putting myself here and now to the ambush'd womb of the shadows.

A call in the midst of the crowd,

My own voice, orotund sweeping and final.

Come my children,

Come my boys and girls, my women, household and intimates,

Now the performer launches his nerve, he has pass'd his prelude
on the reeds within.

Easily written loose-finger'd chords—I feel the thrum of your
climax and close.

My head slues round on my neck,

Music rolls, but not from the organ,

Folks are around me, but they are no household of mine.

Ever the hard unsunk ground,

Ever the eaters and drinkers, ever the upward and downward sun,
ever the air and the ceaseless tides,

Ever myself and my neighbors, refreshing, wicked, real,

Ever the old inexplicable query, ever that thorn'd thumb, that
breath of itches and thirsts,

Ever the vexer's hoot! hoot! till we find where the sly one hides
and bring him forth,

Ever love, ever the sobbing liquid of life,

Ever the bandage under the chin, ever the trestles of death.

Here and there with dimes on the eyes walking,

To feed the greed of the belly the brains liberally spooning,

Tickets buying, taking, selling, but in to the feast never once going.

Many sweating, ploughing, thrashing, and then the chaff for pay-
ment receiving,

A few idly owning, and they the wheat continually claiming.

This is the city and I am one of the citizens,

Whatever interests the rest interests me, politics, wars, markets,
newspapers, schools,

The mayor and councils, banks, tariffs, steamships, factories, stocks,
stores, real estate and personal estate.

The little plentiful manikins skipping around in collars and tail'd
coats,

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I am aware who they are, (they are positively not worms or fleas,)

I acknowledge the duplicates of myself, the weakest and shallowest
is deathless with me,

What I do and say the same waits for them,

Every thought that flounders in me the same flounders in them.

I know perfectly well my own egotism,

Know my omnivorous lines and must not write any less,

And would fetch you whoever you are flush with myself.

Not words of routine this song of mine,

But abruptly to question, to leap beyond yet nearer bring;

This printed and bound book—but the printer and the printing-
office boy?

The well-taken photographs—but your wife or friend close and
solid in your arms?

The black ship mail'd with iron, her mighty guns in her turrets—
but the pluck of the captain and engineers?

In the houses the dishes and fare and furniture—but the host and
hostess, and the look out of their eyes?

The sky up there—yet here or next door, or across the way?

The saints and sages in history—but you yourself?

Sermons, creeds, theology—but the fathomless human brain,

And what is reason? and what is love? and what is life?

I do not despise you priests, all time, the world over,

My faith is the greatest of faiths and the least of faiths,

Enclosing worship ancient and modern and all between ancient
and modern,

Believing I shall come again upon the earth after five thousand
years,

Waiting responses from oracles, honoring the gods, saluting the
sun,

Making a fetich of the first rock or stump, powowing with sticks in
the circle of obis,

Helping the llama or brahmin as he trims the lamps of the idols,

Dancing yet through the streets in a phallic procession, rapt and
austere in the woods a gymnosophist,

Drinking mead from the skull-cup, to Shastas and Vedas admirant,
minding the Koran,

Walking the teokallis, spotted with gore from the stone and knife,
beating the serpent-skin drum,

Accepting the Gospels, accepting him that was crucified, knowing
assuredly that he is divine,

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To the mass kneeling or the puritan's prayer rising, or sitting
patiently in a pew,

Ranting and frothing in my insane crisis, or waiting dead-like till
my spirit arouses me,

Looking forth on pavement and land, or outside of pavement and
land,

Belonging to the winders of the circuit of circuits.

One of that centripetal and centrifugal gang I turn and talk like a
man leaving charges before a journey.

Down-hearted doubters dull and excluded,

Frivolous, sullen, moping, angry, affected, dishearten'd, atheistical,

I know every one of you, I know the sea of torment, doubt,
despair and unbelief.

How the flukes splash!

How they contort rapid as lightning, with spasms and spouts of
blood!

Be at peace bloody flukes of doubters and sullen mopers,

I take my place among you as much as among any,

The past is the push of you, me, all, precisely the same,

And what is yet untried and afterward is for you, me, all, precisely
the same.

I do not know what is untried and afterward,

But I know it will in its turn prove sufficient, and cannot fail.

Each who passes is consider'd, each who stops is consider'd, not
a single one can it fail.

It cannot fail the young man who died and was buried,

Nor the young woman who died and was put by his side,

Nor the little child that peep'd in at the door, and then drew back
and was never seen again,

Nor the old man who has lived without purpose, and feels it with
bitterness worse than gall,

Nor him in the poor house tubercled by rum and the bad dis-
order,

Nor the numberless slaughter'd and wreck'd, nor the brutish koboo
call'd the ordure of humanity,

Nor the sacs merely floating with open mouths for food to slip in,

Nor any thing in the earth, or down in the oldest graves of the
earth,

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Nor any thing in the myriads of spheres, nor the myriads of
myriads that inhabit them,

Nor the present, nor the least wisp that is known.

It is time to explain myself—let us stand up.

What is known I strip away,

I launch all men and women forward with me into the Unknown.

The clock indicates the moment—but what does eternity indicate?

We have thus far exhausted trillions of winters and summers,

There are trillions ahead, and trillions ahead of them.

Births have brought us richness and variety,

And other births will bring us richness and variety.

I do not call one greater and one smaller,

That which fills its period and place is equal to any.

Were mankind murderous or jealous upon you, my brother, my
sister?

I am sorry for you, they are not murderous or jealous upon me,

All has been gentle with me, I keep no account with lamentation,

(What have I to do with lamentation?)

I am an acme of things accomplish'd, and I an encloser of things
to be.

My feet strike an apex of the apices of the stairs,

On every step bunches of ages, and larger bunches between the
steps,

All below duly travel'd, and still I mount and mount.

Rise after rise bow the phantoms behind me,

Afar down I see the huge first Nothing, I know I was even there,

I waited unseen and always, and slept through the lethargic mist,

And took my time, and took no hurt from the fetid carbon.

Long I was hugg'd close—long and long.

Immense have been the preparations for me,

Faithful and friendly the arms that have help'd me.

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Cycles ferried my cradle, rowing and rowing like cheerful boatmen,

For room to me stars kept aside in their own rings,

They sent influences to look after what was to hold me.

Before I was born out of my mother generations guided me,

My embryo has never been torpid, nothing could overlay it.

For it the nebula cohered to an orb,

The long slow strata piled to rest it on,

Vast vegetables gave it sustenance,

Monstrous sauroids transported it in their mouths and deposited
it with care.

All forces have been steadily employ'd to complete and delight me,

Now on this spot I stand with my robust soul.

O span of youth! ever-push'd elasticity!

O manhood, balanced, florid and full.

My lovers suffocate me,

Crowding my lips, thick in the pores of my skin,

Jostling me through streets and public halls, coming naked to me
at night,

Crying by day Ahoy! from the rocks of the river, swinging and
chirping over my head,

Calling my name from flower-beds, vines, tangled underbrush,

Lighting on every moment of my life,

Bussing my body with soft balsamic busses,

Noiselessly passing handfuls out of their hearts and giving them
to be mine.

Old age superbly rising! O welcome, ineffable grace of dying
days!

Every condition promulges not only itself, it promulges what grows
after and out of itself,

And the dark hush promulges as much as any.

I open my scuttle at night and see the far-sprinkled systems,

And all I see multiplied as high as I can cipher edge but the rim
of the farther systems.

Wider and wider they spread, expanding, always expanding,

Outward and outward and forever outward.

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My sun has his sun and round him obediently wheels,

He joins with his partners a group of superior circuit,

And greater sets follow, making specks of the greatest inside them.

There is no stoppage and never can be stoppage,

If I, you, and the worlds, and all beneath or upon their surfaces,
were this moment reduced back to a pallid float, it would
not avail in the long run,

We should surely bring up again where we now stand,

And surely go as much farther, and then farther and farther.

A few quadrillions of eras, a few octillions of cubic leagues, do not
hazard the span or make it impatient,

They are but parts, any thing is but a part.

See ever so far, there is limitless space outside of that,

Count ever so much, there is limitless time around that.

My rendezvous is appointed, it is certain,

The Lord will be there and wait till I come on perfect terms,

The great Camerado, the lover true for whom I pine will be there.

I know I have the best of time and space, and was never measured
and never will be measured.

I tramp a perpetual journey, (come listen all!)

My signs are a rain-proof coat, good shoes, and a staff cut from
the woods,

No friend of mine takes his ease in my chair,

I have no chair, no church, no philosophy,

I lead no man to a dinner-table, library, exchange,

But each man and each woman of you I lead upon a knoll,

My left hand hooking you round the waist,

My right hand pointing to landscapes of continents and the public
road.

Not I, not any one else can travel that road for you,

You must travel it for yourself.

It is not far, it is within reach,

Perhaps you have been on it since you were born and did not
know,

Perhaps it is everywhere on water and on land.

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Shoulder your duds dear son, and I will mine, and let us hasten
forth,

Wonderful cities and free nations we shall fetch as we go.

If you tire, give me both burdens, and rest the chuff of your hand
on my hip,

And in due time you shall repay the same service to me,

For after we start we never lie by again.

This day before dawn I ascended a hill and look'd at the crowded
heaven,

And I said to my spirit When we become the enfolders of those
orbs, and the pleasure and knowledge of every thing in
them, shall we be fill'd and satisfied then?

And my spirit said No, we but level that lift to pass and continue
beyond.

You are also asking me questions and I hear you,

I answer that I cannot answer, you must find out for yourself.

Sit a while dear son,

Here are biscuits to eat and here is milk to drink,

But as soon as you sleep and renew yourself in sweet clothes, I
kiss you with a good-by kiss and open the gate for your
egress hence.

Long enough have you dream'd contemptible dreams,

Now I wash the gum from your eyes,

You must habit yourself to the dazzle of the light and of every
moment of your life.

Long have you timidly waded holding a plank by the shore,

Now I will you to be a bold swimmer,

To jump off in the midst of the sea, rise again, nod to me, shout,
and laughingly dash with your hair.

I am the teacher of athletes,

He that by me spreads a wider breast than my own proves the
width of my own,

He most honors my style who learns under it to destroy the
teacher.

The boy I love, the same becomes a man not through derived
power, but in his own right,

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Wicked rather than virtuous out of conformity or fear,

Fond of his sweetheart, relishing well his steak,

Unrequited love or a slight cutting him worse than sharp steel
cuts,

First-rate to ride, to fight, to hit the bull's eye, to sail a skiff, to
sing a song or play on the banjo,

Preferring scars and the beard and faces pitted with small-pox
over all latherers,

And those well-tann'd to those that keep out of the sun.

I teach straying from me, yet who can stray from me?

I follow you whoever you are from the present hour,

My words itch at your ears till you understand them.

I do not say these things for a dollar or to fill up the time while I
wait for a boat,

(It is you talking just as much as myself, I act as the tongue of
you,

Tied in your mouth, in mine it begins to be loosen'd.)

I swear I will never again mention love or death inside a house,

And I swear I will never translate myself at all, only to him or her
who privately stays with me in the open air.

If you would understand me go to the heights or water-shore,

The nearest gnat is an explanation, and a drop or motion of waves
a key,

The maul, the oar, the hand-saw, second my words.

No shutter'd room or school can commune with me,

But roughs and little children better than they.

The young mechanic is closest to me, he knows me well,

The woodman that takes his axe and jug with him shall take me
with him all day,

The farm-boy ploughing in the field feels good at the sound of my
voice,

In vessels that sail my words sail, I go with fishermen and seamen
and love them.

The soldier camp'd or upon the march is mine,

On the night ere the pending battle many seek me, and I do not
fail them,

On that solemn night (it may be their last) those that know me
seek me.

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My face rubs to the hunter's face when he lies down alone in his
blanket,

The driver thinking of me does not mind the jolt of his wagon,

The young mother and old mother comprehend me,

The girl and the wife rest the needle a moment and forget where
they are,

They and all would resume what I have told them.

I have said that the soul is not more than the body,

And I have said that the body is not more than the soul,

And nothing, not God, is greater to one than one's self is,

And whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his own
funeral drest in his shroud,

And I or you pocketless of a dime may purchase the pick of the
earth,

And to glance with an eye or show a bean in its pod confounds
the learning of all times,

And there is no trade or employment but the young man following
it may become a hero,

And there is no object so soft but it makes a hub for the wheel'd
universe,

And I say to any man or woman, Let your soul stand cool and
composed before a million universes.

And I say to mankind, Be not curious about God,

For I who am curious about each am not curious about God,

(No array of terms can say how much I am at peace about God
and about death.)

I hear and behold God in every object, yet understand God not
in the least,

Nor do I understand who there can be more wonderful than
myself.

Why should I wish to see God better than this day?

I see something of God each hour of the twenty-four, and each
moment then,

In the faces of men and women I see God, and in my own face in
the glass,

I find letters from God dropt in the street, and every one is sign'd
by God's name,

And I leave them where they are, for I know that wheresoe'er I go,

Others will punctually come for ever and ever.

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And as to you Death, and you bitter hug of mortality, it is idle to
try to alarm me.

To his work without flinching the accoucheur comes,

I see the elder-hand pressing receiving supporting,

I recline by the sills of the exquisite flexible doors,

And mark the outlet, and mark the relief and escape.

And as to you Corpse I think you are good manure, but that does
not offend me,

I smell the white roses sweet-scented and growing,

I reach to the leafy lips, I reach to the polish'd breasts of melons.

And as to you Life I reckon you are the leavings of many deaths,

(No doubt I have died myself ten thousand times before.)

I hear you whispering there O stars of heaven,

O suns—O grass of graves—O perpetual transfers and pro-
motions,

If you do not say any thing how can I say any thing?

Of the turbid pool that lies in the autumn forest,

Of the moon that descends the steeps of the soughing twilight,

Toss, sparkles of day and dusk—toss on the black stems that
decay in the muck,

Toss to the moaning gibberish of the dry limbs.

I ascend from the moon, I ascend from the night,

I perceive that the ghastly glimmer is noonday sunbeams reflected,

And debouch to the steady and central from the offspring great or
small.

There is that in me—I do not know what it is—but I know it is
in me.

Wrench'd and sweaty—calm and cool then my body becomes,

I sleep—I sleep long.

I do not know it—it is without name—it is a word unsaid,

It is not in any dictionary, utterance, symbol.

Something it swings on more than the earth I swing on,

To it the creation is the friend whose embracing awakes me.

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Perhaps I might tell more. Outlines! I plead for my brothers
and sisters.

Do you see O my brothers and sisters?

It is not chaos or death—it is form, union, plan—it is eternal
life—it is Happiness.

The past and present wilt—I have fill'd them, emptied them.

And proceed to fill my next fold of the future.

Listener up there! what have you to confide to me?

Look in my face while I snuff the sidle of evening,

(Talk honestly, no one else hears you, and I stay only a minute
longer.)

Do I contradict myself?

Very well then I contradict myself,

(I am large, I contain multitudes.)

I concentrate toward them that are nigh, I wait on the door-slab.

Who has done his day's work? who will soonest be through with
his supper?

Who wishes to walk with me?

Will you speak before I am gone? will you prove already too late?

The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains of my
gab and my loitering.

I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,

I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.

The last scud of day holds back for me,

It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow'd
wilds,

It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.

I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,

I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,

If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.

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You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,

But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,

And filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,

Missing me one place search another,

I stop somewhere waiting for you.

—————

CHILDREN OF ADAM.

—————

TO THE GARDEN THE WORLD

TO the garden the world anew ascending,

Potent mates, daughters, sons, preluding,

The love, the life of their bodies, meaning and being,

Curious here behold my resurrection after slumber,

The revolving cycles in their wide sweep having brought me again,

Amorous, mature, all beautiful to me, all wondrous,

My limbs and the quivering fire that ever plays through them, for
reasons, most wondrous,

Existing I peer and penetrate still,

Content with the present, content with the past,

By my side or back of me Eve following,

Or in front, and I following her just the same.

FROM PENT-UP ACHING RIVERS.

FROM pent-up aching rivers,

From that of myself without which I were nothing,

From what I am determin'd to make illustrious, even if I stand
sole among men,

From my own voice resonant, singing the phallus,

Singing the song of procreation,

Singing the need of superb children and therein superb grown
people,

Singing the muscular urge and the blending,

Singing the bedfellow's song, (O resistless yearning!

O for any and each the body correlative attracting!

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O for you whoever you are your correlative body! O it, more than
all else, you delighting!)

From the hungry gnaw that eats me night and day,

From native moments, from bashful pains, singing them,

Seeking something yet unfound though I have diligently sought it
many a long year,

Singing the true song of the soul fitful at random,

Renascent with grossest Nature or among animals,

Of that, of them and what goes with them my poems informing,

Of the smell of apples and lemons, of the pairing of birds,

Of the wet of woods, of the lapping of waves,

Of the mad pushes of waves upon the land, I them chanting,

The overture lightly sounding, the strain anticipating,

The welcome nearness, the sight of the perfect body,

The swimmer swimming naked in the bath, or motionless on his
back lying and floating,

The female form approaching, I pensive, love-flesh tremulous
aching,

The divine list for myself or you or for any one making,

The face, the limbs, the index from head to foot, and what it
arouses,

The mystic deliria, the madness amorous, the utter abandonment,

(Hark close and still what I now whisper to you,

I love you, O you entirely possess me,

O that you and I escape from the rest and go utterly off, free and
lawless,

Two hawks in the air, two fishes swimming in the sea not more
lawless than we;)

The furious storm through me careering, I passionately trembling.

The oath of the inseparableness of two together, of the woman
that loves me and whom I love more than my life, that oath
swearing,

(O I willingly stake all for you,

O let me be lost if it must be so!

O you and I! what is it to us what the rest do or think?

What is all else to us? only that we enjoy each other and exhaust
each other if it must be so;)

From the master, the pilot I yield the vessel to,

The general commanding me, commanding all, from him permis-
sion taking,

From time the programme hastening, (I have loiter'd too long as
it is,)

From sex, from the warp and from the woof,

From privacy, from frequent repinings alone,

From plenty of persons near and yet the right person not near,

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From the soft sliding of hands over me and thrusting of fingers
through my hair and beard,

From the long sustain'd kiss upon the mouth or bosom,

From the close pressure that makes me or any man drunk, fainting
with excess,

From what the divine husband knows, from the work of fatherhood,

From exultation, victory and relief, from the bedfellow's embrace
in the night,

From the act-poems of eyes, hands, hips and bosoms,

From the cling of the trembling arm,

From the bending curve and the clinch,

From side by side the pliant coverlet off-throwing,

From the one so unwilling to have me leave, and me just as un-
willing to leave,

(Yet a moment O tender waiter, and I return,)

From the hour of shining stars and dropping dews,

From the night a moment I emerging flitting out,

Celebrate you act divine and you children prepared for,

And you stalwart loins.

I SING THE BODY ELECTRIC.

I SING the body electric,

The armies of those I love engirth me and I engirth them,

They will not let me off till I go with them, respond to them,

And discorrupt them, and charge them full with the charge of the
soul.

Was it doubted that those who corrupt their own bodies conceal
themselves?

And if those who defile the living are as bad as they who defile
the dead?

And if the body does not do fully as much as the soul?

And if the body were not the soul, what is the soul?

The love of the body of man or woman balks account, the body
itself balks account,

That of the male is perfect, and that of the female is perfect.

The expression of the face balks account,

But the expression of a well-made man appears not only in his
face,

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It is in his limbs and joints also, it is curiously in the joints of his
hips and wrists,

It is in his walk, the carriage of his neck, the flex of his waist and
knees, dress does not hide him,

The strong sweet quality he has strikes through the cotton and
broadcloth,

To see him pass conveys as much as the best poem, perhaps more,

You linger to see his back, and the back of his neck and shoul-
der-side.

The sprawl and fulness of babes, the bosoms and heads of women,
the folds of their dress, their style as we pass in the street,
the contour of their shape downwards,

The swimmer naked in the swimming-bath, seen as he swims
through the transparent green-shine, or lies with his face
up and rolls silently to and fro in the heave of the water,

The bending forward and backward of rowers in row-boats, the
horseman in his saddle,

Girls, mothers, house-keepers, in all their performances,

The group of laborers seated at noon-time with their open dinner-
kettles, and their wives waiting,

The female soothing a child, the farmer's daughter in the garden
or cow-yard,

The young fellow hoeing corn, the sleigh-driver driving his six
horses through the crowd,

The wrestle of wrestlers, two apprentice-boys, quite grown, lusty,
good-natured, native-born, out on the vacant lot at sun-
down after work,

The coats and caps thrown down, the embrace of love and resistance,

The upper-hold and under-hold, the hair rumpled over and blind-
ing the eyes;

The march of firemen in their own costumes, the play of mascu-
line muscle through clean-setting trowsers and waist-straps,

The slow return from the fire, the pause when the bell strikes
suddenly again, and the listening on the alert,

The natural, perfect, varied attitudes, the bent head, the curv'd
neck and the counting;

Such-like I love—I loosen myself, pass freely, am at the mother's
breast with the little child,

Swim with the swimmers, wrestle with wrestlers, march in line with
the firemen, and pause, listen, count.

I knew a man, a common farmer, the father of five sons,

And in them the fathers of sons, and in them the fathers of sons.

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This man was of wonderful vigor, calmness, beauty of person,

The shape of his head, the pale yellow and white of his hair and
beard, the immeasurable meaning of his black eyes, the
richness and breadth of his manners,

These I used to go and visit him to see, he was wise also,

He was six feet tall, he was over eighty years old, his sons were
massive, clean, bearded, tan-faced, handsome,

They and his daughters loved him, all who saw him loved him,

They did not love him by allowance, they loved him with personal
love,

He drank water only, the blood show'd like scarlet through the
clear-brown skin of his face,

He was a frequent gunner and fisher, he sail'd his boat himself,
he had a fine one presented to him by a ship-joiner, he
had fowling-pieces presented to him by men that loved
him,

When he went with his five sons and many grand-sons to hunt or
fish, you would pick him out as the most beautiful and
vigorous of the gang,

You would wish long and long to be with him, you would wish to
sit by him in the boat that you and he might touch each
other.

I have perceiv'd that to be with those I like is enough,

To stop in company with the rest at evening is enough,

To be surrounded by beautiful, curious, breathing, laughing flesh
is enough,

To pass among them or touch any one, or rest my arm ever so
lightly round his or her neck for a moment, what is this
then?

I do not ask any more delight, I swim in it as in a sea.

There is something in staying close to men and women and look-
ing on them, and in the contact and odor of them, that
pleases the soul well,

All things please the soul, but these please the soul well.

This is the female form,

A divine nimbus exhales from it from head to foot,

It attracts with fierce undeniable attraction,

I am drawn by its breath as if I were no more than a helpless
vapor, all falls aside but myself and it,

Books, art, religion, time, the visible and solid earth, and what was
expected of heaven or fear'd of hell, are now consumed,

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Mad filaments, ungovernable shoots play out of it, the response
likewise ungovernable,

Hair, bosom, hips, bend of legs, negligent falling hands all dif
fused, mine too diffused,

Ebb stung by the flow and flow stung by the ebb, love-flesh swell-
ing and deliciously aching,

Limitless limpid jets of love hot and enormous, quivering jelly of
love, white-blow and delirious juice,

Bridegroom night of love working surely and softly into the pros-
trate dawn,

Undulating into the willing and yielding day,

Lost in the cleave of the clasping and sweet-flesh'd day.

This the nucleus—after the child is born of woman, man is born
of woman,

This the bath of birth, this the merge of small and large, and the
outlet again.

Be not ashamed women, your privilege encloses the rest, and is the
exit of the rest,

You are the gates of the body, and you are the gates of the soul.

The female contains all qualities and tempers them,

She is in her place and moves with perfect balance,

She is all things duly veil'd, she is both passive and active,

She is to conceive daughters as well as sons, and sons as well as
daughters.

As I see my soul reflected in Nature,

As I see through a mist, One with inexpressible completeness,
sanity, beauty,

See the bent head and arms folded over the breast, the Female
I see.

The male is not less the soul nor more, he too is in his place,

He too is all qualities, he is action and power,

The flush of the known universe is in him,

Scorn becomes him well, and appetite and defiance become him
well,

The wildest largest passions, bliss that is utmost, sorrow that is
utmost become him well, pride is for him,

The full-spread pride of man is calming and excellent to the soul,

Knowledge becomes him, he likes it always, he brings every thing
to the test of himself,

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Whatever the survey, whatever the sea and the sail he strikes
soundings at last only here,

(Where else does he strike soundings except here?)

The man's body is sacred and the woman's body is sacred,

No matter who it is, it is sacred—is it the meanest one in the
laborers' gang?

Is it one of the dull-faced immigrants just landed on the wharf?

Each belongs here or anywhere just as much as the well-off, just
as much as you,

Each has his or her place in the procession.

(All is a procession,

The universe is a procession with measured and perfect motion.)

Do you know so much yourself that you call the meanest ignorant?

Do you suppose you have a right to a good sight, and he or she
has no right to a sight?

Do you think matter has cohered together from its diffuse float,
and the soil is on the surface, and water runs and vegeta-
tion sprouts,

For you only, and not for him and her?

A man's body at auction,

(For before the war I often go to the slave-mart and watch the
sale,)

I help the auctioneer, the sloven does not half know his business.

Gentlemen look on this wonder,

Whatever the bids of the bidders they cannot be high enough for it,

For it the globe lay preparing quintillions of years without one
animal or plant,

For it the revolving cycles truly and steadily roll'd.

In this head the all-baffling brain,

In it and below it the makings of heroes.

Examine these limbs, red, black, or white, they are cunning in
tendon and nerve,

They shall be stript that you may see them.

Exquisite senses, life-lit eyes, pluck, volition,

Flakes of breast-muscle, pliant backbone and neck, flesh not
flabby, good-sized arms and legs,

And wonders within there yet.

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Within there runs blood,

The same old blood! the same red-running blood!

There swells and jets a heart, there all passions, desires, reachings,
aspirations,

(Do you think they are not there because they are not express'd in
parlors and lecture-rooms?)

This is not only one man, this the father of those who shall be
fathers in their turns,

In him the start of populous states and rich republics,

Of him countless immortal lives with countless embodiments and
enjoyments.

How do you know who shall come from the offspring of his off-
spring through the centuries?

(Who might you find you have come from yourself, if you could
trace back through the centuries?)

A woman's body at auction,

She too is not only herself, she is the teeming mother of mothers,

She is the bearer of them that shall grow and be mates to the
mothers.

Have you ever loved the body of a woman?

Have you ever loved the body of a man?

Do you not see that these are exactly the same to all in all nations
and times all over the earth?

If any thing is sacred the human body is sacred,

And the glory and sweet of a man is the token of manhood
untainted,

And in man or woman a clean, strong, firm-fibred body, is more
beautiful than the most beautiful face.

Have you seen the fool that corrupted his own live body? or the
fool that corrupted her own live body?

For they do not conceal themselves, and cannot conceal themselves.

O my body! I dare not desert the likes of you in other men and
women, nor the likes of the parts of you,

I believe the likes of you are to stand or fall with the likes of the
soul, (and that they are the soul,)

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I believe the likes of you shall stand or fall with my poems, and
that they are my poems,

Man's, woman's, child's, youth's, wife's, husband's, mother's, father's,
young man's, young woman's poems,

Head, neck, hair, ears, drop and tympan of the ears,

Eyes, eye-fringes, iris of the eye, eyebrows, and the waking or
sleeping of the lids,

Mouth, tongue, lips, teeth, roof of the mouth, jaws, and the jaw-
hinges,

Nose, nostrils of the nose, and the partition,

Cheeks, temples, forehead, chin, throat, back of the neck, neck-
slue,

Strong shoulders, manly beard, scapula, hind-shoulders, and the
ample side-round of the chest,

Upper-arm, armpit, elbow-socket, lower-arm, arm-sinews, arm-
bones,

Wrist and wrist-joints, hand, palm, knuckles, thumb, forefinger,
finger-joints, finger-nails,

Broad breast-front, curling hair of the breast, breast-bone, breast-
side,

Ribs, belly, backbone, joints of the backbone,

Hips, hip-sockets, hip-strength, inward and outward round, man-
balls, man-root,

Strong set of thighs, well carrying the trunk above,

Leg-fibres, knee, knee-pan, upper-leg, under-leg,

Ankles, instep, foot-ball, toes, toe-joints, the heel;

All attitudes, all the shapeliness, all the belongings of my or your
body or of any one's body, male or female,

The lung-sponges, the stomach-sac, the bowels sweet and clean,

The brain in its folds inside the skull-frame,

Sympathies, heart-valves, palate-valves, sexuality, maternity,

Womanhood, and all that is a woman, and the man that comes
from woman,

The womb, the teats, nipples, breast-milk, tears, laughter, weeping,
love-looks, love-perturbations and risings,

The voice, articulation, language, whispering, shouting aloud,

Food, drink, pulse, digestion, sweat, sleep, walking, swimming,

Poise on the hips, leaping, reclining, embracing, arm-curving and
tightening,

The continual changes of the flex of the mouth, and around the
eyes,

The skin, the sunburnt shade, freckles, hair,

The curious sympathy one feels when feeling with the hand the
naked meat of the body,

The circling rivers the breath, and breathing it in and out,

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The beauty of the waist, and thence of the hips, and thence down-
ward toward the knees,

The thin red jellies within you or within me, the bones and the
marrow in the bones,

The exquisite realization of health;

O I say these are not the parts and poems of the body only, but
of the soul,

O I say now these are the soul!

A WOMAN WAITS FOR ME.

A WOMAN waits for me, she contains all, nothing is lacking,

Yet all were lacking if sex were lacking, or if the moisture of the
right man were lacking.

Sex contains all, bodies, souls,

Meanings, proofs, purities, delicacies, results, promulgations,

Songs, commands, health, pride, the maternal mystery, the seminal
milk,

All hopes, benefactions, bestowals, all the passions, loves, beauties,
delights of the earth,

All the governments, judges, gods, follow'd persons of the earth,

These are contain'd in sex as parts of itself and justifications of
itself.

Without shame the man I like knows and avows the deliciousness
of his sex,

Without shame the woman I like knows and avows hers.

Now I will dismiss myself from impassive women,

I will go stay with her who waits for me, and with those women
that are warm-blooded and sufficient for me,

I see that they understand me and do not deny me,

I see that they are worthy of me, I will be the robust husband
of those women.

They are not one jot less than I am,

They are tann'd in the face by shining suns and blowing winds,

Their flesh has the old divine suppleness and strength,

They know how to swim, row, ride, wrestle, shoot, run, strike,
retreat, advance, resist, defend themselves,

They are ultimate in their own right—they are calm, clear, well-
possess'd of themselves.

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I draw you close to me, you women,

I cannot let you go, I would do you good,

I am for you, and you are for me, not only for our own sake, but
for others' sakes,

Envelop'd in you sleep greater heroes and bards,

They refuse to awake at the touch of any man but me.

It is I, you women, I make my way,

I am stern, acrid, large, undissuadable, but I love you,

I do not hurt you any more than is necessary for you,

I pour the stuff to start sons and daughters fit for these States, I
press with slow rude muscle,

I brace myself effectually, I listen to no entreaties,

I dare not withdraw till I deposit what has so long accumulated
within me.

Through you I drain the pent-up rivers of myself,

In you I wrap a thousand onward years,

On you I graft the grafts of the best-beloved of me and America,

The drops I distil upon you shall grow fierce and athletic girls,
new artists, musicians, and singers,

The babes I beget upon you are to beget babes in their turn,

I shall demand perfect men and women out of my love-spendings,

I shall expect them to interpenetrate with others, as I and you
interpenetrate now,

I shall count on the fruits of the gushing showers of them, as I
count on the fruits of the gushing showers I give now,

I shall look for loving crops from the birth, life, death, immortality,
I plant so lovingly now.

SPONTANEOUS ME.

SPONTANEOUS me, Nature,

The loving day, the mounting sun, the friend I am happy with,

The arm of my friend hanging idly over my shoulder,

The hillside whiten'd with blossoms of the mountain ash,

The same late in autumn, the hues of red, yellow, drab, purple,
and light and dark green,

The rich coverlet of the grass, animals and birds, the private
untrimm'd bank, the primitive apples, the pebble-stones,

Beautiful dripping fragments, the negligent list of one after an-
other as I happen to call them to me or think of them,

The real poems, (what we call poems being merely pictures,)

The poems of the privacy of the night, and of men like me,

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This poem drooping shy and unseen that I always carry, and that
all men carry,

(Know once for all, avow'd on purpose, wherever are men like
me, are our lusty lurking masculine poems,)

Love-thoughts, love-juice, love-odor, love-yielding, love-climbers,
and the climbing sap,

Arms and hands of love, lips of love, phallic thumb of love, breasts
of love, bellies press'd and glued together with love,

Earth of chaste love, life that is only life after love,

The body of my love, the body of the woman I love, the body
of the man, the body of the earth,

Soft forenoon airs that blow from the south-west,

The hairy wild-bee that murmurs and hankers up and down, that
gripes the full-grown lady-flower, curves upon her with
amorous firm legs, takes his will of her, and holds himself
tremulous and tight till he is satisfied;

The wet of woods through the early hours,

Two sleepers at night lying close together as they sleep, one with an
arm slanting down across and below the waist of the other,

The smell of apples, aromas from crush'd sage-plant, mint, birch-
bark,

The boy's longings, the glow and pressure as he confides to me
what he was dreaming,

The dead leaf whirling its spiral whirl and falling still and content
to the ground,

The no-form'd stings that sights, people, objects, sting me with,

The hubb'd sting of myself, stinging me as much as it ever can
any one,

The sensitive, orbic, underlapp'd brothers, that only privileged
feelers may be intimate where they are,

The curious roamer the hand roaming all over the body, the
bashful withdrawing of flesh where the fingers soothingly
pause and edge themselves,

The limpid liquid within the young man,

The vex'd corrosion so pensive and so painful,

The torment, the irritable tide that will not be at rest,

The like of the same I feel, the like of the same in others,

The young man that flushes and flushes, and the young woman
that flushes and flushes,

The young man that wakes deep at night, the hot hand seeking to
repress what would master him,

The mystic amorous night, the strange half-welcome pangs, visions,
sweats,

The pulse pounding through palms and trembling encircling
fingers, the young man all color'd, red, ashamed, angry;

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The souse upon me of my lover the sea, as I lie willing and naked,

The merriment of the twin babes that crawl over the grass in the
sun, the mother never turning her vigilant eyes from them,

The walnut-trunk, the walnut-husks, and the ripening or ripen'd
long-round walnuts,

The continence of vegetables, birds, animals,

The consequent meanness of me should I skulk or find myself
indecent, while birds and animals never once skulk or
find themselves indecent,

The great chastity of paternity, to match the great chastity of
maternity,

The oath of procreation I have sworn, my Adamic and fresh
daughters,

The greed that eats me day and night with hungry gnaw, till I
saturate what shall produce boys to fill my place when I
am through,

The wholesome relief, repose, content,

And this bunch pluck'd at random from myself,

It has done its work—I toss it carelessly to fall where it may.

ONE HOUR TO MADNESS AND JOY.

ONE hour to madness and joy! O furious! O confine me not!

(What is this that frees me so in storms?

What do my shouts amid lightnings and raging winds mean?)

O to drink the mystic deliria deeper than any other man!

O savage and tender achings! (I bequeath them to you my
children,

I tell them to you, for reasons, O bridegroom and bride.)

O to be yielded to you whoever you are, and you to be yielded to
me in defiance of the world!

O to return to Paradise! O bashful and feminine!

O to draw you to me, to plant on you for the first time the lips of
a determin'd man.

O the puzzle, the thrice-tied knot, the deep and dark pool, all
untied and illumin'd!

O to speed where there is space enough and air enough at last!

To be absolv'd from previous ties and conventions, I from mine
and you from yours!

To find a new unthought-of nonchalance with the best of Nature!

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To have the gag remov'd from one's mouth!

To have the feeling to-day or any day I am sufficient as I am.

O something unprov'd! something in a trance!

To escape utterly from others' anchors and holds!

To drive free! to love free! to dash reckless and dangerous!

To court destruction with taunts, with invitations!

To ascend, to leap to the heavens of the love indicated to me!

To rise thither with my inebriate soul!

To be lost if it must be so!

To feed the remainder of life with one hour of fulness and freedom!

With one brief hour of madness and joy.

OUT OF THE ROLLING OCEAN THE CROWD.

OUT of the rolling ocean the crowd came a drop gently to me,

Whispering I love you, before long I die,

I have travel'd a long way merely to look on you to touch you,

For I could not die till I once look'd on you,

For I fear'd I might afterward lose you.

Now we have met, we have look'd, we are safe,

Return in peace to the ocean my love,

I too am part of that ocean my love, we are not so much sepa-
rated,

Behold the great rondure, the cohesion of all, how perfect!

But as for me, for you, the irresistible sea is to separate us,

As for an hour carrying us diverse, yet cannot carry us diverse for-
ever;

Be not impatient—a little space—know you I salute the air, the
ocean and the land,

Every day at sundown for your dear sake my love.

AGES AND AGES RETURNING AT INTERVALS.

AGES and ages returning at intervals,

Undestroy'd, wandering immortal,

Lusty, phallic, with the potent original loins, perfectly sweet,

I, chanter of Adamic songs,

Through the new garden the West, the great cities calling,

Deliriate, thus prelude what is generated, offering these, offering
myself,

Bathing myself, bathing my songs in Sex,

Offspring of my loins.

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WE TWO, HOW LONG WE WERE FOOL'D.

WE two, how long we were fool'd,

Now transmuted, we swiftly escape as Nature escapes,

We are Nature, long have we been absent, but now we return,

We become plants, trunks, foliage, roots, bark,

We are bedded in the ground, we are rocks,

We are oaks, we grow in the openings side by side,

We browse, we are two among the wild herds spontaneous as
any,

We are two fishes swimming in the sea together,

We are what locust blossoms are, we drop scent around lanes
mornings and evenings,

We are also the coarse smut of beasts, vegetables, minerals,

We are two predatory hawks, we soar above and look down,

We are two resplendent suns, we it is who balance ourselves orbic
and stellar, we are as two comets,

We prowl fang'd and four-footed in the woods, we spring on
prey,

We are two clouds forenoons and afternoons driving overhead,

We are seas mingling, we are two of those cheerful waves rolling
over each other and interwetting each other,

We are what the atmosphere is, transparent, receptive, pervious,
impervious,

We are snow, rain, cold, darkness, we are each product and
influence of the globe,

We have circled and circled till we have arrived home again, we
two,

We have voided all but freedom and all but our own joy.

O HYMEN! O HYMENEE!

O HYMEN! O hymenee! why do you tantalize me thus?

O why sting me for a swift moment only?

Why can you not continue? O why do you now cease?

Is it because if you continued beyond the swift moment you
would soon certainly kill me?

I AM HE THAT ACHES WITH LOVE.

I AM he that aches with amorous love;

Does the earth gravitate? does not all matter, aching, attract all
matter?

So the body of me to all I meet or know.

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NATIVE MOMENTS.

NATIVE moments—when you come upon me—ah you are here
now,

Give me now libidinous joys only,

Give me the drench of my passions, give me life coarse and rank,

To-day I go consort with Nature's darlings, to-night too,

I am for those who believe in loose delights, I share the midnight
orgies of young men,

I dance with the dancers and drink with the drinkers,

The echoes ring with our indecent calls, I pick out some low
person for my dearest friend,

He shall be lawless, rude, illiterate, he shall be one condemn'd by
others for deeds done,

I will play a part no longer, why should I exile myself from my
companions?

O you shunn'd persons, I at least do not shun you,

I come forthwith in your midst, I will be your poet,

I will be more to you than to any of the rest.

ONCE I PASS'D THROUGH A POPULOUS CITY.

ONCE I pass'd through a populous city imprinting my brain for
future use with its shows, architecture, customs, traditions,

Yet now of all that city I remember only a woman I casually met
there who detain'd me for love of me,

Day by day and night by night we were together—all else has
long been forgotten by me,

I remember I say only that woman who passionately clung to me,

Again we wander, we love, we separate again,

Again she holds me by the hand, I must not go,

I see her close beside me with silent lips sad and tremulous.

I HEARD YOU SOLEMN-SWEET PIPES OF THE ORGAN.

I HEARD you solemn-sweet pipes of the organ as last Sunday morn
I pass'd the church,

Winds of autumn, as I walk'd the woods at dusk I heard your
long-stretch'd sighs up above so mournful,

I heard the perfect Italian tenor singing at the opera, I heard the
soprano in the midst of the quartet singing;

Heart of my love! you too I heard murmuring low through one
of the wrists around my head,

Heard the pulse of you when all was still ringing little bells last
night under my ear.

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FACING WEST FROM CALIFORNIA'S SHORES.

FACING west from California's shores,

Inquiring, tireless, seeking what is yet unfound,

I, a child, very old, over waves, towards the house of maternity,
the land of migrations, look afar,

Look off the shores of my Western sea, the circle almost circled;

For starting westward from Hindustan, from the vales of Kash-
mere,

From Asia, from the north, from the God, the sage, and the
hero,

From the south, from the flowery peninsulas and the spice islands,

Long having wander'd since, round the earth having wander'd,

Now I face home again, very pleas'd and joyous,

(But where is what I started for so long ago?

And why is it yet unfound?)

AS ADAM EARLY IN THE MORNING.

AS Adam early in the morning,

Walking forth from the bower refresh'd with sleep,

Behold me where I pass, hear my voice, approach,

Touch me, touch the palm of your hand to my body as I pass,

Be not afraid of my body.

—————

CALAMUS.

—————

IN PATHS UNTRODDEN.

IN paths untrodden,

In the growth by margins of pond-waters,

Escaped from the life that exhibits itself,

From all the standards hitherto publish'd, from the pleasures,
profits, conformities,

Which too long I was offering to feed my soul,

Clear to me now standards not yet publish'd, clear to me that my
soul,

That the soul of the man I speak for rejoices in comrades,

Here by myself away from the clank of the world,

Tallying and talk'd to here by tongues aromatic,

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No longer abash'd, (for in this secluded spot I can respond as I
would not dare elsewhere,)

Strong upon me the life that does not exhibit itself, yet contains
all the rest,

Resolv'd to sing no songs to-day but those of manly attachment,

Projecting them along that substantial life,

Bequeathing hence types of athletic love,

Afternoon this delicious Ninth-month in my forty-first year,

I proceed for all who are or have been young men,

To tell the secret of my nights and days,

To celebrate the need of comrades.

SCENTED HERBAGE OF MY BREAST.

SCENTED herbage of my breast,

Leaves from you I glean, I write, to be perused best afterwards,

Tomb-leaves, body-leaves growing up above me above death,

Perennial roots, tall leaves, O the winter shall not freeze you
delicate leaves,

Every year shall you bloom again, out from where you retired you
shall emerge again;

O I do not know whether many passing by will discover you or
inhale your faint odor, but I believe a few will;

O slender leaves! O blossoms of my blood! I permit you to tell
in your own way of the heart that is under you,

O I do not know what you mean there underneath yourselves, you
are not happiness,

You are often more bitter than I can bear, you burn and sting me,

Yet you are beautiful to me you faint tinged roots, you make me
think of death,

Death is beautiful from you, (what indeed is finally beautiful except
death and love?)

O I think it is not for life I am chanting here my chant of lovers,
I think it must be for death,

For how calm, how solemn it grows to ascend to the atmosphere
of lovers,

Death or life I am then indifferent, my soul declines to prefer,

(I am not sure but the high soul of lovers welcomes death most,)

Indeed O death, I think now these leaves mean precisely the same
as you mean,

Grow up taller sweet leaves that I may see! grow up out of my
breast!

Spring away from the conceal'd heart there!

Do not fold yourself so in your pink-tinged roots timid leaves!

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Do not remain down there so ashamed, herbage of my breast!

Come I am determin'd to unbare this broad breast of mine, I
have long enough stifled and choked;

Emblematic and capricious blades I leave you, now you serve me
not,

I will say what I have to say by itself,

I will sound myself and comrades only, I will never again utter a
call only their call,

I will raise with it immortal reverberations through the States,

I will give an example to lovers to take permanent shape and
will through the States,

Through me shall the words be said to make death exhilarating,

Give me your tone therefore O death, that I may accord with it,

Give me yourself, for I see that you belong to me now above all,
and are folded inseparably together, you love and death are,

Nor will I allow you to balk me any more with what I was calling life,

For now it is convey'd to me that you are the purports essential,

That you hide in these shifting forms of life, for reasons, and that
they are mainly for you,

That you beyond them come forth to remain, the real reality,

That behind the mask of materials you patiently wait, no matter
how long,

That you will one day perhaps take control of all,

That you will perhaps dissipate this entire show of appearance,

That may-be you are what it is all for, but it does not last so very
long,

But you will last very long.

WHOEVER YOU ARE HOLDING ME NOW IN HAND.

WHOEVER you are holding me now in hand,

Without one thing all will be useless,

I give you fair warning before you attempt me further,

I am not what you supposed, but far different.

Who is he that would become my follower?

Who would sign himself a candidate for my affections?

The way is suspicious, the result uncertain, perhaps destructive,

You would have to give up all else, I alone would expect to be
your sole and exclusive standard,

Your novitiate would even then be long and exhausting,

The whole past theory of your life and all conformity to the lives
around you would have to be abandon'd,

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Therefore release me now before troubling yourself any further, let
go your hand from my shoulders,

Put me down and depart on your way.

Or else by stealth in some wood for trial,

Or back of a rock in the open air,

(For in any roof'd room of a house I emerge not, nor in com-
pany,

And in libraries I lie as one dumb, a gawk, or unborn, or dead,)

But just possibly with you on a high hill, first watching lest any
person for miles around approach unawares,

Or possibly with you sailing at sea, or on the beach of the sea or
some quiet island,

Here to put your lips upon mine I permit you,

With the comrade's long-dwelling kiss or the new husband's kiss,

For I am the new husband and I am the comrade.

Or if you will, thrusting me beneath your clothing,

Where I may feel the throbs of your heart or rest upon your
hip,

Carry me when you go forth over land or sea;

For thus merely touching you is enough, is best,

And thus touching you would I silently sleep and be carried
eternally.

But these leaves conning you con at peril,

For these leaves and me you will not understand,

They will elude you at first and still more afterward, I will
certainly elude you,

Even while you should think you had unquestionably caught me,
behold!

Already you see I have escaped from you.

For it is not for what I have put into it that I have written this
book,

Nor is it by reading it you will acquire it,

Nor do those know me best who admire me and vauntingly praise
me,

Nor will the candidates for my love (unless at most a very few)
prove victorious,

Nor will my poems do good only, they will do just as much evil,
perhaps more,

For all is useless without that which you may guess at many times
and not hit, that which I hinted at;

Therefore release me and depart on your way.

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FOR YOU O DEMOCRACY.

COME, I will make the continent indissoluble,

I will make the most splendid race the sun ever shone upon,

I will make divine magnetic lands,
With the love of comrades,
With the life-long love of comrades.

I will plant companionship thick as trees along all the rivers of
America, and along the shores of the great lakes, and all
over the prairies,

I will make inseparable cities with their arms about each other's
necks,
By the love of comrades,
By the manly love of comrades.

For you these from me, O Democracy, to serve you ma femme!

For you, for you I am trilling these songs.

THESE I SINGING IN SPRING.

THESE I singing in spring collect for lovers,

(For who but I should understand lovers and all their sorrow and
joy?

And who but I should be the poet of comrades?)

Collecting I traverse the garden the world, but soon I pass the
gates,

Now along the pond-side, now wading in a little, fearing not the
wet,

Now by the post-and-rail fences where the old stones thrown there,
pick'd from the fields, have accumulated,

(Wild-flowers and vines and weeds come up through the stones
and partly cover them, beyond these I pass,)

Far, far in the forest, or sauntering later in summer, before I think
where I go,

Solitary, smelling the earthy smell, stopping now and then in the
silence,

Alone I had thought, yet soon a troop gathers around me,

Some walk by my side and some behind, and some embrace my
arms or neck,

They the spirits of dear friends dead or alive, thicker they come,
a great crowd, and I in the middle,

Collecting, dispensing, singing, there I wander with them,

Plucking something for tokens, tossing toward whoever is near me,

Here, lilac, with a branch of pine,

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Here, out of my pocket, some moss which I pull'd off a live-oak
in Florida as it hung trailing down,

Here, some pinks and laurel leaves, and a handful of sage,

And here what I now draw from the water, wading in the pond-
side,

(O here I last saw him that tenderly loves me, and returns again
never to separate from me,

And this, O this shall henceforth be the token of comrades, this
calamus-root shall,

Interchange it youths with each other! let none render it back!)

And twigs of maple and a bunch of wild orange and chestnut,

And stems of currants and plum-blows, and the aromatic cedar,

These I compass'd around by a thick cloud of spirits,

Wandering, point to or touch as I pass, or throw them loosely
from me,

Indicating to each one what he shall have, giving something to
each;

But what I drew from the water by the pond-side, that I reserve,

I will give of it, but only to them that love as I myself am capable
of loving.

NOT HEAVING FROM MY RIBB'D BREAST ONLY.

NOT heaving from my ribb'd breast only,

Not in sighs at night in rage dissatisfied with myself,

Not in those long-drawn, ill-supprest sighs,

Not in many an oath and promise broken,

Not in my wilful and savage soul's volition,

Not in the subtle nourishment of the air,

Not in this beating and pounding at my temples and wrists,

Not in the curious systole and diastole within which will one day
cease,

Not in many a hungry wish told to the skies only,

Not in cries, laughter, defiances, thrown from me when alone far
in the wilds,

Not in husky pantings through clinch'd teeth,

Not in sounded and resounded words, chattering words, echoes,
dead words,

Not in the murmurs of my dreams while I sleep,

Nor the other murmurs of these incredible dreams of every day,

Nor in the limbs and senses of my body that take you and dismiss
you continually—not there,

Not in any or all of them O adhesiveness! O pulse of my life!

Need I that you exist and show yourself any more than in these
songs.

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OF THE TERRIBLE DOUBT OF APPEARANCES.

OF the terrible doubt of appearances,

Of the uncertainty after all, that we may be deluded,

That may-be reliance and hope are but speculations after all,

That may-be identity beyond the grave is a beautiful fable only,

May-be the things I perceive, the animals, plants, men, hills,
shining and flowing waters,

The skies of day and night, colors, densities, forms, may-be these
are (as doubtless they are) only apparitions, and the real
something has yet to be known,

(How often they dart out of themselves as if to confound me and
mock me!

How often I think neither I know, nor any man knows, aught of
them,)

May-be seeming to me what they are (as doubtless they indeed
but seem) as from my present point of view, and might
prove (as of course they would) nought of what they
appear, or nought anyhow, from entirely changed points
of view;

To me these and the like of these are curiously answer'd by my
lovers, my dear friends,

When he whom I love travels with me or sits a long while holding
me by the hand,

When the subtle air, the impalpable, the sense that words and
reason hold not, surround us and pervade us,

Then I am charged with untold and untellable wisdom, I am
silent, I require nothing further,

I cannot answer the question of appearances or that of identity
beyond the grave,

But I walk or sit indifferent, I am satisfied,

He ahold of my hand has completely satisfied me.

THE BASE OF ALL METAPHYSICS.

AND now gentlemen,

A word I give to remain in your memories and minds,

As base and finalè too for all metaphysics.

(So to the students the old professor,

At the close of his crowded course.)

Having studied the new and antique, the Greek and Germanic
systems,

Kant having studied and stated, Fichte and Schelling and Hegel,

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Stated the lore of Plato, and Socrates greater than Plato,

And greater than Socrates sought and stated, Christ divine having
studied long,

I see reminiscent to-day those Greek and Germanic systems,

See the philosophies all, Christian churches and tenets see,

Yet underneath Socrates clearly see, and underneath Christ the
divine I see,

The dear love of man for his comrade, the attraction of friend to
friend,

Of the well-married husband and wife, of children and parents,

Of city for city and land for land.

RECORDERS AGES HENCE.

RECORDERS ages hence,

Come, I will take you down underneath this impassive exterior, I
will tell you what to say of me,

Publish my name and hang up my picture as that of the tenderest
lover,

The friend the lover's portrait, of whom his friend his lover was
fondest,

Who was not proud of his songs, but of the measureless ocean of
love within him, and freely pour'd it forth,

Who often walk'd lonesome walks thinking of his dear friends, his
lovers,

Who pensive away from one he lov'd often lay sleepless and dissat-
isfied at night,

Who knew too well the sick, sick dread lest the one he lov'd
might secretly be indifferent to him,

Whose happiest days were far away through fields, in woods, on
hills, he and another wandering hand in hand, they twain
apart from other men,

Who oft as he saunter'd the streets curv'd with his arm the shoul
der of his friend, while the arm of his friend rested upon
him also.

WHEN I HEARD AT THE CLOSE OF THE DAY.

WHEN I heard at the close of the day how my name had been
receiv'd with plaudits in the capitol, still it was not a happy
night for me that follow'd,

And else when I carous'd, or when my plans were accomplish'd,
still I was not happy,

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But the day when I rose at dawn from the bed of perfect health,
refresh'd, singing, inhaling the ripe breath of autumn,

When I saw the full moon in the west grow pale and disappear in
the morning light,

When I wander'd alone over the beach, and undressing bathed,
laughing with the cool waters, and saw the sun rise,

And when I thought how my dear friend my lover was on his way
coming, O then I was happy,

O then each breath tasted sweeter, and all that day my food
nourish'd me more, and the beautiful day pass'd well,

And the next came with equal joy, and with the next at evening
came my friend,

And that night while all was still I heard the waters roll slowly
continually up the shores,

I heard the hissing rustle of the liquid and sands as directed to
me whispering to congratulate me,

For the one I love most lay sleeping by me under the same cover
in the cool night,

In the stillness in the autumn moonbeams his face was inclined
toward me,

And his arm lay lightly around my breast—and that night I was
happy.

ARE YOU THE NEW PERSON DRAWN TOWARD ME?

ARE you the new person drawn toward me?

To begin with take warning, I am surely far different from what
you suppose;

Do you suppose you will find in me your ideal?

Do you think it so easy to have me become your lover?

Do you think the friendship of me would be unalloy'd satisfaction?

Do you think I am trusty and faithful?

Do you see no further than this façade, this smooth and tolerant
manner of me?

Do you suppose yourself advancing on real ground toward a real
heroic man?

Have you no thought O dreamer that it may be all maya, illusion?

ROOTS AND LEAVES THEMSELVES ALONE.

ROOTS and leaves themselves alone are these,

Scents brought to men and women from the wild woods and
pond-side,

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Breast-sorrel and pinks of love, fingers that wind around tighter
than vines,

Gushes from the throats of birds hid in the foliage of trees as the
sun is risen,

Breezes of land and love set from living shores to you on the living
sea, to you O sailors!

Frost-mellow'd berries and Third-month twigs offer'd fresh to
young persons wandering out in the fields when the winter
breaks up,

Love-buds put before you and within you whoever you are,

Buds to be unfolded on the old terms,

If you bring the warmth of the sun to them they will open and
bring form, color, perfume, to you,

If you become the aliment and the wet they will become flowers,
fruits, tall branches and trees.

NOT HEAT FLAMES UP AND CONSUMES.

NOT heat flames up and consumes,

Not sea-waves hurry in and out,

Not the air delicious and dry, the air of ripe summer, bears lightly
along white down-balls of myriads of seeds,

Wafted, sailing gracefully, to drop where they may;

Not these, O none of these more than the flames of me, consum-
ing, burning for his love whom I love,

O none more than I hurrying in and out;

Does the tide hurry, seeking something, and never give up? O I
the same,

O nor down-balls nor perfumes, nor the high rain-emitting clouds,
are borne through the open air,

Any more than my soul is borne through the open air,

Wafted in all directions O love, for friendship, for you.

TRICKLE DROPS.

TRICKLE drops! my blue veins leaving!

O drops of me! trickle, slow drops,

Candid from me falling, drip, bleeding drops,

From wounds made to free you whence you were prison'd,

From my face, from my forehead and lips,

From my breast, from within where I was conceal'd, press forth
red drops, confession drops,

Stain every page, stain every song I sing, every word I say, bloody
drops,

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Let them know your scarlet heat, let them glisten,

Saturate them with yourself all ashamed and wet,

Glow upon all I have written or shall write, bleeding drops,

Let it all be seen in your light, blushing drops.

CITY OF ORGIES.

CITY of orgies, walks and joys,

City whom that I have lived and sung in your midst will one day
make you illustrious,

Not the pageants of you, not your shifting tableaus, your specta-
cles, repay me,

Not the interminable rows of your houses, nor the ships at the
wharves,

Nor the processions in the streets, nor the bright windows with
goods in them,

Nor to converse with learn'd persons, or bear my share in the soiree
or feast;

Not those, but as I pass O Manhattan, your frequent and swift
flash of eyes offering me love,

Offering response to my own—these repay me,

Lovers, continual lovers, only repay me.

BEHOLD THIS SWARTHY FACE.

BEHOLD this swarthy face, these gray eyes,

This beard, the white wool unclipt upon my neck,

My brown hands and the silent manner of me without charm;

Yet comes one a Manhattanese and ever at parting kisses me
lightly on the lips with robust love,

And I on the crossing of the street or on the ship's deck give a
kiss in return,

We observe that salute of American comrades land and sea,

We are those two natural and nonchalant persons.

I SAW IN LOUISIANA A LIVE-OAK GROWING.

I SAW in Louisiana a live-oak growing,

All alone stood it and the moss hung down from the branches,

Without any companion it grew there uttering joyous leaves of
dark green,

And its look, rude, unbending, lusty, made me think of myself,

But I wonder'd how it could utter joyous leaves standing alone
there without its friend near, for I knew I could not,

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And I broke off a twig with a certain number of leaves upon it,
and twined around it a little moss,

And brought it away, and I have placed it in sight in my room,

It is not needed to remind me as of my own dear friends,

(For I believe lately I think of little else than of them,)

Yet it remains to me a curious token, it makes me think of manly
love;

For all that, and though the live-oak glistens there in Louisiana
solitary in a wide flat space,

Uttering joyous leaves all its life without a friend a lover near,

I know very well I could not.

TO A STRANGER.

PASSING stranger! you do not know how longingly I look upon
you,

You must be he I was seeking, or she I was seeking, (it comes to
me as of a dream,)

I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you,

All is recall'd as we flit by each other, fluid, affectionate, chaste,
matured,

You grew up with me, were a boy with me or a girl with me,

I ate with you and slept with you, your body has become not yours
only nor left my body mine only,

You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, as we pass, you
take of my beard, breast, hands, in return,

I am not to speak to you, I am to think of you when I sit alone
or wake at night alone,

I am to wait, I do not doubt I am to meet you again,

I am to see to it that I do not lose you.

THIS MOMENT YEARNING AND THOUGHTFUL.

THIS moment yearning and thoughtful sitting alone,

It seems to me there are other men in other lands yearning and
thoughtful,

It seems to me I can look over and behold them in Germany,
Italy, France, Spain,

Or far, far away, in China, or in Russia or Japan, talking other
dialects,

And it seems to me if I could know those men I should become
attached to them as I do to men in my own lands,

O I know we should be brethren and lovers,

I know I should be happy with them.

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I HEAR IT WAS CHARGED AGAINST ME.

I HEAR it was charged against me that I sought to destroy institu-
tions,

But really I am neither for nor against institutions,

(What indeed have I in common with them? or what with the
destruction of them?)

Only I will establish in the Mannahatta and in every city of these
States inland and seaboard,

And in the fields and woods, and above every keel little or large
that dents the water,

Without edifices or rules or trustees or any argument,

The institution of the dear love of comrades.

THE PRAIRIE-GRASS DIVIDING.

THE prairie-grass dividing, its special odor breathing,

I demand of it the spiritual corresponding,

Demand the most copious and close companionship of men,

Demand the blades to rise of words, acts, beings,

Those of the open atmosphere, coarse, sunlit, fresh, nutritious,

Those that go their own gait, erect, stepping with freedom and
command, leading not following,

Those with a never-quell'd audacity, those with sweet and lusty
flesh clear of taint,

Those that look carelessly in the faces of Presidents and governors,
as to say Who are you?

Those of earth-born passion, simple, never constrain'd, never
obedient,

Those of inland America.

WHEN I PERUSE THE CONQUER'D FAME.

WHEN I peruse the conquer'd fame of heroes and the victories
of mighty generals, I do not envy the generals,

Nor the President in his Presidency, nor the rich in his great
house,

But when I hear of the brotherhood of lovers, how it was with
them,

How together through life, through dangers, odium, unchanging,
long and long,

Through youth and through middle and old age, how unfaltering,
how affectionate and faithful they were,

Then I am pensive—I hastily walk away fill'd with the bitterest
envy.

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WE TWO BOYS TOGETHER CLINGING.

WE two boys together clinging,

One the other never leaving,

Up and down the roads going, North and South excursions
making,

Power enjoying, elbows stretching, fingers clutching,

Arm'd and fearless, eating, drinking, sleeping, loving,

No law less than ourselves owning, sailing, soldiering, thieving,
threatening,

Misers, menials, priests alarming, air breathing, water drinking, on
the turf or the sea-beach dancing,

Cities wrenching, ease scorning, statutes mocking, feebleness chas-
ing,

Fulfilling our foray.

A PROMISE TO CALIFORNIA.

A PROMISE to California,

Or inland to the great pastoral Plains, and on to Puget sound and
Oregon;

Sojourning east a while longer, soon I travel toward you, to remain,
to teach robust American love,

For I know very well that I and robust love belong among you,
inland, and along the Western sea;

For these States tend inland and toward the Western sea, and I
will also.

HERE THE FRAILEST LEAVES OF ME.

HERE the frailest leaves of me and yet my strongest lasting,

Here I shade and hide my thoughts, I myself do not expose them,

And yet they expose me more than all my other poems.

NO LABOR-SAVING MACHINE.

NO labor-saving machine,

Nor discovery have I made,

Nor will I be able to leave behind me any wealthy bequest to
found a hospital or library,

Nor reminiscence of any deed of courage for America,

Nor literary success nor intellect, nor book for the book-shelf,

But a few carols vibrating through the air I leave,

For comrades and lovers.

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A GLIMPSE.

A GLIMPSE through an interstice caught,

Of a crowd of workmen and drivers in a bar-room around the
stove late of a winter night, and I unremark'd seated in a
corner,

Of a youth who loves me and whom I love, silently approaching
and seating himself near, that he may hold me by the hand,

A long while amid the noises of coming and going, of drinking
and oath and smutty jest,

There we two, content, happy in being together, speaking little,
perhaps not a word.

A LEAF FOR HAND IN HAND.

A LEAF for hand in hand;

You natural persons old and young!

You on the Mississippi and on all the branches and bayous of the
Mississippi!

You friendly boatmen and mechanics! you roughs!

You twain! and all processions moving along the streets!

I wish to infuse myself among you till I see it common for you to
walk hand in hand.

EARTH, MY LIKENESS.

EARTH, my likeness,

Though you look so impassive, ample and spheric there,

I now suspect that is not all;

I now suspect there is something fierce in you eligible to burst forth,

For an athlete is enamour'd of me, and I of him,

But toward him there is something fierce and terrible in me eligi-
ble to burst forth,

I dare not tell it in words, not even in these songs.

I DREAM'D IN A DREAM.

I DREAM'D in a dream I saw a city invincible to the attacks of the
whole of the rest of the earth,

I dream'd that was the new city of Friends,

Nothing was greater there than the quality of robust love, it led
the rest,

It was seen every hour in the actions of the men of that city,

And in all their looks and words.

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WHAT THINK YOU I TAKE MY PEN IN HAND?

WHAT think you I take my pen in hand to record?

The battle-ship, perfect-model'd, majestic, that I saw pass the
offing to-day under full sail?

The splendors of the past day? or the splendor of the night that
envelops me?

Or the vaunted glory and growth of the great city spread around
me?—no;

But merely of two simple men I saw to-day on the pier in the
midst of the crowd, parting the parting of dear friends,

The one to remain hung on the other's neck and passionately
kiss'd him,

While the one to depart tightly prest the one to remain in his
arms.

TO THE EAST AND TO THE WEST.

TO the East and to the West,

To the man of the Seaside State and of Pennsylvania,

To the Kanadian of the north, to the Southerner I love,

These with perfect trust to depict you as myself, the germs are in
all men,

I believe the main purport of these States is to found a superb
friendship, exaltè, previously unknown,

Because I perceive it waits, and has been always waiting, latent in
all men.

SOMETIMES WITH ONE I LOVE.

SOMETIMES with one I love I fill myself with rage for fear I effuse
unreturn'd love,

But now I think there is no unreturn'd love, the pay is certain one
way or another,

(I loved a certain person ardently and my love was not return'd,

Yet out of that I have written these songs.)

TO A WESTERN BOY.

MANY things to absorb I teach to help you become eleve of mine;

Yet if blood like mine circle not in your veins,

If you be not silently selected by lovers and do not silently select
lovers,

Of what use is it that you seek to become eleve of mine?

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FAST ANCHOR'D ETERNAL O LOVE!

FAST-ANCHOR'D eternal O love! O woman I love!

O bride! O wife! more resistless than I can tell, the thought of
you!

Then separate, as disembodied or another born,

Ethereal, the last athletic reality, my consolation,

I ascend, I float in the regions of your love O man,

O sharer of my roving life.

AMONG THE MULTITUDE.

AMONG the men and women the multitude,

I perceive one picking me out by secret and divine signs,

Acknowledging none else, not parent, wife, husband, brother,
child, any nearer than I am,

Some are baffled, but that one is not—that one knows me.

Ah lover and perfect equal,

I meant that you should discover me so by faint indirections,

And I when I meet you mean to discover you by the like in you.

O YOU WHOM I OFTEN AND SILENTLY COME.

O YOU whom I often and silently come where you are that I may
be with you,

As I walk by your side or sit near, or remain in the same room
with you,

Little you know the subtle electric fire that for your sake is play-
ing within me.

THAT SHADOW MY LIKENESS.

THAT shadow my likeness that goes to and fro seeking a liveli-
hood, chattering, chaffering,

How often I find myself standing and looking at it where it
flits,

How often I question and doubt whether that is really me;

But among my lovers and caroling these songs,

O I never doubt whether that is really me.

FULL OF LIFE NOW.

FULL of life now, compact, visible,

I, forty years old the eighty-third year of the States,

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To one a century hence or any number of centuries hence,

To you yet unborn these, seeking you.

When you read these I that was visible am become invisible,

Now it is you, compact, visible, realizing my poems, seeking me,

Fancying how happy you were if I could be with you and become
your comrade;

Be it as if I were with you. (Be not too certain but I am now
with you.)

—————

SALUT AU MONDE!

O TAKE my hand Walt Whitman!

Such gliding wonders! such sights and sounds!

Such join'd unended links, each hook'd to the next,

Each answering all, each sharing the earth with all.

What widens within you Walt Whitman?

What waves and soils exuding?

What climes? what persons and cities are here?

Who are the infants, some playing, some slumbering?

Who are the girls? who are the married women?

Who are the groups of old men going slowly with their arms about
each other's necks?

What rivers are these? what forests and fruits are these?

What are the mountains call'd that rise so high in the mists?

What myriads of dwellings are they fill'd with dwellers?

Within me latitude widens, longitude lengthens,

Asia, Africa, Europe, are to the east—America is provided for in
the west,

Banding the bulge of the earth winds the hot equator,

Curiously north and south turn the axis-ends,

Within me is the longest day, the sun wheels in slanting rings, it
does not set for months,

Stretch'd in due time within me the midnight sun just rises above
the horizon and sinks again,

Within me zones, seas, cataracts, forests, volcanoes, groups,

Malaysia, Polynesia, and the great West Indian islands.

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What do you hear Walt Whitman?

I hear the workman singing and the farmer's wife singing,

I hear in the distance the sounds of children and of animals early
in the day,

I hear emulous shouts of Australians pursuing the wild horse,

I hear the Spanish dance with castanets in the chestnut shade, to
the rebeck and guitar,

I hear continual echoes from the Thames,

I hear fierce French liberty songs,

I hear of the Italian boat-sculler the musical recitative of old
poems,

I hear the locusts in Syria as they strike the grain and grass with
the showers of their terrible clouds,

I hear the Coptic refrain toward sundown, pensively falling on the
breast of the black venerable vast mother the Nile,

I hear the chirp of the Mexican muleteer, and the bells of the
mule,

I hear the Arab muezzin calling from the top of the mosque,

I hear the Christian priests at the altars of their churches, I hear
the responsive base and soprano,

I hear the cry of the Cossack, and the sailor's voice putting to sea
at Okotsk,

I hear the wheeze of the slave-coffle as the slaves march on, as
the husky gangs pass on by twos and threes, fasten'd together
with wrist-chains and ankle-chains,

I hear the Hebrew reading his records and psalms,

I hear the rhythmic myths of the Greeks, and the strong legends
of the Romans,

I hear the tale of the divine life and bloody death of the beautiful
God the Christ,

I hear the Hindoo teaching his favorite pupil the loves, wars,
adages, transmitted safely to this day from poets who wrote
three thousand years ago.

What do you see Walt Whitman?

Who are they you salute, and that one after another salute you?

I see a great round wonder rolling through space,

I see diminute farms, hamlets, ruins, graveyards, jails, factories,
palaces, hovels, huts of barbarians, tents of nomads upon
the surface,

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I see the shaded part on one side where the sleepers are sleeping,
and the sunlit part on the other side,

I see the curious rapid change of the light and shade,

I see distant lands, as real and near to the inhabitants of them as
my land is to me.

I see plenteous waters,

I see mountain peaks, I see the sierras of Andes where they range,

I see plainly the Himalayas, Chian Shahs, Altays, Ghauts,

I see the giant pinnacles of Elbruz, Kazbek, Bazardjusi,

I see the Styrian Alps, and the Karnac Alps,

I see the Pyrenees, Balks, Carpathians, and to the north the
Dofrafields, and off at sea mount Hecla,

I see Vesuvius and Etna, the mountains of the Moon, and the
Red mountains of Madagascar,

I see the Lybian, Arabian, and Asiatic deserts,

I see huge dreadful Arctic and Antarctic icebergs,

I see the superior oceans and the inferior ones, the Atlantic and
Pacific, the sea of Mexico, the Brazilian sea, and the sea
of Peru,

The waters of Hindustan, the China sea, and the gulf of Guinea,

The Japan waters, the beautiful bay of Nagasaki land-lock'd in its
mountains,

The spread of the Baltic, Caspian, Bothnia, the British shores, and
the bay of Biscay,

The clear-sunn'd Mediterranean, and from one to another of its
islands,

The White sea, and the sea around Greenland.

I behold the mariners of the world,

Some are in storms, some in the night with the watch on the look-
out,

Some drifting helplessly, some with contagious diseases.

I behold the sail and steamships of the world, some in clusters in
port, some on their voyages,

Some double the cape of Storms, some cape Verde, others capes
Guardafui, Bon, or Bajadore,

Others Dondra head, others pass the straits of Sunda, others cape
Lopatka, others Behring's straits,

Others cape Horn, others sail the gulf of Mexico or along Cuba
or Hayti, others Hudson's bay or Baffin's bay,

Others pass the straits of Dover, others enter the Wash, others the
firth of Solway, others round cape Clear, others the Land's
End,

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Others traverse the Zuyder Zee or the Scheld,

Others as comers and goers at Gibraltar or the Dardanelles,

Others sternly push their way through the northern winter-packs,

Others descend or ascend the Obi or the Lena,

Others the Niger or the Congo, others the Indus, the Burampooter
and Cambodia,

Others wait steam'd up ready to start in the ports of Australia,

Wait at Liverpool, Glasgow, Dublin, Marseilles, Lisbon, Naples,
Hamburg, Bremen, Bordeaux, the Hague, Copenhagen,

Wait at Valparaiso, Rio Janeiro, Panama.

I see the tracks of the railroads of the earth,

I see them in Great Britain, I see them in Europe,

I see them in Asia and in Africa.

I see the electric telegraphs of the earth,

I see the filaments of the news of the wars, deaths, losses, gains,
passions, of my race.

I see the long river-stripes of the earth,

I see the Amazon and the Paraguay,

I see the four great rivers of China, the Amour, the Yellow River,
the Yiang-tse, and the Pearl,

I see where the Seine flows, and where the Danube, the Loire, the
Rhone, and the Guadalquiver flow,

I see the windings of the Volga, the Dnieper, the Oder,

I see the Tuscan going down the Arno, and the Venetian along
the Po,

I see the Greek seaman sailing out of Egina bay.

I see the site of the old empire of Assyria, and that of Persia, and
that of India,

I see the falling of the Ganges over the high rim of Saukara.

I see the place of the idea of the Deity incarnated by avatars in
human forms,

I see the spots of the successions of priests on the earth, oracles,
sacrificers, brahmins, sabians, llamas, monks, muftis, ex-
horters,

I see where druids walk'd the groves of Mona, I see the mistletoe
and vervain,

I see the temples of the deaths of the bodies of Gods, I see the
old signifiers.

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I see Christ eating the bread of his last supper in the midst of
youths and old persons,

I see where the strong divine young man the Hercules toil'd faith-
fully and long and then died,

I see the place of the innocent rich life and hapless fate of the
beautiful nocturnal son, the full-limb'd Bacchus,

I see Kneph, blooming, drest in blue, with the crown of feathers
on his head,

I see Hermes, unsuspected, dying, well-belov'd, saying to the
people Do not weep for me,

This is not my true country, I have lived banish'd from my true
country, I now go back there,

I return to the celestial sphere where every one goes in his turn.

I see the battle-fields of the earth, grass grows upon them and
blossoms and corn,

I see the tracks of ancient and modern expeditions.

I see the nameless masonries, venerable messages of the unknown
events, heroes, records of the earth.

I see the places of the sagas,

I see pine-trees and fir-trees torn by northern blasts,

I see granite bowlders and cliffs, I see green meadows and lakes,

I see the burial-cairns of Scandinavian warriors,

I see them raised high with stones by the marge of restless oceans,
that the dead men's spirits when they wearied of their quiet
graves might rise up through the mounds and gaze on the
tossing billows, and be refresh'd by storms, immensity,
liberty, action.

I see the steppes of Asia,

I see the tumuli of Mongolia, I see the tents of Kalmucks and
Baskirs,

I see the nomadic tribes with herds of oxen and cows,

I see the table-lands notch'd with ravines, I see the jungles and
deserts,

I see the camel, the wild steed, the bustard, the fat-tail'd sheep,
the antelope, and the burrowing wolf.

I see the highlands of Abyssinia,

I see flocks of goats feeding, and see the fig-tree, tamarind, date,

And see fields of teff-wheat and places of verdure and gold.

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I see the Brazilian vaquero,

I see the Bolivian ascending mount Sorata,

I see the Wacho crossing the plains, I see the incomparable rider
of horses with his lasso on his arm,

I see over the pampas the pursuit of wild cattle for their hides.

I see the regions of snow and ice,

I see the sharp- eyed Samoiede and the Finn,

I see the seal-seeker in his boat poising his lance,

I see the Siberian on his slight-built sledge drawn by dogs,

I see the porpoise-hunters, I see the whale-crews of the south Pa-
cific and the north Atlantic,

I see the cliffs, glaciers, torrents, valleys, of Switzerland—I mark
the long winters and the isolation.

I see the cities of the earth and make myself at random a part of
them,

I am a real Parisian,

I am a habitan of Vienna, St. Petersburg, Berlin, Constantinople,

I am of Adelaide, Sidney, Melbourne,

I am of London, Manchester, Bristol, Edinburgh, Limerick,

I am of Madrid, Cadiz, Barcelona, Oporto, Lyons, Brussels, Berne,
Frankfort, Stuttgart, Turin, Florence,

I belong in Moscow, Cracow, Warsaw, or northward in Christiania
or Stockholm, or in Siberian Irkutsk, or in some street in
Iceland,

I descend upon all those cities, and rise from them again.

I see vapors exhaling from unexplored countries,

I see the savage types, the bow and arrow, the poison'd splint, the
fetich, and the obi.

I see African and Asiatic towns,

I see Algiers, Tripoli, Derne, Mogadore, Timbuctoo, Monrovia,

I see the swarms of Pekin, Canton, Benares, Delhi, Calcutta, Tokio,

I see the Kruman in his hut, and the Dahoman and Ashantee-man
in their huts,

I see the Turk smoking opium in Aleppo,

I see the picturesque crowds at the fairs of Khiva and those of
Herat,

I see Teheran, I see Muscat and Medina and the intervening sands,
I see the caravans toiling onward,

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I see Egypt and the Egyptians, I see the pyramids and obelisks,

I look on chisell'd histories, records of conquering kings, dynasties,
cut in slabs of sand-stone, or on granite-blocks,

I see at Memphis mummy-pits containing mummies embalm'd,
swathed in linen cloth, lying there many centuries,

I look on the fall'n Theban, the large-ball'd eyes, the side-drooping
neck, the hands folded across the breast.

I see all the menials of the earth, laboring,

I see all the prisoners in the prisons,

I see the defective human bodies of the earth,

The blind, the deaf and dumb, idiots, hunchbacks, lunatics,

The pirates, thieves, betrayers, murderers, slave-makers of the earth,

The helpless infants, and the helpless old men and women.

I see male and female everywhere,

I see the serene brotherhood of philosophs,

I see the constructiveness of my race,

I see the results of the perseverance and industry of my race,

I see ranks, colors, barbarisms, civilizations, I go among them, I
mix indiscriminately,

And I salute all the inhabitants of the earth.

You whoever you are!

You daughter or son of England!

You of the mighty Slavic tribes and empires! you Russ in Russia!

You dim-descended, black, divine-soul'd African, large, fine-
headed, nobly-form'd, superbly destin'd, on equal terms
with me!

You Norwegian! Swede! Dane! Icelander! you Prussian!

You Spaniard of Spain! you Portuguese!

You Frenchwoman and Frenchman of France!

You Belge! you liberty-lover of the Netherlands! (you stock
whence I myself have descended;)

You sturdy Austrian! you Lombard! Hun! Bohemian! farmer of
Styria!

You neighbor of the Danube!

You working-man of the Rhine, the Elbe, or the Weser! you
working-woman too!

You Sardinian! you Bavarian! Swabian! Saxon! Wallachian!
Bulgarian!

You Roman! Neapolitan! you Greek!

You lithe matador in the arena at Seville!

You mountaineer living lawlessly on the Taurus or Caucasus!

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You Bokh horse-herd watching your mares and stallions feeding!

You beautiful-bodied Persian at full speed in the saddle shooting
arrows to the mark!

You Chinaman and Chinawoman of China! You Tartar of Tartary!

You women of the earth subordinated at your tasks!

You Jew journeying in your old age through every risk to stand
once on Syrian ground!

You other Jews waiting in all lands for your Messiah!

You thoughtful Armenian pondering by some stream of the Eu-
phrates! you peering amid the ruins of Nineveh! you
ascending mount Ararat!

You foot-worn pilgrim welcoming the far-away sparkle of the
minarets of Mecca!

You sheiks along the stretch from Suez to Bab-el-mandeb ruling
your families and tribes!

You olive-grower tending your fruit on fields of Nazareth, Damas-
cus, or lake Tiberias!

You Thibet trader on the wide inland or bargaining in the shops
of Lassa!

You Japanese man or woman! you liver in Madagascar, Ceylon,
Sumatra, Borneo!

All you continentals of Asia, Africa, Europe, Australia, indifferent
of place!

All you on the numberless islands of the archipelagoes of the sea!

And you of centuries hence when you listen to me!

And you each and everywhere whom I specify not, but include
just the same!

Health to you! good will to you all, from me and America sent!

Each of us inevitable,

Each of us limitless—each of us with his or her right upon the
earth,

Each of us allow'd the eternal purports of the earth,

Each of us here as divinely as any is here.

You Hottentot with clicking palate! you woolly-hair'd hordes!

You own'd persons dropping sweat-drops or blood-drops!

You human forms with the fathomless ever-impressive counte-
nances of brutes!

You poor koboo whom the meanest of the rest look down upon
for all your glimmering language and spirituality!

You dwarf'd Kamtschatkan, Greenlander, Lapp!

You Austral negro, naked, red, sooty, with protrusive lip, groveling,
seeking your food!

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You Caffre, Berber, Soudanese!

You haggard, uncouth, untutor'd Bedowee!

You plague-swarms in Madras, Nankin, Kaubul, Cairo!

You benighted roamer of Amazonia! you Patagonian! you Feejee-
man!

I do not prefer others so very muchbefore you either,

I do not say one word against you, away back there where you
stand,

(You will come forward in due time to my side.)

My spirit has pass'd in compassion and determination around the
whole earth,

I have look'd for equals and lovers and found them ready for me
in all lands,

I think some divine rapport has equalized me with them.

You vapors, I think I have risen with you, moved away to distant
continents, and fallen down there, for reasons,

I think I have blown with you you winds;

You waters I have finger'd every shore with you,

I have run through what any river or strait of the globe has run
through,

I have taken my stand on the bases of peninsulas and on the high
embedded rocks, to cry thence:

Salut au monde!

What cities the light or warmth penetrates I penetrate those cities
myself,

All islands to which birds wing their way I wing my way myself.

Toward you all, in America's name,

I raise high the perpendicular hand, I make the signal,

To remain after me in sight forever,

For all the haunts and homes of men.

—————

SONG OF THE OPEN ROAD.

AFOOT and light-hearted I take to the open road,

Healthy, free, the world before me,

The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose.

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Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune,

Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing,

Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms,

Strong and content I travel the open road.

The earth, that is sufficient,

I do not want the constellations any nearer,

I know they are very well where they are,

I know they suffice for those who belong to them.

(Still here I carry my old delicious burdens,

I carry them, men and women, I carry them with me wherever I go,

I swear it is impossible for me to get rid of them,

I am fill'd with them, and I will fill them in return.)

You road I enter upon and look around, I believe you are not all
that is here,

I believe that much unseen is also here.

Here the profound lesson of reception, nor preference nor denial,

The black with his woolly head, the felon, the diseas'd, the illiterate
person, are not denied;

The birth, the hasting after the physician, the beggar's tramp, the
drunkard's stagger, the laughing party of mechanics,

The escaped youth, the rich person's carriage, the fop, the eloping
couple,

The early market-man, the hearse, the moving of furniture into the
town, the return back from the town,

They pass, I also pass, any thing passes, none can be interdicted,

None but are accepted, none but shall be dear to me.

You air that serves me with breath to speak!

You objects that call from diffusion my meanings and give them
shape!

You light that wraps me and all things in delicate equable showers!

You paths worn in the irregular hollows by the roadsides!

I believe you are latent with unseen existences, you are so dear
to me.

You flagg'd walks of the cities! you strong curbs at the edges!

You ferries! you planks and posts of wharves! you timber-lined
sides! you distant ships!

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You rows of houses! you window-pierc'd façades! you roofs!

You porches and entrances! you copings and iron guards!

You windows whose transparent shells might expose so much!

You doors and ascending steps! you arches!

You gray stones of interminable pavements! you trodden crossings!

From all that has touch'd you I believe you have imparted to
yourselves, and now would impart the same secretly to me,

From the living and the dead you have peopled your impassive
surfaces, and the spirits thereof would be evident and
amicable with me.

The earth expanding right hand and left hand,

The picture alive, every part in its best light,

The music falling in where it is wanted, and stopping where it is
not wanted,

The cheerful voice of the public road, the gay fresh sentiment of
the road.

O highway I travel, do you say to me Do not leave me?

Do you say Venture not—if you leave me you are lost?

Do you say I am already prepared, I am well-beaten and un-
denied, adhere to me?

O public road, I say back I am not afraid to leave you, yet I love
you,

You express me better than I can express myself,

You shall be more to me than my poem.

I think heroic deeds were all conceiv'd in the open air, and all
free poems also,

I think I could stop here myself and do miracles,

I think whatever I shall meet on the road I shall like, and who-
ever beholds me shall like me,

I think whoever I see must be happy.

From this hour I ordain myself loos'd of limits and imaginary
lines,

Going where I list, my own master total and absolute,

Listening to others, considering well what they say,

Pausing, searching, receiving, contemplating,

Gently, but with undeniable will, divesting myself of the holds
that would hold me.

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I inhale great draughts of space,

The east and the west are mine, and the north and the south are
mine.

I am larger, better than I thought,

I did not know I held so much goodness.

All seems beautiful to me,

I can repeat over to men and women You have done such good
to me I would do the same to you,

I will recruit for myself and you as I go,

I will scatter myself among men and women as I go,

I will toss a new gladness and roughness among them,

Whoever denies me it shall not trouble me,

Whoever accepts me he or she shall be blessed and shall bless me.

Now if a thousand perfect men were to appear it would not amaze
me,

Now if a thousand beautiful forms of women appear'd it would
not astonish me.

Now I see the secret of the making of the best persons,

It is to grow in the open air and to eat and sleep with the earth.

Here a great personal deed has room,

(Such a deed seizes upon the hearts of the whole race of men,

Its effusion of strength and will overwhelms law and mocks all
authority and all argument against it.)

Here is the test of wisdom,

Wisdom is not finally tested in schools,

Wisdom cannot be pass'd from one having it to another not
having it,

Wisdom is of the soul, is not susceptible of proof, is its own proof,

Applies to all stages and objects and qualities and is content,

Is the certainty of the reality and immortality of things, and the
excellence of things;

Something there is in the float of the sight of things that provokes
it out of the soul.

Now I re-examine philosophies and religions,

They may prove well in lecture-rooms, yet not prove at all under
the spacious clouds and along the landscape and flowing
currents.

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Here is realization,

Here is a man tallied—he realizes here what he has in him,

The past, the future, majesty, love—if they are vacant of you,
you are vacant of them.

Only the kernel of every object nourishes;

Where is he who tears off the husks for you and me?

Where is he that undoes stratagems and envelopes for you and me?

Here is adhesiveness, it is not previously fashion'd, it is apropos;

Do you know what it is as you pass to be loved by strangers?

Do you know the talk of those turning eye-balls?

Here is the efflux of the soul,

The efflux of the soul comes from within through embower'd
gates, ever provoking questions,

These yearnings why are they? these thoughts in the darkness
why are they?

Why are there men and women that while they are nigh me the
sunlight expands my blood?

Why when they leave me do my pennants of joy sink flat and lank?

Why are there trees I never walk under but large and melodious
thoughts descend upon me?

(I think they hang there winter and summer on those trees and
always drop fruit as I pass;)

What is it I interchange so suddenly with strangers?

What with some driver as I ride on the seat by his side?

What with some fisherman drawing his seine by the shore as I
walk by and pause?

What gives me to be free to a woman's and man's good-will?
what gives them to be free to mine?

The efflux of the soul is happiness, here is happiness,

I think it pervades the open air, waiting at all times,

Now it flows unto us, we are rightly charged.

Here rises the fluid and attaching character,

The fluid and attaching character is the freshness and sweetness
of man and woman,

(The herbs of the morning sprout no fresher and sweeter every
day out of the roots of themselves, than it sprouts fresh
and sweet continually out of itself.)

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Toward the fluid and attaching character exudes the sweat of the
love of young and old,

From it falls distill'd the charm that mocks beauty and attainments,

Toward it heaves the shuddering longing ache of contact.

Allons! whoever you are come travel with me!

Traveling with me you find what never tires.

The earth never tires,

The earth is rude, silent, incomprehensible at first, Nature is rude
and incomprehensible at first,

Be not discouraged, keep on, there are divine things well envelop'd,

I swear to you there are divine things more beautiful than words
can tell.

Allons! we must not stop here,

However sweet these laid-up stores, however convenient this dwell-
ing we cannot remain here,

However shelter'd this port and however calm these waters we
must not anchor here,

However welcome the hospitality that surrounds us we are per-
mitted to receive it but a little while.

Allons! the inducements shall be greater,

We will sail pathless and wild seas,

We will go where winds blow, waves dash, and the Yankee clipper
speeds by under full sail.

Allons! with power, liberty, the earth, the elements,

Health, defiance, gayety, self-esteem, curiosity;

Allons! from all formules!

From your formules, O bat-eyed and materialistic priests.

The stale cadaver blocks up the passage—the burial waits no
longer.

Allons! yet take warning!

He traveling with me needs the best blood, thews, endurance,

None may come to the trial till he or she bring courage and health,

Come not here if you have already spent the best of yourself,

Only those may come who come in sweet and determin'd bodies,

No diseas'd person, no rum-drinker or venereal taint is permitted
here.

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(I and mine do not convince by arguments, similes, rhymes,

We convince by our presence.)

Listen! I will be honest with you,

I do not offer the old smooth prizes, but offer rough new prizes,

These are the days that must happen to you:

You shall not heap up what is call'd riches,

You shall scatter with lavish hand all that you earn or achieve,

You but arrive at the city to which you were destin'd, you hardly
settle yourself to satisfaction before you are call'd by an
irresistible call to depart,

You shall be treated to the ironical smiles and mockings of those
who remain behind you,

What beckonings of love you receive you shall only answer with
passionate kisses of parting,

You shall not allow the hold of those who spread their reach'd
hands toward you.

Allons! after the great Companions, and to belong to them!

They too are on the road—they are the swift and majestic men—
they are the greatest women,

Enjoyers of calms of seas and storms of seas,

Sailors of many a ship, walkers of many a mile of land,

Habituès of many distant countries, habituès of far-distant dwellings,

Trusters of men and women, observers of cities, solitary toilers,

Pausers and contemplators of tufts, blossoms, shells of the shore,

Dancers at wedding-dances, kissers of brides, tender helpers of
children, bearers of children,

Soldiers of revolts, standers by gaping graves, lowerers-down of
coffins,

Journeyers over consecutive seasons, over the years, the curious
years each emerging from that which preceded it,

Journeyers as with companions, namely their own diverse phases,

Forth-steppers from the latent unrealized baby-days,

Journeyers gayly with their own youth, journeyers with their
bearded and well-grain'd manhood,

Journeyers with their womanhood, ample, unsurpass'd, content,

Journeyers with their own sublime old age of manhood or woman-
hood,

Old age, calm, expanded, broad with the haughty breadth of the
universe,

Old age, flowing free with the delicious near-by freedom of death.

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Allons! to that which is endless as it was beginningless,

To undergo much, tramps of days, rests of nights,

To merge all in the travel they tend to, and the days and nights
they tend to,

Again to merge them in the start of superior journeys,

To see nothing anywhere but what you may reach it and pass it,

To conceive no time, however distant, but what you may reach it
and pass it,

To look up or down no road but it stretches and waits for you,
however long but it stretches and waits for you,

To see no being, not God's or any, but you also go thither,

To see no possession, but you may possess it, enjoying all without
labor or purchase, abstracting the feast yet not abstracting
one particle of it,

To take the best of the farmer's farm and the rich man's elegant
villa, and the chaste blessings of the well-married couple,
and the fruits of orchards and flowers of gardens,

To take to your use out of the compact cities as you pass through,

To carry buildings and streets with you afterward wherever you go,

To gather the minds of men out of their brains as you encounter
them, to gather the love out of their hearts,

To take your lovers on the road with you, for all that you leave
them behind you,

To know the universe itself as a road, as many roads, as roads for
traveling souls.

All parts away for the progress of souls,

All religion, all solid things, arts, governments—all that was or is
apparent upon this globe or any globe, falls into niches and
corners before the procession of souls along the grand roads
of the universe.

Of the progress of the souls of men and women along the grand
roads of the universe, all other progress is the needed
emblem and sustenance.

Forever alive, forever forward,

Stately, solemn, sad, withdrawn, baffled, mad, turbulent, feeble,
dissatisfied,

Desperate, proud, fond, sick, accepted by men, rejected by men,

They go! they go! I know that they go, but I know not where
they go,

But I know that they go toward the best—toward something
great.

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Whoever you are, come forth! or man or woman come forth!

You must not stay sleeping and dallying there in the house,
though you built it, or though it has been built for you.

Out of the dark confinement! out from behind the screen!

It is useless to protest, I know all and expose it.

Behold through you as bad as the rest,

Through the laughter, dancing, dining, supping, of people,

Inside of dresses and ornaments, inside of those wash'd and
trimm'd faces,

Behold a secret silent loathing and despair.

No husband, no wife, no friend, trusted to hear the confession,

Another self, a duplicate of every one, skulking and hiding it goes,

Formless and wordless through the streets of the cities, polite and
bland in the parlors,

In the cars of railroads, in steamboats, in the public assembly,

Home to the houses of men and women, at the table, in the bed-
room, everywhere,

Smartly attired, countenance smiling, form upright, death under
the breast-bones, hell under the skull-bones,

Under the broadcloth and gloves, under the ribbons and artificial
flowers,

Keeping fair with the customs, speaking not a syllable of itself,

Speaking of any thing else but never of itself.

Allons! through struggles and wars!

The goal that was named cannot be countermanded.

Have the past struggles succeeded?

What has succeeded? yourself? your nation? Nature?

Now understand me well—it is provided in the essence of things
that from any fruition of success, no matter what, shall
come forth something to make a greater struggle necessary.

My call is the call of battle, I nourish active rebellion,

He going with me must go well arm'd,

He going with me goes often with spare diet, poverty, angry
enemies, desertions.

Allons! the road is before us!

It is safe—I have tried it—my own feet have tried it well—be
not detain'd!

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Let the paper remain on the desk unwritten, and the book on the
shelf unopen'd!

Let the tools remain in the workshop! let the money remain
unearn'd!

Let the school stand! mind not the cry of the teacher!

Let the preacher preach in his pulpit! let the lawyer plead in the
court, and the judge expound the law.

Camerado, I give you my hand!

I give you my love more precious than money,

I give you myself before preaching or law;

Will you give me yourself? will you come travel with me?

Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?

—————

CROSSING BROOKLYN FERRY.

FLOOD-TIDE below me! I see you face to face!

Clouds of the west—sun there half an hour high—I see you
also face to face.

Crowds of men and women attired in the usual costumes, how
curious you are to me!

On the ferry-boats the hundreds and hundreds that cross, return-
ing home, are more curious to me than you suppose,

And you that shall cross from shore to shore years hence are
more to me, and more in my meditations, than you might
suppose.

The impalpable sustenance of me from all things at all hours of
the day,

The simple, compact, well-join'd scheme, myself disintegrated,
every one disintegrated yet part of the scheme,

The similitudes of the past and those of the future,

The glories strung like beads on my smallest sights and hearings,
on the walk in the street and the passage over the river,

The current rushing so swiftly and swimming with me far away,

The others that are to follow me, the ties between me and them,

The certainty of others, the life, love, sight, hearing of others.

Others will enter the gates of the ferry and cross from shore to
shore,

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Others will watch the run of the flood-tide,

Others will see the shipping of Manhattan north and west, and
the heights of Brooklyn to the south and east,

Others will see the islands large and small;

Fifty years hence, others will see them as they cross, the sun half
an hour high,

A hundred years hence, or ever so many hundred years hence,
others will see them,

Will enjoy the sunset, the pouring-in of the flood- tide, the falling-
back to the sea of the ebb-tide.

It avails not, time nor place—distance avails not,

I am with you, you men and women of a generation, or ever so
many generations hence,

Just as you feel when you look on the river and sky, so I felt,

Just as any of you is one of a living crowd, I was one of a crowd,

Just as you are refresh'd by the gladness of the river and the
bright flow, I was refresh'd,

Just as you stand and lean on the rail, yet hurry with the swift
current, I stood yet was hurried,

Just as you look on the numberless masts of ships and the thick-
stemm'd pipes of steamboats, I look'd.

I too many and many a time cross'd the river of old,

Watched the Twelfth-month sea-gulls, saw them high in the air
floating with motionless wings, oscillating their bodies,

Saw how the glistening yellow lit up parts of their bodies and left
the rest in strong shadow,

Saw the slow-wheeling circles and the gradual edging toward the
south,

Saw the reflection of the summer sky in the water,

Had my eyes dazzled by the shimmering track of beams,

Look'd at the fine centrifugal spokes of light round the shape of
my head in the sunlit water,

Look'd on the haze on the hills southward and south-westward,

Look'd on the vapor as it flew in fleeces tinged with violet,

Look'd toward the lower bay to notice the vessels arriving,

Saw their approach, saw aboard those that were near me,

Saw the white sails of schooners and sloops, saw the ships at anchor,

The sailors at work in the rigging or out astride the spars,

The round masts, the swinging motion of the hulls, the slender
serpentine pennants,

The large and small steamers in motion, the pilots in their pilot-
houses,

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The white wake left by the passage, the quick tremulous whirl of
the wheels,

The flags of all nations, the falling of them at sunset,

The scallop-edged waves in the twilight, the ladled cups, the
frolicsome crests and glistening,

The stretch afar growing dimmer and dimmer, the gray walls of
the granite storehouses by the docks,

On the river the shadowy group, the big steam-tug closely flank'd
on each side by the barges, the hay-boat, the belated
lighter,

On the neighboring shore the fires from the foundry chimneys
burning high and glaringly into the night,

Casting their flicker of black contrasted with wild red and yellow
light over the tops of houses, and down into the clefts of
streets.

These and all else were to me the same as they are to you,

I loved well those cities, loved well the stately and rapid river,

The men and women I saw were all near to me,

Others the same—others who look back on me because I look'd
forward to them,

(The time will come, though I stop here to-day and to-night.)

What is it then between us?

What is the count of the scores or hundreds of years between us?

Whatever it is, it avails not—distance avails not, and place avails
not,

I too lived, Brooklyn of ample hills was mine,

I too walk'd the streets of Manhattan island, and bathed in the
waters around it,

I too felt the curious abrupt questionings stir within me,

In the day among crowds of people sometimes they came upon me,

In my walks home late at night or as I lay in my bed they came
upon me,

I too had been struck from the float forever held in solution,

I too had receiv'd identity by my body,

That I was I knew was of my body, and what I should be I knew
I should be of my body.

It is not upon you alone the dark patches fall,

The dark threw its patches down upon me also,

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The best I had done seem'd to me blank and suspicious,

My great thoughts as I supposed them, were they not in reality
meagre?

Nor is it you alone who know what it is to be evil,

I am he who knew what it was to be evil,

I too knitted the old knot of contrariety,

Blabb'd, blush'd, resented, lied, stole, grudg'd,

Had guile, anger, lust, hot wishes I dared not speak,

Was wayward, vain, greedy, shallow, sly, cowardly, malignant,

The wolf, the snake, the hog, not wanting in me,

The cheating look, the frivolous word, the adulterous wish, not
wanting,

Refusals, hates, postponements, meanness, laziness, none of these
wanting,

Was one with the rest, the days and haps of the rest,

Was call'd by my nighest name by clear loud voices of young men
as they saw me approaching or passing,

Felt their arms on my neck as I stood, or the negligent leaning of
their flesh against me as I sat,

Saw many I loved in the street or ferry-boat or public assembly,
yet never told them a word,

Lived the same life with the rest, the same old laughing, gnawing,
sleeping,

Play'd the part that still looks back on the actor or actress,

The same old role, the role that is what we make it, as great as we
like,

Or as small as we like, or both great and small.

Closer yet I approach you,

What thought you have of me now, I had as much of you—I laid
in my stores in advance,

I consider'd long and seriously of you before you were born.

Who was to know what should come home to me?

Who knows but I am enjoying this?

Who knows, for all the distance, but I am as good as looking at
you now, for all you cannot see me?

Ah, what can ever be more stately and admirable to me than mast-
hemm'd Manhattan?

River and sunset and scallop-edg'd waves of flood-tide?

The sea-gulls oscillating their bodies, the hay-boat in the twilight,
and the belated lighter?

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What gods can exceed these that clasp me by the hand, and with
voices I love call me promptly and loudly by my nighest
name as I approach?

What is more subtle than this which ties me to the woman or man
that looks in my face?

Which fuses me into you now, and pours my meaning into you?

We understand then do we not?

What I promis'd without mentioning it, have you not accepted?

What the study could not teach—what the preaching could not
accomplish is accomplish'd, is it not?

Flow on, river! flow with the flood-tide, and ebb with the ebb-
tide!

Frolic on, crested and scallop-edg'd waves!

Gorgeous clouds of the sunset! drench with your splendor me, or
the men and women generations after me!

Cross from shore to shore, countless crowds of passengers!

Stand up, tall masts of Mannahatta! stand up, beautiful hills of
Brooklyn!

Throb, baffled and curious brain! throw out questions and answers!

Suspend here and everywhere, eternal float of solution!

Gaze, loving and thirsting eyes, in the house or street or public
assembly!

Sound out, voices of young men! loudly and musically call me by
my nighest name!

Live, old life! play the part that looks back on the actor or actress!

Play the old role, the role that is great or small according as one
makes it!

Consider, you who peruse me, whether I may not in unknown
ways be looking upon you;

Be firm, rail over the river, to support those who lean idly, yet
haste with the hasting current;

Fly on, sea-birds! fly sideways, or wheel in large circles high in
the air;

Receive the summer sky, you water, and faithfully hold it till all
downcast eyes have time to take it from you!

Diverge, fine spokes of light, from the shape of my head, or any
one's head, in the sunlit water!

Come on, ships from the lower bay! pass up or down, white-sail'd
schooners, sloops, lighters!

Flaunt away, flags of all nations! be duly lower'd at sunset!

Burn high your fires, foundry chimneys! cast black shadows at
nightfall! cast red and yellow light over the tops of the
houses!

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Appearances, now or henceforth, indicate what you are,

You necessary film, continue to envelop the soul,

About my body for me, and your body for you, be hung our
divinest aromas,

Thrive, cities—bring your freight, bring your shows, ample and
sufficient rivers,

Expand, being than which none else is perhaps more spiritual,

Keep your places, objects than which none else is more lasting.

You have waited, you always wait, you dumb, beautiful ministers,

We receive you with free sense at last, and are insatiate hence-
forward,

Not you any more shall be able to foil us, or withhold yourselves
from us,

We use you, and do not cast you aside—we plant you perma-
nently within us,

We fathom you not—we love you—there is perfection in you also,

You furnish your parts toward eternity,

Great or small, you furnish your parts toward the soul.

—————

SONG OF THE ANSWERER.

NOW list to my morning's romanza, I tell the signs of the Answerer,

To the cities and farms I sing as they spread in the sunshine
before me.

A young man comes to me bearing a message from his brother,

How shall the young man know the whether and when of his
brother?

Tell him to send me the signs.

And I stand before the young man face to face, and take his right
hand in my left hand and his left hand in my right hand,

And I answer for his brother and for men, and I answer for him
that answers for all, and send these signs.

Him all wait for, him all yield up to, his word is decisive and final,

Him they accept, in him lave, in him perceive themselves as amid
light,

Him they immerse and he immerses them.

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Beautiful women, the haughtiest nations, laws, the landscape,
people, animals,

The profound earth and its attributes and the unquiet ocean, (so
tell I my morning's romanza,)

All enjoyments and properties and money, and whatever money
will buy,

The best farms, others toiling and planting and he unavoidably
reaps,

The noblest and costliest cities, others grading and building and
he domiciles there,

Nothing for any one but what is for him, near and far are for him,
the ships in the offing,

The perpetual shows and marches on land are for him if they are
for anybody.

He puts things in their attitudes,

He puts to-day out of himself with plasticity and love,

He places his own times, reminiscences, parents, brothers and
sisters, associations, employment, politics, so that the rest
never shame them afterward, nor assume to command
them.

He is the Answerer,

What can be answer'd he answers, and what cannot be answer'd
he shows how it cannot be answer'd.

A man is a summons and challenge,

(It is vain to skulk—do you hear that mocking and laughter? do
you hear the ironical echoes?)

Books, friendships, philosophers, priests, action, pleasure, pride,
beat up and down seeking to give satisfaction,

He indicates the satisfaction, and indicates them that beat up and
down also.

Whichever the sex, whatever the season or place, he may go freshly
and gently and safely by day or by night,

He has the pass-key of hearts, to him the response of the prying
of hands on the knobs.

His welcome is universal, the flow of beauty is not more welcome
or universal than he is,

The person he favors by day or sleeps with at night is blessed.

Every existence has its idiom, every thing has an idiom and tongue,

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He resolves all tongues into his own and bestows it upon men, and
any man translates, and any man translates himself also,

One part does not counteract another part, he is the joiner, he
sees how they join.

He says indifferently and alike How are you friend? to the
President at his levee,

And he says Good-day my brother, to Cudge that hoes in the
sugar-field,

And both understand him and know that his speech is right.

He walks with perfect ease in the capitol,

He walks among the Congress, and one Representative says to
another, Here is our equal appearing and new.

Then the mechanics take him for a mechanic,

And the soldiers suppose him to be a soldier, and the sailors that
he has follow'd the sea,

And the authors take him for an author, and the artists for an
artist,

And the laborers perceive he could labor with them and love them,

No matter what the work is, that he is the one to follow it or has
follow'd it,

No matter what the nation, that he might find his brothers and
sisters there.

The English believe he comes of their English stock,

A Jew to the Jew he seems, a Russ to the Russ, usual and near,
removed from none.

Whoever he looks at in the traveler's coffee-house claims him,

The Italian or Frenchman is sure, the German is sure, the Spaniard
is sure, and the island Cuban is sure,

The engineer, the deck-hand on the great lakes, or on the Missis-
sippi or St. Lawrence or Sacramento, or Hudson or Pau-
manok sound, claims him.

The gentleman of perfect blood acknowledges his perfect blood,

The insulter, the prostitute, the angry person, the beggar, see
themselves in the ways of him, he strangely transmutes them,

They are not vile any more, they hardly know themselves they are
so grown.

The indications and tally of time,

Perfect sanity shows the master among philosophs,

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Time, always without break, indicates itself in parts,

What always indicates the poet is the crowd of the pleasant com-
pany of singers, and their words,

The words of the singers are the hours or minutes of the light or
dark, but the words of the maker of poems are the general
light and dark,

The maker of poems settles justice, reality, immortality,

His insight and power encircle things and the human race,

He is the glory and extract thus far of things and of the human
race.

The singers do not beget, only the Poet begets,

The singers are welcom'd, understood, appear often enough, but
rare has the day been, likewise the spot, of the birth of the
maker of poems, the Answerer,

(Not every century nor every five centuries has contain'd such a
day, for all its names.)

The singers of successive hours of centuries may have ostensible
names, but the name of each of them is one of the singers,

The name of each is, eye-singer, ear-singer, head-singer, sweet-
singer, night-singer, parlor-singer, love-singer, weird-singer,
or something else.

All this time and at all times wait the words of true poems,

The words of true poems do not merely please,

The true poets are not followers of beauty but the august masters
of beauty;

The greatness of sons is the exuding of the greatness of mothers
and fathers,

The words of true poems are the tuft and final applause of science.

Divine instinct, breadth of vision, the law of reason, health, rudeness
of body, withdrawnness,

Gayety, sun-tan, air-sweetness, such are some of the words of poems.

The sailor and traveler underlie the makers of poems, the Answerer,

The builder, geometer, chemist, anatomist, phrenologist, artist, all
these underlie the maker of poems, the Answerer.

The words of the true poems give you more than poems,

They give you to form for yourself poems, religions, politics, war,
peace, behavior, histories, essays, daily life, and every thing
else,

They balance ranks, colors, races, creeds, and the sexes,

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They do not seek beauty, they are sought,

Forever touching them or close upon them follows beauty, longing,
fain, love-sick.

They prepare for death, yet are they not the finish, but rather the
outset,

They bring none to his or her terminus or to be content and full,

Whom they take they take into space to behold the birth of stars,
to learn one of the meanings,

To launch off with absolute faith, to sweep through the ceaseless
rings and never be quiet again.

—————

OUR OLD FEUILLAGE.

ALWAYS our old feuillage!

Always Florida's green peninsula—always the priceless delta of
Louisiana—always the cotton-fields of Alabama and Texas,

Always California's golden hills and hollows, and the silver moun-
tains of New Mexico—always soft-breath'd Cuba,

Always the vast slope drain'd by the Southern sea, inseparable with
the slopes drain'd by the Eastern and Western seas,

The area the eighty-third year of these States, the three and a half
millions of square miles,

The eighteen thousand miles of sea-coast and bay-coast on the
main, the thirty thousand miles of river navigation,

The seven millions of distinct families and the same number of
dwellings—always these, and more, branching forth into
numberless branches,

Always the free range and diversity—always the continent of
Democracy;

Always the prairies, pastures, forests, vast cities, travelers, Kanada,
the snows;

Always these compact lands tied at the hips with the belt stringing
the huge oval lakes;

Always the West with strong native persons, the increasing density
there, the habitans, friendly, threatening, ironical, scorning
invaders;

All sights, South, North, East—all deeds, promiscuously done at
all times,

All characters, movements, growths, a few noticed, myriads unno-
ticed,

Through Mannahatta's streets I walking, these things gathering,

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On interior rivers by night in the glare of pine knots, steamboats
wooding up,

Sunlight by day on the valley of the Susquehanna, and on the
valleys of the Potomac and Rappahannock, and the valleys
of the Roanoke and Delaware,

In their northerly wilds beasts of prey haunting the Adirondacks
the hills, or lapping the Saginaw waters to drink,

In a lonesome inlet a sheldrake lost from the flock, sitting on the
water rocking silently,

In farmers' barns oxen in the stable, their harvest labor done, they
rest standing, they are too tired,

Afar on arctic ice the she-walrus lying drowsily while her cubs play
around,

The hawk sailing where men have not yet sail'd, the farthest polar
sea, ripply, crystalline, open, beyond the floes,

White drift spooning ahead where the ship in the tempest dashes,

On solid land what is done in cities as the bells strike midnight
together,

In primitive woods the sounds there also sounding, the howl of the
wolf, the scream of the panther, and the hoarse bellow of
the elk,

In winter beneath the hard blue ice of Moosehead lake, in summer
visible through the clear waters, the great trout swimming,

In lower latitudes in warmer air in the Carolinas the large black
buzzard floating slowly high beyond the tree tops,

Below, the red cedar festoon'd with tylandria, the pines and
cypresses growing out of the white sand that spreads far
and flat,

Rude boats descending the big Pedee, climbing plants, parasites
with color'd flowers and berries enveloping huge trees,

The waving drapery on the live-oak trailing long and low, noise-
lessly waved by the wind,

The camp of Georgia wagoners just after dark, the supper-fires
and the cooking and eating by whites and negroes,

Thirty or forty great wagons, the mules, cattle, horses, feeding
from troughs,

The shadows, gleams, up under the leaves of the old sycamore-
trees, the flames with the black smoke from the pitch-pine
curling and rising;

Southern fishermen fishing, the sounds and inlets of North Caro-
lina's coast, the shad-fishery and the herring-fishery, the
large sweep-seines, the windlasses on shore work'd by
horses, the clearing, curing, and packing-houses;

Deep in the forest in piney woods turpentine dropping from the
incisions in the trees, there are the turpentine works,

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There are the negroes at work in good health, the ground in all
directions is cover'd with pine straw;

In Tennessee and Kentucky slaves busy in the coalings, at the
forge, by the furnace-blaze, or at the corn-shucking,

In Virginia, the planter's son returning after a long absence, joy-
fully welcom'd and kiss'd by the aged mulatto nurse,

On rivers boatmen safely moor'd at nightfall in their boats under
shelter of high banks,

Some of the younger men dance to the sound of the banjo or
fiddle, others sit on the gunwale smoking and talking;

Late in the afternoon the mocking-bird, the American mimic,
singing in the Great Dismal Swamp,

There are the greenish waters, the resinous odor, the plenteous
moss, the cypress-tree, and the juniper-tree;

Northward, young men of Mannahatta, the target company from
an excursion returning home at evening, the musket-muz-
zles all bear bunches of flowers presented by women;

Children at play, or on his father's lap a young boy fallen asleep,
(how his lips move! how he smiles in his sleep!)

The scout riding on horseback over the plains west of the Missis-
sippi, he ascends a knoll and sweeps his eyes around;

California life, the miner, bearded, dress'd in his rude costume,
the stanch California friendship, the sweet air, the graves
one in passing meets solitary just aside the horse-path;

Down in Texas the cotton-field, the negro-cabins, drivers driving
mules or oxen before rude carts, cotton bales piled on
banks and wharves;

Encircling all, vast-darting up and wide, the American Soul, with
equal hemispheres, one Love, one Dilation or Pride;

In arriere the peace-talk with the Iroquois the aborigines, the
calumet, the pipe of good-will, arbitration, and indorse-
ment,

The sachem blowing the smoke first toward the sun and then
toward the earth,

The drama of the scalp-dance enacted with painted faces and
guttural exclamations,

The setting out of the war-party, the long and stealthy march,

The single file, the swinging hatchets, the surprise and slaughter
of enemies;

All the acts, scenes, ways, persons, attitudes of these States,
reminiscences, institutions,

All these States compact, every square mile of these States without
excepting a particle;

Me pleas'd, rambling in lanes and country fields, Paumanok's
fields,

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Observing the spiral flight of two little yellow butterflies shuffling
between each other, ascending high in the air,

The darting swallow, the destroyer of insects, the fall traveler
southward but returning northward early in the spring,

The country boy at the close of the day driving the herd of cows
and shouting to them as they loiter to browse by the road-
side,

The city wharf, Boston, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Charleston, New
Orleans, San Francisco,

The departing ships when the sailors heave at the capstan;

Evening—me in my room—the setting sun,

The setting summer sun shining in my open window, showing the
swarm of flies, suspended, balancing in the air in the centre
of the room, darting athwart, up and down, casting swift
shadows in specks on the opposite wall where the shine is;

The athletic American matron speaking in public to crowds of
listeners,

Males, females, immigrants, combinations, the copiousness, the
individuality of the States, each for itself—the money-
makers,

Factories, machinery, the mechanical forces, the windlass, lever,
pulley, all certainties,

The certainty of space, increase, freedom, futurity,

In space the sporades, the scatter'd islands, the stars—on the
firm earth, the lands, my lands,

O lands! all so dear to me—what you are, (whatever it is,) I
putting it at random in these songs, become a part of that,
whatever it is,

Southward there, I screaming, with wings slow flapping, with the
myriads of gulls wintering along the coasts of Florida,

Otherways there atwixt the banks of the Arkansaw, the Rio
Grande, the Nueces, the Brazos, the Tombigbee, the Red
River, the Saskatchawan or the Osage, I with the spring
waters laughing and skipping and running,

Northward, on the sands, on some shallow bay of Paumanok, I
with parties of snowy herons wading in the wet to seek
worms and aquatic plants,

Retreating, triumphantly twittering, the king-bird, from piercing
the crow with its bill, for amusement—and I triumphantly
twittering,

The migrating flock of wild geese alighting in autumn to refresh
themselves, the body of the flock feed, the sentinels out-
side move around with erect heads watching, and are from
time to time reliev'd by other sentinels—and I feeding
and taking turns with the rest,

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In Kanadian forests the moose, large as an ox, corner'd by
hunters, rising desperately on his hind-feet, and plunging
with his fore-feet, the hoofs as sharp as knives—and I,
plunging at the hunters, corner'd and desperate,

In the Mannahatta, streets, piers, shipping, store-houses, and the
countless workmen working in the shops,

And I too of the Mannahatta, singing thereof—and no less in
myself than the whole of the Mannahatta in itself,

Singing the song of These, my ever-united lands—my body no
more inevitably united, part to part, and made out of a
thousand diverse contributions one identity, any more than
my lands are inevitably united and made ONE IDENTITY;

Nativities, climates, the grass of the great pastoral Plains,

Cities, labors, death, animals, products, war, good and evil—
these me,

These affording, in all their particulars, the old feuillage to me
and to America, how can I do less than pass the clew of
the union of them, to afford the like to you?

Whoever you are! how can I but offer you divine leaves, that you
also be eligible as I am?

How can I but as here chanting, invite you for yourself to collect
bouquets of the incomparable feuillage of these States?

—————

A SONG OF JOYS.

O TO make the most jubilant song!

Full of music—full of manhood, womanhood, infancy!

Full of common employments—full of grain and trees.

O for the voices of animals—O for the swiftness and balance of
fishes!

O for the dropping of raindrops in a song!

O for the sunshine and motion of waves in a song!

O the joy of my spirit—it is uncaged—it darts like lightning!

It is not enough to have this globe or a certain time,

I will have thousands of globes and all time.

O the engineer's joys! to go with a locomotive!

To hear the hiss of steam, the merry shriek, the steam-whistle, the
laughing locomotive!

To push with resistless way and speed off in the distance.

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O the gleesome saunter over fields and hillsides!

The leaves and flowers of the commonest weeds, the moist fresh
stillness of the woods,

The exquisite smell of the earth at daybreak, and all through the
forenoon.

O the horseman's and horsewoman's joys!

The saddle, the gallop, the pressure upon the seat, the cool gurgling
by the ears and hair.

O the fireman's joys!

I hear the alarm at dead of night,

I hear bells, shouts! I pass the crowd, I run!

The sight of the flames maddens me with pleasure.

O the joy of the strong-brawn'd fighter, towering in the arena in
perfect condition, conscious of power, thirsting to meet his
opponent.

O the joy of that vast elemental sympathy which only the human
soul is capable of generating and emitting in steady and
limitless floods.

O the mother's joys!

The watching, the endurance, the precious love, the anguish, the
patiently yielded life.

O the joy of increase, growth, recuperation,

The joy of soothing and pacifying, the joy of concord and harmony.

O to go back to the place where I was born,

To hear the birds sing once more,

To ramble about the house and barn and over the fields once more,

And through the orchard and along the old lanes once more.

O to have been brought up on bays, lagoons, creeks, or along the
coast,

To continue and be employ'd there all my life,

The briny and damp smell, the shore, the salt weeds exposed at
low water,

The work of fishermen, the work of the eel-fisher and clam-fisher;

I come with my clam-rake and spade, I come with my eel-spear,

Is the tide out? I join the group of clam-diggers on the flats,

I laugh and work with them, I joke at my work like a mettlesome
young man;

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In winter I take my eel-basket and eel-spear and travel out on foot
on the ice—I have a small axe to cut holes in the ice,

Behold me well-clothed going gayly or returning in the afternoon,
my brood of tough boys accompanying me,

My brood of grown and part-grown boys, who love to be with no
one else so well as they love to be with me,

By day to work with me, and by night to sleep with me.

Another time in warm weather out in a boat, to lift the lobster-pots
where they are sunk with heavy stones, (I know the
buoys,)

O the sweetness of the Fifth-month morning upon the water as I
row just before sunrise toward the buoys,

I pull the wicker pots up slantingly, the dark green lobsters are
desperate with their claws as I take them out, I insert
wooden pegs in the joints of their pincers,

I go to all the places one after another, and then row back to the
shore,

There in a huge kettle of boiling water the lobsters shall be boil'd
till their color becomes scarlet.

Another time mackerel-taking,

Voracious, mad for the hook, near the surface, they seem to fill the
water for miles;

Another time fishing for rock-fish in Chesapeake bay, I one of the
brown-faced crew;

Another time trailing for blue-fish off Paumanok, I stand with
braced body,

My left foot is on the gunwale, my right arm throws far out the
coils of slender rope,

In sight around me the quick veering and darting of fifty skiffs,
my companions.

O boating on the rivers,

The voyage down the St. Lawrence, the superb scenery, the
steamers,

The ships sailing, the Thousand Islands, the occasional timber-raft
and the raftsmen with long-reaching sweep-oars,

The little huts on the rafts, and the stream of smoke when they
cook supper at evening.

(O something pernicious and dread!

Something far away from a puny and pious life!

Something unproved! something in a trance!

Something escaped from the anchorage and driving free.)

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O to work in mines, or forging iron,

Foundry casting, the foundry itself, the rude high roof, the ample
and shadow'd space,

The furnace, the hot liquid pour'd out and running.

O to resume the joys of the soldier!

To feel the presence of a brave commanding officer—to feel his
sympathy!

To behold his calmness—to be warm'd in the rays of his smile!

To go to battle—to hear the bugles play and the drums beat!

To hear the crash ofartillery—to see the glittering of the bayonets
and musket-barrels in the sun!

To see men fall and die and not complain!

To taste the savage taste of blood—to be so devilish!

To gloat so over the wounds and deaths of the enemy.

O the whaleman's joys! O I cruise my old cruise again!

I feel the ship's motion under me, I feel the Atlantic breezes fan-
ning me,

I hear the cry again sent down from the mast-head, There—she
blows!

Again I spring up the rigging to look with the rest—we descend,
wild with excitement,

I leap in the lower'd boat, we row toward our prey where he lies,

We approach stealthy and silent, I see the mountainous mass,
lethargic, basking,

I see the harpooneer standing up, I see the weapon dart from his
vigorous arm;

O swift again far out in the ocean the wounded whale, settling,
running to windward, tows me,

Again I see him rise to breathe, we row close again,

I see a lance driven through his side, press'd deep, turn'd in
the wound,

Again we back off, I see him settle again, the life is leaving him
fast,

As he rises he spouts blood, I see him swim in circles narrower
and narrower, swiftly cutting the water—I see him die,

He gives one convulsive leap in the centre of the circle, and then
falls flat and still in the bloody foam.

O the old manhood of me, my noblest joy of all!

My children and grand-children, my white hair and beard,

My largeness, calmness, majesty, out of the long stretch of my life.

O ripen'd joy of womanhood! O happiness at last!

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I am more than eighty years of age, I am the most venerable
mother,

How clear is my mind—how all people draw nigh to me!

What attractions are these beyond any before? what bloom more
than the bloom of youth?

What beauty is this that descends upon me and rises out of me?

O the orator's joys!

To inflate the chest, to roll the thunder of the voice out from the
ribs and throat,

To make the people rage, weep, hate, desire, with yourself,

To lead America—to quell America with a great tongue.

O the joy of my soul leaning pois'd on itself, receiving identity
through materials and loving them, observing characters
and absorbing them,

My soul vibrated back to me from them, from sight, hearing, touch,
reason, articulation, comparison, memory, and the like,

The real life of my senses and flesh transcending my senses and flesh,

My body done with materials, my sight done with my material eyes,

Proved to me this day beyond cavil that it is not my material eyes
which finally see,

Nor my material body which finally loves, walks, laughs, shouts,
embraces, procreates.

O the farmer's joys!

Ohioan's, Illinoisian's, Wisconsinese', Kanadian's, Iowan's, Kan-
sian's, Missourian's, Oregonese' joys!

To rise at peep of day and pass forth nimbly to work,

To plough land in the fall for winter-sown crops,

To plough land in the spring for maize,

To train orchards, to graft the trees, to gather apples in the fall.

O to bathe in the swimming-bath, or in a good place along shore,

To splash the water! to walk ankle-deep, or race naked along the
shore.

O to realize space!

The plenteousness of all, that there are no bounds,

To emerge and be of the sky, of the sun and moon and flying
clouds, as one with them.

O the joy of a manly self-hood!

To be servile to none, to defer to none, not to any tyrant known
or unknown,

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To walk with erect carriage, a step springy and elastic,

To look with calm gaze or with a flashing eye,

To speak with a full and sonorous voice out of a broad chest,

To confront with your personality all the other personalities of the
earth.

Know'st thou the excellent joys of youth?

Joys of the dear companions and of the merry word and laughing
face?

Joy of the glad light-beaming day, joy of the wide-breath'd games?

Joy of sweet music, joy of the lighted ball-room and the dancers?

Joy of the plenteous dinner, strong carouse and drinking?

Yet O my soul supreme!

Know'st thou the joys of pensive thought?

Joys of the free and lonesome heart, the tender, gloomy heart?

Joys of the solitary walk, the spirit bow'd yet proud, the suffering
and the struggle?

The agonistic throes, the ecstasies, joys of the solemn musings day
or night?

Joys of the thought of Death, the great spheres Time and Space?

Prophetic joys of better, loftier love's ideals, the divine wife, the
sweet, eternal, perfect comrade?

Joys all thine own undying one, joys worthy thee O soul.

O while I live to be the ruler of life, not a slave,

To meet life as a powerful conqueror,

No fumes, no ennui, no more complaints or scornful criticisms,

To these proud laws of the air, the water and the ground, proving
my interior soul impregnable,

And nothing exterior shall ever take command of me.

For not life's joys alone I sing, repeating—the joy of death!

The beautiful touch of Death, soothing and benumbing a few
moments, for reasons,

Myself discharging my excrementitious body to be burn'd, or
render'd to powder, or buried,

My real body doubtless left to me for other spheres,

My voided body nothing more to me, returning to the purifications,
further offices, eternal uses of the earth.

O to attract by more than attraction!

How it is I know not—yet behold! the something which obeys
none of the rest,

It is offensive, never defensive—yet how magnetic it draws.

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O to struggle against great odds, to meet enemies undaunted!

To be entirely alone with them, to find how much one can stand!

To look strife, torture, prison, popular odium, face to face!

To mount the scaffold, to advance to the muzzles of guns with
perfect nonchalance!

To be indeed a God!

O to sail to sea in a ship!

To leave this steady unendurable land,

To leave the tiresome sameness of the streets, the sidewalks and
the houses,

To leave you O you solid motionless land, and entering a ship,

To sail and sail and sail!

O to have life henceforth a poem of new joys!

To dance, clap hands, exult, shout, skip, leap, roll on, float on!

To be a sailor of the world bound for all ports,

A ship itself, (see indeed these sails I spread to the sun and air,)

A swift and swelling ship full of rich words, full of joys.

—————

SONG OF THE BROAD-AXE.

WEAPON shapely, naked, wan,

Head from the mother's bowels drawn,

Wooded flesh and metal bone, limb only one and lip only one,

Gray-blue leaf by red-heat grown, helve produced from a little
seed sown,

Resting the grass amid and upon,

To be lean'd and to lean on.

Strong shapes and attributes of strong shapes, masculine trades,
sights and sounds,

Long varied train of an emblem, dabs of music,

Fingers of the organist skipping staccato over the keys of the
great organ.

Welcome are all earth's lands, each for its kind,

Welcome are lands of pine and oak,

Welcome are lands of the lemon and fig,

Welcome are lands of gold,

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Welcome are lands of wheat and maize, welcome those of the
grape,

Welcome are lands of sugar and rice,

Welcome the cotton-lands, welcome those of the white potato
and sweet potato,

Welcome are mountains, flats, sands, forests, prairies,

Welcome the rich borders of rivers, table-lands, openings,

Welcome the measureless grazing-lands, welcome the teeming soil
of orchards, flax, honey, hemp;

Welcome just as much the other more hard-faced lands,

Lands rich as lands of gold or wheat and fruit lands,

Lands of mines, lands of the manly and rugged ores,

Lands of coal, copper, lead, tin, zinc,

Lands of iron—lands of the make of the axe.

The log at the wood-pile, the axe supported by it,

The sylvan hut, the vine over the doorway, the space clear'd for a
garden,

The irregular tapping of rain down on the leaves after the storm
is lull'd,

The wailing and moaning at intervals, the thought of the sea,

The thought of ships struck in the storm and put on their beam
ends, and the cutting away of masts,

The sentiment of the huge timbers of old-fashion'd houses and
barns,

The remember'd print or narrative, the voyage at a venture of
men, families, goods,

The disembarkation, the founding of a new city,

The voyage of those who sought a New England and found it, the
outset anywhere,

The settlements of the Arkansas, Colorado, Ottawa, Willamette,

The slow progress, the scant fare, the axe, rifle, saddle-bags;

The beauty of all adventurous and daring persons,

The beauty of wood-boys and wood-men with their clear un-
trimm'd faces,

The beauty of independence, departure, actions that rely on
themselves,

The American contempt for statutes and ceremonies, the bound-
less impatience of restraint,

The loose drift of character, the inkling through random types,
the solidification;

The butcher in the slaughter-house, the hands aboard schooners
and sloops, the raftsman, the pioneer,

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Lumbermen in their winter camp, daybreak in the woods, stripes
of snow on the limbs of trees, the occasional snapping,

The glad clear sound of one's own voice, the merry song, the
natural life of the woods, the strong day's work,

The blazing fire at night, the sweet taste of supper, the talk, the
bed of hemlock-boughs and the bear-skin;

The house-builder at work in cities or anywhere,

The preparatory jointing, squaring, sawing, mortising,

The hoist-up of beams, the push of them in their places, laying
them regular,

Setting the studs by their tenons in the mortises according as they
were prepared,

The blows of mallets and hammers, the attitudes of the men,
their curv'd limbs,

Bending, standing, astride the beams, driving in pins, holding on
by posts and braces,

The hook'd arm over the plate, the other arm wielding the axe,

The floor-men forcing the planks close to be nail'd,

Their postures bringing their weapons downward on the bearers,

The echoes resounding through the vacant building;

The huge storehouse carried up in the city well under way,

The six framing-men, two in the middle and two at each end,
carefully bearing on their shoulders a heavy stick for a
cross-beam,

The crowded line of masons with trowels in their right hands
rapidly laying the long side-wall, two hundred feet from
front to rear,

The flexible rise and fall of backs, the continual click of the
trowels striking the bricks,

The bricks one after another each laid so workmanlike in its
place, and set with a knock of the trowel-handle,

The piles of materials, the mortar on the mortar-boards, and the
steady replenishing by the hod-men;

Spar-makers in the spar-yard, the swarming row of well-grown
apprentices,

The swing of their axes on the square-hew'd log shaping it toward
the shape of a mast,

The brisk short crackle of the steel driven slantingly into the pine,

The butter-color'd chips flying off in great flakes and slivers,

The limber motion of brawny young arms and hips in easy cos-
tumes,

The constructor of wharves, bridges, piers, bulk-heads, floats,
stays against the sea;

The city fireman, the fire that suddenly bursts forth in the close-
pack'd square,

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The arriving engines, the hoarse shouts, the nimble stepping and
daring,

The strong command through the fire-trumpets, the falling in line,
the rise and fall of the arms forcing the water,

The slender, spasmic, blue-white jets, the bringing to bear of the
hooks and ladders and their execution,

The crash and cut away of connecting wood-work, or through
floors if the fire smoulders under them,

The crowd with their lit faces watching, the glare and dense
shadows;

The forger at his forge-furnace and the user of iron after him,

The maker of the axe large and small, and the welder and tem-
perer,

The chooser breathing his breath on the cold steel and trying the
edge with his thumb,

The one who clean-shapes the handle and sets it firmly in the
socket;

The shadowy processions of the portraits of the past users also,

The primal patient mechanics, the architects and engineers,

The far-off Assyrian edifice and Mizra edifice,

The Roman lictors preceding the consuls,

The antique European warrior with his axe in combat,

The uplifted arm, the clatter of blows on the helmeted head,

The death-howl, the limpsy tumbling body, the rush of friend and
foe thither,

The siege of revolted lieges determin'd for liberty,

The summons to surrender, the battering at castle gates, the truce
and parley,

The sack of an old city in its time,

The bursting in of mercenaries and bigots tumultuously and
disorderly,

Roar, flames, blood, drunkenness, madness,

Goods freely rifled from houses and temples, screams of women in
the gripe of brigands,

Craft and thievery of camp-followers, men running, old persons
despairing,

The hell of war, the cruelties of creeds,

The list of all executive deeds and words just or unjust,

The power of personality just or unjust.

Muscle and pluck forever!

What invigorates life invigorates death,

And the dead advance as much as the living advance,

And the future is no more uncertain than the present,

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For the roughness of the earth and of man encloses as much as
the delicatesse of the earth and of man,

And nothing endures but personal qualities.

What do you think endures?

Do you think a great city endures?

Or a teeming manufacturing state? or a prepared constitution? or
the best built steamships?

Or hotels of granite and iron? or any chef-d'oeuvres of engineering,
forts, armaments?

Away! these are not to be cherish'd for themselves,

They fill their hour, the dancers dance, the musicians play for
them,

The show passes, all does well enough of course,

All does very well till one flash of defiance.

A great city is that which has the greatest men and women,

If it be a few ragged huts it is still the greatest city in the whole
world.

The place where a great city stands is not the place of stretch'd
wharves, docks, manufactures, deposits of produce merely,

Nor the place of ceaseless salutes of new-comers or the anchor-
lifters of the departing,

Nor the place of the tallest and costliest buildings or shops selling
goods from the rest of the earth,

Nor the place of the best libraries and schools, nor the place where
money is plentiest,

Nor the place of the most numerous population.

Where the city stands with the brawniest breed of orators and
bards,

Where the city stands that is belov'd by these, and loves them in
return and understands them,

Where no monuments exist to heroes but in the common words
and deeds,

Where thrift is in its place, and prudence is in its place,

Where the men and women think lightly of the laws,

Where the slave ceases, and the master of slaves ceases,

Where the populace rise at once against the never-ending audacity
of elected persons,

Where fierce men and women pour forth as the sea to the whistle
of death pours its sweeping and unript waves,

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Where outside authority enters always after the precedence of
inside authority,

Where the citizen is always the head and ideal, and President,
Mayor, Governor and what not, are agents for pay,

Where children are taught to be laws to themselves, and to depend
on themselves,

Where equanimity is illustrated in affairs,

Where speculations on the soul are encouraged,

Where women walk in public processions in the streets the same
as the men,

Where they enter the public assembly and take places the same as
the men;

Where the city of the faithfulest friends stands,

Where the city of the cleanliness of the sexes stands,

Where the city of the healthiest fathers stands,

Where the city of the best-bodied mothers stands,

There the great city stands.

How beggarly appear arguments before a defiant deed!

How the floridness of the materials of cities shrivels before a man's
or woman's look!

All waits or goes by default till a strong being appears;

A strong being is the proof of the race and of the ability of the
universe,

When he or she appears materials are overaw'd,

The dispute on the soul stops,

The old customs and phrases are confronted, turn'd back, or laid
away.

What is your money-making now? what can it do now?

What is your respectability now?

What are your theology, tuition, society, traditions, statute-books,
now?

Where are your jibes of being now?

Where are your cavils about the soul now?

A sterile landscape covers the ore, there is as good as the best for
all the forbidding appearance,

There is the mine, there are the miners,

The forge-furnace is there, the melt is accomplish'd, the hammers-
men are at hand with their tongs and hammers,

What always served and always serves is at hand.

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Than this nothing has better served, it has served all,

Served the fluent-tongued and subtle-sensed Greek, and long ere
the Greek,

Served in building the buildings that last longer than any,

Served the Hebrew, the Persian, the most ancient Hindustanee,

Served the mound-raiser on the Mississippi, served those whose
relics remain in Central America,

Served Albic temples in woods or on plains, with unhewn pillars
and the druids,

Served the artificial clefts, vast, high, silent, on the snow-cover'd
hills of Scandinavia,

Served those who time out of mind made on the granite walls
rough sketches of the sun, moon, stars, ships, ocean waves,

Served the paths of the irruptions of the Goths, served the pas-
toral tribes and nomads,

Served the long distant Kelt, served the hardy pirates of the Baltic,

Served before any of those the venerable and harmless men of
Ethiopia,

Served the making of helms for the galleys of pleasure and the
making of those for war,

Served all great works on land and all great works on the sea,

For the mediaeval ages and before the mediaeval ages,

Served not the living only then as now, but served the dead.

I see the European headsman,

He stands mask'd, clothed in red, with huge legs and strong naked
arms,

And leans on a ponderous axe.

(Whom have you slaughter'd lately European headsman?

Whose is that blood upon you so wet and sticky?)

I see the clear sunsets of the martyrs,

I see from the scaffolds the descending ghosts,

Ghosts of dead lords, uncrown'd ladies, impeach'd ministers,
rejected kings,

Rivals, traitors, poisoners, disgraced chieftains and the rest.

I see those who in any land have died for the good cause,

The seed is spare, nevertheless the crop shall never run out,

(Mind you O foreign kings, O priests, the crop shall never run out.)

I see the blood wash'd entirely away from the axe,

Both blade and helve are clean,

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They spirt no more the blood of European nobles, they clasp no
more the necks of queens.

I see the headsman withdraw and become useless,

I see the scaffold untrodden and mouldy, I see no longer any axe
upon it,

I see the mighty and friendly emblem of the power of my own
race, the newest, largest race.

(America! I do not vaunt my love for you,

I have what I have.)

The axe leaps!

The solid forest gives fluid utterances,

They tumble forth, they rise and form,

Hut, tent, landing, survey,

Flail, plough, pick, crowbar, spade,

Shingle, rail, prop, wainscot, jamb, lath, panel, gable,

Citadel, ceiling, saloon, academy, organ, exhibition-house, li-
brary,

Cornice, trellis, pilaster, balcony, window, turret, porch,

Hoe, rake, pitchfork, pencil, wagon, staff, saw, jack-plane, mallet,
wedge, rounce,

Chair, tub, hoop, table, wicket, vane, sash, floor,

Work-box, chest, string'd instrument, boat, frame, and what not,

Capitols of States, and capitol of the nation of States,

Long stately rows in avenues, hospitals for orphans or for the poor
or sick,

Manhattan steamboats and clippers taking the measure of all seas.

The shapes arise!

Shapes of the using of axes anyhow, and the users and all that
neighbors them,

Cutters down of wood and haulers of it to the Penobscot or Ken-
nebec,

Dwellers in cabins among the Californian mountains or by the little
lakes, or on the Columbia,

Dwellers south on the banks of the Gila or Rio Grande, friendly
gatherings, the characters and fun,

Dwellers along the St. Lawrence, or north in Kanada, or down by
the Yellowstone, dwellers on coasts and off coasts,

Seal-fishers, whalers, arctic seamen breaking passages through the
ice.

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The shapes arise!

Shapes of factories, arsenals, foundries, markets,

Shapes of the two-threaded tracks of railroads,

Shapes of the sleepers of bridges, vast frameworks, girders, arches,

Shapes of the fleets of barges, tows, lake and canal craft, river craft,

Ship-yards and dry-docks along the Eastern and Western seas, and
in many a bay and by-place,

The live-oak kelsons, the pine planks, the spars, the hackmatack-
roots for knees,

The ships themselves on their ways, the tiers of scaffolds, the
workmen busy outside and inside,

The tools lying around, the great auger and little auger, the adze,
bolt, line, square, gouge, and bead-plane.

The shapes arise!

The shape measur'd, saw'd, jack'd, join'd, stain'd,

The coffin-shape for the dead to lie within in his shroud,

The shape got out in posts, in the bedstead posts, in the posts of
the bride's bed,

The shape of the little trough, the shape of the rockers beneath,
the shape of the babe's cradle,

The shape of the floor-planks, the floor-planks for dancers' feet,

The shape of the planks of the family home, the home of the
friendly parents and children,

The shape of the roof of the home of the happy young man and
woman, the roof over the well-married young man and
woman,

The roof over the supper joyously cook'd by the chaste wife, and
joyously eaten by the chaste husband, content after his
day's work.

The shapes arise!

The shape of the prisoner's place in the court-room, and of him
or her seated in the place,

The shape of the liquor-bar lean'd against by the young rum-
drinker and the old rum-drinker,

The shape of the shamed and angry stairs trod by sneaking foot-
steps,

The shape of the sly settee, and the adulterous unwholesome
couple,

The shape of the gambling-board with its devilish winnings and
losings,

The shape of the step-ladder for the convicted and sentenced
murderer, the murderer with haggard face and pinion'd arms,

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The sheriff at hand with his deputies, the silent and white-lipp'd
crowd, the dangling of the rope.

The shapes arise!

Shapes of doors giving many exits and entrances,

The door passing the dissever'd friend flush'd and in haste,

The door that admits good news and bad news,

The door whence the son left home confident and puff'd up,

The door he enter'd again from a long and scandalous absence,
diseas'd, broken down, without innocence, without means.

Her shape arises,

She less guarded than ever, yet more guarded than ever,

The gross and soil'd she moves among do not make her gross and
soil'd,

She knows the thoughts as she passes, nothing is conceal'd from her,

She is none the less considerate or friendly therefor,

She is the best belov'd, it is without exception, she has no reason
to fear and she does not fear,

Oaths, quarrels, hiccupp'd songs, smutty expressions, are idle to
her as she passes,

She is silent, she is possess'd of herself, they do not offend her,

She receives them as the laws of Nature receive them, she is strong,

She too is a law of Nature—there is no law stronger than she is.

The main shapes arise!

Shapes of Democracy total, result of centuries,

Shapes ever projecting other shapes,

Shapes of turbulent manly cities,

Shapes of the friends and home-givers of the whole earth,

Shapes bracing the earth and braced with the whole earth.

—————

SONG OF THE EXPOSITION.

(AH little recks the laborer,

How near his work is holding him to God,

The loving Laborer through space and time.)

After all not to create only, or found only,

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But to bring perhaps from afar what is already founded,

To give it our own identity, average, limitless, free,

To fill the gross the torpid bulk with vital religious fire,

Not to repel or destroy so much as accept, fuse, rehabilitate,

To obey as well as command, to follow more than to lead,

These also are the lessons of our New World;

While how little the New after all, how much the Old, Old World!

Long and long hasthe grass been growing,

Long and long has the rain been falling,

Long has the globe been rolling round.

Come Muse migrate from Greece and Ionia,

Cross out please those immensely overpaid accounts,

That matter of Troy and Achilles' wrath, and Aeneas', Odysseus'
wanderings,

Placard "Removed" and "To Let" on the rocks of your snowy
Parnassus,

Repeat at Jerusalem, place the notice high on Jaffa's gate and on
Mount Moriah,

The same on the walls of your German, French and Spanish
castles, and Italian collections,

For know a better, fresher, busier sphere, a wide, untried domain
awaits, demands you.

Responsive to our summons,

Or rather to her long-nurs'd inclination,

Join'd with an irresistible, natural gravitation,

She comes! I hear the rustling of her gown,

I scent the odor of her breath's delicious fragrance,

I mark her step divine, her curious eyes a-turning, rolling,

Upon this very scene.

The dame of dames! can I believe then,

Those ancient temples, sculptures classic, could none of them
retain her?

Nor shades of Virgil and Dante, nor myriad memories, poems,
old associations, magnetize and hold on to her?

But that she's left them all—and here?

Yes, if you will allow me to say so,

I, my friends, if you do not, can plainly see her,

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The same undying soul of earth's, activity's, beauty's, heroism's
expression,

Out from her evolutions hither come, ended the strata of her
former themes,

Hidden and cover'd by to-day's, foundation of to-day's,

Ended, deceas'd through time, her voice by Castaly's fountain,

Silent the broken-lipp'd Sphynx in Egypt, silent all those century-
baffling tombs,

Ended for aye the epics of Asia's, Europe's helmeted warriors,
ended the primitive call of the muses,

Calliope's call forever closed, Clio, Melpomene, Thalia dead,

Ended the stately rhythmus of Una and Oriana, ended the quest
of the holy Graal,

Jerusalem a handful of ashes blown by the wind, extinct,

The Crusaders' streams of shadowy midnight troops sped with the
sunrise,

Amadis, Tancred, utterly gone, Charlemagne, Roland, Oliver gone,

Palmerin, ogre, departed, vanish'd the turrets that Usk from its
waters reflected,

Arthur vanish'd with all his knights, Merlin and Lancelot and
Galahad, all gone, dissolv'd utterly like an exhalation;

Pass'd! pass'd! for us, forever pass'd, that once so mighty world,
now void, inanimate, phantom world,

Embroider'd, dazzling, foreign world, with all its gorgeous legends,
myths,

Its kings and castles proud, its priests and warlike lords and
courtly dames,

Pass'd to its charnel vault, coffin'd with crown and armor on,

Blazon'd with Shakspere's purple page,

And dirged by Tennyson's sweet sad rhyme.

I say I see, my friends, if you do not, the illustrious emigré,
(having it is true in her day, although the same, changed,
journey'd considerable,)

Making directly for this rendezvous, vigorously clearing a path for
herself, striding through the confusion,

By thud of machinery and shrill steam-whistle undismay'd,

Bluff'd not a bit by drain-pipe, gasometers, artificial fertilizers,

Smiling and pleas'd with palpable intent to stay,

She's here, install'd amid the kitchen ware!

But hold—don't I forget my manners?

To introduce the stranger, (what else indeed do I live to chant
for?) to thee Columbia;

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In liberty's name welcome immortal! clasp hands,

And ever henceforth sisters dear be both.

Fear not O Muse! truly new ways and days receive, surround you,

I candidly confess a queer, queer race, of novel fashion,

And yet the same old human race, the same within, without,

Faces and hearts the same, feelings the same, yearnings the same,

The same old love, beauty and use the same.

We do not blame thee elder World, nor really separate ourselves
from thee,

(Would the son separate himself from the father?)

Looking back on thee, seeing thee to thy duties, grandeurs,
through past ages bending, building,

We build to ours to-day.

Mightier than Egypt's tombs,

Fairer than Grecia's, Roma's temples,

Prouder than Milan's statued, spired cathedral,

More picturesque than Rhenish castle-keeps,

We plan even now to raise, beyond them all,

Thy great cathedral sacred industry, no tomb,

A keep for life for practical invention.

As in a waking vision,

E'en while I chant I see it rise, I scan and prophesy outside
and in,

Its manifold ensemble.

Around a palace, loftier, fairer, ampler than any yet,

Earth's modern wonder, history's seven outstripping,

High rising tier on tier with glass and iron fa çades,

Gladdening the sun and sky, enhued in cheerfulest hues,

Bronze, lilac, robin's-egg, marine and crimson,

Over whose golden roof shall flaunt, beneath thy banner Freedom,

The banners of the States and flags of every land,

A brood of lofty, fair, but lesser palaces shall cluster.

Somewhere within their walls shall all that forwards perfect human
life be started,

Tried, taught, advanced, visibly exhibited.

Not only all the world of works, trade, products,

But all the workmen of the world here to be represented.

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Here shall you trace in flowing operation,

In every state of practical, busy movement, the rills of civilization,

Materials here under your eye shall change their shape as if by
magic,

The cotton shall be pick'd almost in the very field,

Shall be dried, clean'd, ginn'd, baled, spun into thread and cloth
before you,

You shall see hands at work at all the old processes and all the
new ones,

You shall see the various grains and how flour is made and then
bread baked by the bakers,

You shall see the crude ores of California and Nevada passing on
and on till they become bullion,

You shall watch how the printer sets type, and learn what a com-
posing-stick is,

You shall mark in amazement the Hoe press whirling its cylinders,
shedding the printed leaves steady and fast,

The photograph, model, watch, pin, nail, shall be created before
you.

In large calm halls, a stately museum shall teach you the infinite
lessons of minerals,

In another, woods, plants, vegetation shall be illustrated—in
another animals, animal life and development.

One stately house shall be the music house,

Others for other arts—learning, the sciences, shall all be here,

None shall be slighted, none but shall here be honor'd, help'd,
exampled.

(This, this and these, America, shall be your pyramids and
obelisks,

Your Alexandrian Pharos, gardens of Babylon,

Your temple at Olympia.)

The male and female many laboring not,

Shall ever here confront the laboring many,

With precious benefits to both, glory to all,

To thee America, and thee eternal Muse.

And here shall ye inhabit powerful Matrons!

In your vast state vaster than all the old,

Echoed through long, long centuries to come,

To sound of different, prouder songs, with stronger themes,

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Practical, peaceful life, the people's life, the People themselves,

Lifted, illumin'd, bathed in peace—elate, secure in peace.

Away with themes of war! away with war itself!

Hence from my shuddering sight to never more return that show
of blacken'd, mutilated corpses!

That hell unpent and raid of blood, fit for wild tigers or for lop-
tongued wolves, not reasoning men,

And in its stead speed industry's campaigns,

With thy undaunted armies, engineering,

Thy pennants labor, loosen'd to the breeze,

Thy bugles sounding loud and clear.

Away with old romance!

Away with novels, plots and plays of foreign courts,

Away with love-verses sugar'd in rhyme, the intrigues, amours of
idlers,

Fitted for only banquets of the night where dancers to late music
slide,

The unhealthy pleasures, extravagant dissipations of the few,

With perfumes, heat and wine, beneath the dazzling chandeliers.

To you ye reverent sane sisters,

I raise a voice for far superber themes for poets and for art,

To exalt the present and the real,

To teach the average man the glory of his daily walk and trade,

To sing in songs how exercise and chemical life are never to be
baffled,

To manual work for each and all, to plough, hoe, dig,

To plant and tend the tree, the berry, vegetables, flowers,

For every man to see to it that he really do something, for every
woman too;

To use the hammer and the saw, (rip, or cross-cut,)

To cultivate a turn for carpentering, plastering, painting,

To work as tailor, tailoress, nurse, hostler, porter,

To invent a little, something ingenious, to aid the washing, cook-
ing, cleaning,

And hold it no disgrace to take a hand at them themselves.

I say I bring thee Muse to-day and here,

All occupations, duties broad and close,

Toil, healthy toil and sweat, endless, without cessation,

The old, old practical burdens, interests, joys,

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The family, parentage, childhood, husband and wife,

The house-comforts, the house itself and all its belongings,

Food and its preservation, chemistry applied to it,

Whatever forms the average, strong, complete, sweet-blooded man
or woman, the perfect longeve personality,

And helps its present life to health and happiness, and shapes its soul,

For the eternal real life to come.

With latest connections, works, the inter-transportation of the world,

Steam-power, the great express lines, gas, petroleum,

These triumphs of our time, the Atlantic's delicate cable,

The Pacific railroad, the Suez canal, the Mont Cenis and Gothard
and Hoosac tunnels, the Brooklyn bridge,

This earth all spann'd with iron rails, with lines of steamships
threading every sea,

Our own rondure, the current globe I bring.

And thou America,

Thy offspring towering e'er so high, yet higher Thee above all
towering,

With Victory on thy left, and at thy right hand Law;

Thou Union holding all, fusing, absorbing, tolerating all,

Thee, ever thee, I sing.

Thou, also thou, a World,

With all thy wide geographies, manifold, different, distant,

Rounded by thee in one—one common orbic language,

One common indivisible destiny for All.

And by the spells which ye vouchsafe to those your ministers in
earnest,

I here personify and call my themes, to make them pass before ye.

Behold, America! (and thou, ineffable guest and sister!)

For thee come trooping up thy waters and thy lands;

Behold! thy fields and farms, thy far-off woods and mountains,

As in procession coming.

Behold, the sea itself,

And on its limitless, heaving breast, the ships;

See, where their white sails, bellying in the wind, speckle the green
and blue,

See, the steamers coming and going, steaming in or out of port,

See, dusky and undulating, the long pennants of smoke.

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Behold, in Oregon, far in the north and west,

Or in Maine, far in the north and east, thy cheerful axemen,

Wielding all day their axes.

Behold, on the lakes, thy pilots at their wheels, thy oarsmen,

How the ash writhes under those muscular arms!

There by the furnace, and there by the anvil,

Behold thy sturdy blacksmiths swinging their sledges,

Overhand so steady, overhand they turn and fall with joyous clank,

Like a tumult of laughter.

Mark the spirit of invention everywhere, thy rapid patents,

Thy continual workshops, foundries, risen or rising,

See, from their chimneys how the tall flame-fires stream.

Mark, thy interminable farms, North, South,

Thy wealthy daughter-states, Eastern and Western,

The varied products of Ohio, Pennsylvania, Missouri, Georgia,
Texas, and the rest,

Thy limitless crops, grass, wheat, sugar, oil, corn, rice, hemp, hops,

Thy barns all fill'd, the endless freight-train and the bulging
storehouse,

The grapes that ripen on thy vines, the apples in thy orchards,

Thy incalculable lumber, beef, pork, potatoes, thy coal, thy gold
and silver,

The inexhaustible iron in thy mines.

All thine O sacred Union!

Ships, farms, shops, barns, factories, mines,

City and State, North, South, item and aggregate,

We dedicate, dread Mother, all to thee!

Protectress absolute, thou! bulwark of all!

For well we know that while thou givest each and all,(generous
as God,)

Without thee neither all nor each, nor land, home,

Nor ship, nor mine, nor any here this day secure,

Nor aught, nor any day secure.

And thou, the Emblem waving over all!

Delicate beauty, a word to thee, (it may be salutary,)

Remember thou hast not always been as here to-day so comfortably
ensovereign'd,

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In other scenes than these have I observ'd thee flag,

Not quite so trim and whole and freshly blooming in folds of stain-
less silk,

But I have seen thee bunting, to tatters torn upon thy splinter'd staff,

Or clutch'd to some young color-bearer's breast with desperate hands,

Savagely struggled for, for life or death, fought over long,

'Mid cannons' thunder-crash and many a curse and groan and yell,
and rifle-volleys cracking sharp,

And moving masses as wild demons surging, and lives as nothing
risk'd,

For thy mere remnant grimed with dirt and smoke and sopp'd in
blood,

For sake of that, my beauty, and that thou might'st dally as now
secure up there,

Many a good man have I seen go under.

Now here and these and hence in peace, all thine O Flag!

And here and hence for thee, O universal Muse! and thou for them!

And here and hence O Union, all the work and workmen thine!

None separate from thee—henceforth One only, we and thou,

(For the blood of the children, what is it, only the blood
maternal?

And lives and works, what are they all at last, except the roads to
faith and death?)

While we rehearse our measureless wealth, it is for thee, dear
Mother,

We own it all and several to-day indissoluble in thee;

Think not our chant, our show, merely for products gross or lucre
—it is for thee, the soul in thee, electric, spiritual!

Our farms, inventions, crops, we own in thee! cities and States in
thee!

Our freedom all in thee! our very lives in thee!

—————

SONG OF THE REDWOOD-TREE.

A CALIFORNIA song,

A prophecy and indirection, a thought impalpable to breathe as air,

A chorus of dryads, fading, departing, or hamadryads departing,

A murmuring, fateful, giant voice, out of the earth and sky,

Voice of a mighty dying tree in the redwood forest dense.

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Farewell my brethren,

Farewell O earth and sky, farewell ye neighboring waters,

My time has ended, my term has come.

Along the northern coast,

Just back from the rock-bound shore and the caves,

In the saline air from the sea in the Mendocino country,

With the surge for base and accompaniment low and hoarse,

With crackling blows of axes sounding musically driven by strong
arms,

Riven deep by the sharp tongues of the axes, there in the redwood
forest dense,

I heard the mighty tree its death-chant chanting.

The choppers heard not, the camp shanties echoed not,

The quick-ear'd teamsters and chain and jack-screw men heard
not,

As the wood-spirits came from their haunts of a thousand years to
join the refrain,

But in my soul I plainly heard.

Murmuring out of its myriad leaves,

Down from its lofty top rising two hundred feet high,

Out of its stalwart trunk and limbs, out of its foot-thick bark,

That chant of the seasons and time, chant not of the past only
but the future.

You untold life of me,

And all you venerable and innocent joys,

Perennial hardy life of me with joys 'mid rain and many a
summer sun,

And the white snows and night and the wild winds;

O the great patient rugged joys, my soul's strong joys unreck'd by
man,

(For know I bear the soul befitting me, I too have consciousness,
identity,

And all the rocks and mountains have, and all the earth,)

Joys of the life befitting me and brothers mine,

Our time, our term has come.

Nor yield we mournfully majestic brothers,

We who have grandly fill'd our time;

With Nature's calm content, with tacit huge delight,

We welcome what we wrought for through the past,

And leave the field for them.

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For them predicted long,

For a superber race, they too to grandly fill their time,

For them we abdicate, in them ourselves ye forest kings!

In them these skies and airs, these mountain peaks, Shasta,
Nevadas,

These huge precipitous cliffs, this amplitude, these valleys, far
Yosemite,

To be in them absorb'd, assimilated.

Then to a loftier strain,

Still prouder, more ecstatic rose the chant,

As if the heirs, the deities of the West,

Joining with master-tongue bore part.

Not wan from Asia's fetiches,

Nor red from Europe's old dynastic slaughter-house,

(Area of murder-plots of thrones, with scent left yet of wars and
scaffolds everywhere,)

But come from Nature's long and harmless throes, peacefully
builded thence,

These virgin lands, lands of the Western shore,

To the new culminating man, to you, the empire new,

You promis'd long, we pledge, we dedicate.

You occult deep volitions,

You average spiritual manhood, purpose of all, pois'd on yourself,
giving not taking law,

You womanhood divine, mistress and source of all, whence life
and love and aught that comes from life and love,

You unseen moral essence of all the vast materials of America,
(age upon age working in death the same as life,)

You that, sometimes known, oftener unknown, really shape and
mould the New World, adjusting it to Time and Space,

You hidden national will lying in your abysms, conceal'd but ever
alert,

You past and present purposes tenaciously pursued, may-be uncon-
scious of yourselves,

Unswerv'd by all the passing errors, perturbations of the surface;

You vital, universal, deathless germs, beneath all creeds, arts,
statutes, literatures,

Here build your homes for good, establish here, these areas entire,
lands of the Western shore,

We pledge, we dedicate to you.

For man of you, your characteristic race,

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Here may he hardy, sweet, gigantic grow, here tower proportion-
ate to Nature,

Here climb the vast pure spaces unconfined, uncheck'd by wall or
roof,

Here laugh with storm or sun, here joy, here patiently inure,

Here heed himself, unfold himself, (not others' formulas heed,)
here fill his time,

To duly fall, to aid, unreck'd at last,

To disappear, to serve.

Thus on the northern coast,

In the echo of teamsters' calls and the clinking chains, and the
music of choppers' axes,

The falling trunk and limbs, the crash, the muffled shriek, the
groan,

Such words combined from the redwood-tree, as of voices ecstatic,
ancient and rustling,

The century-lasting, unseen dryads, singing, withdrawing,

All their recesses of forests and mountains leaving,

From the Cascade range to the Wahsatch, or Idaho far, or Utah,

To the deities of the modern henceforth yielding,

The chorus and indications, the vistas of coming humanity, the
settlements, features all,

In the Mendocino woods I caught.

The flashing and golden pageant of California,

The sudden and gorgeous drama, the sunny and ample lands,

The long and varied stretch from Puget sound to Colorado south,

Lands bathed in sweeter, rarer, healthier air, valleys and mountain
cliffs,

The fields of Nature long prepared and fallow, the silent, cyclic
chemistry,

The slow and steady ages plodding, the unoccupied surface ripen-
ing, the rich ores forming beneath;

At last the New arriving, assuming, taking possession,

A swarming and busy race settling and organizing everywhere,

Ships coming in from the whole round world, and going out to
the whole world,

To India and China and Australia and the thousand island para-
dises of the Pacific,

Populous cities, the latest inventions, the steamers on the rivers,
the railroads, with many a thrifty farm, with machinery,

And wool and wheat and the grape, and diggings of yellow gold.

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But more in you than these, lands of the Western shore,

(These but the means, the implements, the standing-ground,)

I see in you, certain to come, the promise of thousands of years,
till now deferr'd,

Promis'd to be fulfill'd, our common kind, the race.

The new society at last, proportionate to Nature,

In man of you, more than your mountain peaks or stalwart trees
imperial,

In woman more, far more, than all your gold or vines, or even
vital air.

Fresh come, to a new world indeed, yet long prepared,

I see the genius of the modern, child of the real and ideal,

Clearing the ground for broad humanity, the true America, heir
of the past so grand,

To build a grander future.

—————

A SONG FOR OCCUPATIONS.

A SONG for occupations!

In the labor of engines and trades and the labor of fields I find
the developments,

And find the eternal meanings.

Workmen and Workwomen!

Were all educations practical and ornamental well display'd out
of me, what would it amount to?

Were I as the head teacher, charitable proprietor, wise statesman,
what would it amount to?

Were I to you as the boss employing and paying you, would that
satisfy you?

The learn'd, virtuous, benevolent, and the usual terms,

A man like me and never the usual terms.

Neither a servant nor a master I,

I take no sooner a large price than a small price, I will have my
own whoever enjoys me,

I will be even with you and you shall be even with me.

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If you stand at work in a shop I stand as nigh as the nighest in
the same shop,

If you bestow gifts on your brother or dearest friend I demand as
good as your brother or dearest friend,

If your lover, husband, wife, is welcome by day or night, I must
be personally as welcome,

If you become degraded, criminal, ill, then I become so for your
sake,

If you remember your foolish and outlaw'd deeds, do you think
I cannot remember my own foolish and outlaw'd deeds?

If you carouse at the table I carouse at the opposite side of the
table,

If you meet some stranger in the streets and love him or her, why
I often meet strangers in the street and love them.

Why what have you thought of yourself?

Is it you then that thought yourself less?

Is it you that thought the President greater than you?

Or the rich better off than you? or the educated wiser than you?

(Because you are greasy or pimpled, or were once drunk, or a
thief,

Or that you are diseas'd, or rheumatic, or a prostitute,

Or from frivolity or impotence, or that you are no scholar and
never saw your name in print,

Do you give in that you are any less immortal?)

Souls of men and women! it is not you I call unseen, unheard,
untouchable and untouching,

It is not you I go argue pro and con about, and to settle whether
you are alive or no,

I own publicly who you are, if nobody else owns.

Grown, half-grown and babe, of this country and every country, in-
doors and out-doors, one just as much as the other, I see,

And all else behind or through them.

The wife, and she is not one jot less than the husband,

The daughter, and she is just as good as the son,

The mother, and she is every bit as much as the father.

Offspring of ignorant and poor, boys apprenticed to trades,

Young fellows working on farms and old fellows working on farms,

Sailor-men, merchant-men, coasters, immigrants,

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All these I see, but nigher and farther the same I see,

None shall escape me and none shall wish to escape me.

I bring what you much need yet always have,

Not money, amours, dress, eating, erudition, but as good,

I send no agent or medium, offer no representative of value, but
offer the value itself.

There is something that comes to one now and perpetually,

It is not what is printed, preach'd, discussed, it eludes discussion
and print,

It is not to be put in a book, it is not in this book,

It is for you whoever you are, it is no farther from you than your
hearing and sight are from you,

It is hinted by nearest, commonest, readiest, it is ever provoked
by them.

You may read in many languages, yet read nothing about it,

You may read the President's message and read nothing about it
there,

Nothing in the reports from the State department or Treasury
department, or in the daily papers or weekly papers,

Or in the census or revenue returns, prices current, or any
accounts of stock.

The sun and stars that float in the open air,

The apple-shaped earth and we upon it, surely the drift of them
is something grand,

I do not know what it is except that it is grand, and that it is
happiness,

And that the enclosing purport of us here is not a speculation or
bon-mot or reconnoissance,

And that it is not something which by luck may turn out well for
us, and without luck must be a failure for us,

And not something which may yet be retracted in a certain
contingency.

The light and shade, the curious sense of body and identity, the
greed that with perfect complaisance devours all things,

The endless pride and outstretching of man, unspeakable joys
and sorrows,

The wonder every one sees in every one else he sees, and the
wonders that fill each minute of time forever,

What have you reckon'd them for, camerado?

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Have you reckon'd them for your trade or farm-work? or for the
profits of your store?

Or to achieve yourself a position? or to fill a gentleman's leisure,
or a lady's leisure?

Have you reckon'd that the landscape took substance and form
that it might be painted in a picture?

Or men and women that they might be written of, and songs sung?

Or the attraction of gravity, and the great laws and harmonious
combinations and the fluids of the air, as subjects for the
savans?

Or the brown land and the blue sea for maps and charts?

Or the stars to be put in constellations and named fancy names?

Or that the growth of seeds is for agricultural tables, or agricul-
ture itself?

Old institutions, these arts, libraries, legends, collections, and the
practice handed along in manufactures, will we rate them
so high?

Will we rate our cash and business high? I have no objection,

I rate them as high as the highest—then a child born of a
woman and man I rate beyond all rate.

We thought our Union grand, and our Constitution grand,

I do not say they are not grand and good, for they are,

I am this day just as much in love with them as you,

Then I am in love with You, and with all my fellows upon the
earth.

We consider bibles and religions divine—I do not say they are
not divine,

I say they have all grown out of you, and may grow out of you
still,

It is not they who give the life, it is you who give the life,

Leaves are not more shed from the trees, or trees from the earth,
than they are shed out of you.

The sum of all known reverence I add up in you whoever you are,

The President is there in the White House for you, it is not you
who are here for him,

The Secretaries act in their bureaus for you, not you here for them,

The Congress convenes every Twelfth-month for you,

Laws, courts, the forming of States, the charters of cities, the
going and coming of commerce and mails, are all for you.

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List close my scholars dear,

Doctrines, politics and civilization exurge from you,

Sculpture and monuments and any thing inscribed anywhere are
tallied in you,

The gist of histories and statistics as far back as the records reach
is in you this hour, and myths and tales the same,

If you were not breathing and walking here, where would they
all be?

The most renown'd poems would be ashes, orations and plays
would be vacuums.

All architecture is what you do to it when you look upon it,

(Did you think it was in the white or gray stone? or the lines of
the arches and cornices?)

All music is what awakes from you when you are reminded by the
instruments,

It is not the violins and the cornets, it is not the oboe nor the
beating drums, nor the score of the baritone singer singing
his sweet romanza, nor that of the men's chorus, nor that
of the women's chorus,

It is nearer and farther than they.

Will the whole come back then?

Can each see signs of the best by a look in the looking-glass? is
there nothing greater or more?

Does all sit there with you, with the mystic unseen soul?

Strange and hard that paradox true I give,

Objects gross and the unseen soul are one.

House-building, measuring, sawing the boards,

Blacksmithing, glass-blowing, nail-making, coopering, tin-roofing,
shingle-dressing,

Ship-joining, dock-building, fish-curing, flagging of sidewalks by
flaggers,

The pump, the pile-driver, the great derrick, the coal-kiln and
brick-kiln,

Coal-mines and all that is down there, the lamps in the darkness,
echoes, songs, what meditations, what vast native thoughts
looking through smutch'd faces,

Iron-works, forge-fires in the mountains or by river-banks, men
around feeling the melt with huge crowbars, lumps of ore,
the due combining of ore, limestone, coal,

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The blast-furnace and the puddling-furnace, the loup-lump at the
bottom of the melt at last, the rolling-mill, the stumpy
bars of pig-iron, the strong clean-shaped T-rail for rail-
roads,

Oil-works, silk-works, white-lead-works, the sugar-house, steam-
saws, the great mills and factories,

Stone-cutting, shapely trimmings for façades or window or door-
lintels, the mallet, the tooth-chisel, the jib to protect the
thumb,

The calking-iron, the kettle of boiling vault-cement, and the fire
under the kettle,

The cotton-bale, the stevedore's hook, the saw and buck of the
sawyer, the mould of the moulder, the working-knife of
the butcher, the ice-saw, and all the work with ice,

The work and tools of the rigger, grappler, sail-maker, block-
maker,

Goods of gutta-percha, papier-maché, colors, brushes, brush-
making, glazier's implements,

The veneer and glue-pot, the confectioner's ornaments, the
decanter and glasses, the shears and flat-iron,

The awl and knee-strap, the pint measure and quart measure, the
counter and stool, the writing-pen of quill or metal, the
making of all sorts of edged tools,

The brewery, brewing, the malt, the vats, every thing that is done
by brewers, wine-makers, vinegar-makers,

Leather-dressing, coach-making, boiler-making, rope-twisting, dis-
tilling, sign-painting, lime-burning, cotton-picking, electro-
plating, electrotyping, stereotyping,

Stave-machines, planing-machines, reaping-machines, ploughing-
machines, thrashing-machines, steam wagons,

The cart of the carman, the omnibus, the ponderous dray,

Pyrotechny, letting off color'd fireworks at night, fancy figures and
jets;

Beef on the butcher's stall, the slaughter-house of the butcher, the
butcher in his killing-clothes,

The pens of live pork, the killing-hammer, the hog-hook, the
scalder's tub, gutting, the cutter's cleaver, the packer's maul,
and the plenteous winterwork of pork-packing,

Flour-works, grinding of wheat, rye, maize, rice, the barrels and
the half and quarter barrels, the loaded barges, the high
piles on wharves and levees,

The men and the work of the men on ferries, railroads, coasters,
fish-boats, canals;

The hourly routine of your own or any man's life, the shop, yard,
store, or factory,

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These shows all near you by day and night—workman! whoever
you are, your daily life!

In that and them the heft of the heaviest—in that and them far
more than you estimated, (and far less also,)

In them realities for you and me, in them poems for you and me,

In them, not yourself—you and your soul enclose all things, re-
gardless of estimation,

In them the development good—in them all themes, hints, possi-
bilities.

I do not affirm that what you see beyond is futile, I do not advise
you to stop,

I do not say leadings you thought great are not great,

But I say that none lead to greater than these lead to.

Will you seek afar off? you surely come back at last,

In things best known to you finding the best, or as good as the
best,

In folks nearest to you finding the sweetest, strongest, lovingest,

Happiness, knowledge, not in another place but this place, not for
another hour but this hour,

Man in the first you see or touch, always in friend, brother,
nighest neighbor—woman in mother, sister, wife,

The popular tastes and employments taking precedence in poems
or anywhere,

You workwomen and workmen of these States having your own
divine and strong life,

And all else giving place to men and women like you.

When the psalm sings instead of the singer,

When the script preaches instead of the preacher,

When the pulpit descends and goes instead of the carver that
carved the supporting desk,

When I can touch the body of books by night or by day, and
when they touch my body back again,

When a university course convinces like a slumbering woman and
child convince,

When the minted gold in the vault smiles like the night-watchman's
daughter,

When warrantee deeds loafe in chairs opposite and are my friendly
companions,

I intend to reach them my hand, and make as much of them as
I do of men and women like you.

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A SONG OF THE ROLLING EARTH.

A SONG of the rolling earth, and of words according,

Were you thinking that those were the words, those upright lines?
those curves, angles, dots?

No, those are not the words, the substantial words are in the
ground and sea,

They are in the air, they are in you.

Were you thinking that those were the words, those delicious sounds
out of your friends' mouths?

No, the real words are more delicious than they.

Human bodies are words, myriads of words,

(In the best poems re-appears the body, man's or woman's, well-
shaped, natural, gay,

Every part able, active, receptive, without shame or the need of
shame.)

Air, soil, water, fire—those are words,

I myself am a word with them—my qualities interpenetrate with
theirs—my name is nothing to them,

Though it were told in the three thousand languages, what would
air, soil, water, fire, know of my name?

A healthy presence, a friendly or commanding gesture, are words,
sayings, meanings,

The charms that go with the mere looks of some men and women,
are sayings and meanings also.

The workmanship of souls is by those inaudible words of the earth,

The masters know the earth's words and use them more than
audible words.

Amelioration is one of the earth's words,

The earth neither lags nor hastens,

It has all attributes, growths, effects, latent in itself from the jump,

It is not half beautiful only, defects and excrescences show just as
much as perfections show.

The earth does not withhold, it is generous enough,

The truths of the earth continually wait, they are not so conceal'd
either,

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They are calm, subtle, untransmissible by print,

They are imbued through all things conveying themselves willingly,

Conveying a sentiment and invitation, I utter and utter,

I speak not, yet if you hear me not of what avail am I to you?

To bear, to better, lacking these of what avail am I?

(Accouche! accouchez!

Will you rot your own fruit in yourself there?

Will you squat and stifle there?)

The earth does not argue,

Is not pathetic, has no arrangements,

Does not scream, haste, persuade, threaten, promise,

Makes no discriminations, has no conceivable failures,

Closes nothing, refuses nothing, shuts none out,

Of all the powers, objects, states, it notifies, shuts none out.

The earth does not exhibit itself nor refuse to exhibit itself, pos-
sesses still underneath,

Underneath the ostensible sounds, the august chorus of heroes, the
wail of slaves,

Persuasions of lovers, curses, gasps of the dying, laughter of young
people, accents of bargainers,

Underneath these possessing words that never fail.

To her children the words of the eloquent dumb great mother
never fail,

The true words do not fail, for motion does not fail and reflection
does not fail,

Also the day and night do not fail, and the voyage we pursue does
not fail.

Of the interminable sisters,

Of the ceaseless cotillons of sisters,

Of the centripetal and centrifugal sisters, the elder and younger
sisters,

The beautiful sister we know dances on with the rest.

With her ample back towards every beholder,

With the fascinations of youth and the equal fascinations of age,

Sits she whom I too love like the rest, sits undisturb'd,

Holding up in her hand what has the character of a mirror, while
her eyes glance back from it,

Glance as she sits, inviting none, denying none,

Holding a mirror day and night tirelessly before her own face.

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Seen at hand or seen at a distance,

Duly the twenty-four appear in public every day,

Duly approach and pass with their companions or a companion,

Looking from no countenances of their own, but from the counte-
nances of those who are with them,

From the countenances of children or women or the manly coun-
tenance,

From the open countenances of animals or from inanimate things,

From the landscape or waters or from the exquisite apparition of
the sky,

From our countenances, mine and yours, faithfully returning them,

Every day in public appearing without fail, but never twice with
the same companions.

Embracing man, embracing all, proceed the three hundred and
sixty-five resistlessly round the sun;

Embracing all, soothing, supporting, follow close three hundred
and sixty-five offsets of the first, sure and necessary as they.

Tumbling on steadily, nothing dreading,

Sunshine, storm, cold, heat, forever withstanding, passing, carrying,

The soul's realization and determination still inheriting,

The fluid vacuum around and ahead still entering and dividing,

No balk retarding, no anchor anchoring, on no rock striking,

Swift, glad, content, unbereav'd, nothing losing,

Of all able and ready at any time to give strict account,

The divine ship sails the divine sea.

Whoever you are! motion and reflection are especially for you,

The divine ship sails the divine sea for you.

Whoever you are! you are he or she for whom the earth is solid
and liquid,

You are he or she for whom the sun and moon hang in the sky,

For none more than you are the present and the past,

For none more than you is immortality.

Each man to himself and each woman to herself, is the word of
the past and present, and the true word of immortality;

No one can acquire for another—not one,

Not one can grow for another—not one.

The song is to the singer, and comes back most to him,

The teaching is to the teacher, and comes back most to him,

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The murder is to the murderer, and comes back most to him,

The theft is to the thief, and comes back most to him,

The love is to the lover, and comes back most to him,

The gift is to the giver, and comes back most to him—it cannot
fail,

The oration is to the orator, the acting is to the actor and actress
not to the audience,

And no man understands any greatness or goodness but his own,
or the indication of his own.

I swear the earth shall surely be complete to him or her who shall
be complete,

The earth remains jagged and broken only to him or her who
remains jagged and broken.

I swear there is no greatness or power that does not emulate
those of the earth,

There can be no theory of any account unless it corroborate the
theory of the earth,

No politics, song, religion, behavior, or what not, is of account,
unless it compare with the amplitude of the earth,

Unless it face the exactness, vitality, impartiality, rectitude of the
earth.

I swear I begin to see love with sweeter spasms than that which
responds love,

It is that which contains itself, which never invites and never
refuses.

I swear I begin to see little or nothing in audible words,

All merges toward the presentation of the unspoken meanings
of the earth,

Toward him who sings the songs of the body and of the truths
of the earth,

Toward him who makes the dictionaries of words that print can-
not touch.

I swear I see what is better than to tell the best,

It is always to leave the best untold.

When I undertake to tell the best I find I cannot,

My tongue is ineffectual on its pivots,

My breath will not be obedient to its organs,

I become a dumb man.

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The best of the earth cannot be told anyhow, all or any is best,

It is not what you anticipated, it is cheaper, easier, nearer,

Things are not dismiss'd from the places they held before,

The earth is just as positive and direct as it was before,

Facts, religions, improvements, politics, trades, are as real as before,

But the soul is also real, it too is positive and direct,

No reasoning, no proof has establish'd it,

Undeniable growth has establish'd it.

These to echo the tones of souls and the phrases of souls,

(If they did not echo the phrases of souls what were they then?

If they had not reference to you in especial what were they then?)

I swear I will never henceforth have to do with the faith that tells
the best,

I will have to do only with that faith that leaves the best untold.

Say on, sayers! sing on, singers!

Delve! mould! pile the words of the earth!

Work on, age after age, nothing is to be lost,

It may have to wait long, but it will certainly come in use,

When the materials are all prepared and ready, the architects shall
appear.

I swear to you the architects shall appear without fail,

I swear to you they will understand you and justify you,

The greatest among them shall be he who best knows you, and
encloses all and is faithful to all,

He and the rest shall not forget you, they shall perceive that you
are not an iota less than they,

You shall be fully glorified in them.

—————

YOUTH, DAY, OLD AGE AND NIGHT.

YOUTH, large, lusty, loving—youth full of grace, force, fascination,

Do you know that Old Age may come after you with equal grace,
force, fascination?

Day full-blown and splendid—day of the immense sun, action,
ambition, laughter,

The Night follows close with millions of suns, and sleep and
restoring darkness.

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BIRDS OF PASSAGE.

—————

SONG OF THE UNIVERSAL.

COME said the Muse,

Sing me a song no poet yet has chanted,

Sing me the universal.

In this broad earth of ours,

Amid the measureless grossness and the slag,

Enclosed and safe within its central heart,

Nestles the seed perfection.

By every life a share or more or less,

None born but it is born, conceal'd or unconceal'd the seed is
waiting.

Lo! keen-eyed towering science,

As from tall peaks the modern overlooking,

Successive absolute fiats issuing.

Yet again, lo! the soul, above all science,

For it has history gather'd like husks around the globe,

For it the entire star-myriads roll through the sky.

In spiral routes by long detours,

(As a much-tacking ship upon the sea,)

For it the partial to the permanent flowing,

For it the real to the ideal tends.

For it the mystic evolution,

Not the right only justified, what we call evil also justified.

Forth from their masks, no matter what,

From the huge festering trunk, from craft and guile and tears,

Health to emerge and joy, joy universal.

Out of the bulk, the morbid and the shallow,

Out of the bad majority, the varied countless frauds of men and
states,

Electric, antiseptic yet, cleaving, suffusing all,

Only the good is universal.

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Over the mountain-growths disease and sorrow,

An uncaught bird is ever hovering, hovering,

High in the purer, happier air.

From imperfection's murkiest cloud,

Darts always forth one ray of perfect light,

One flash of heaven's glory.

To fashion's, custom's discord,

To the mad Babel-din, the deafening orgies,

Soothing each lull a strain is heard, just heard,

From some far shore the final chorus sounding.

O the blest eyes, the happy hearts,

That see, that know the guiding thread so fine,

Along the mighty labyrinth.

And thou America,

For the scheme's culmination, its thought and its reality,

For these (not for thyself) thou hast arrived.

Thou too surroundest all,

Embracing carrying welcoming all, thou too by pathways broad
and new,

To the ideal tendest.

The measur'd faiths of other lands, the grandeurs of the past,

Are not for thee, but grandeurs of thine own,

Deific faiths and amplitudes, absorbing, comprehending all,

All eligible to all.

All, all for immortality,

Love like the light silently wrapping all,

Nature's amelioration blessing all,

The blossoms, fruits of ages, orchards divine and certain,

Forms, objects, growths, humanities, to spiritual images ripening.

Give me O God to sing that thought,

Give me, give him or her I love this quenchless faith,

In Thy ensemble, whatever else withheld withhold not from us,

Belief in plan of Thee enclosed in Time and Space,

Health, peace, salvation universal.

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Is it a dream?

Nay but the lack of it the dream,

And failing it life's lore and wealth a dream,

And all the world a dream.

PIONEERS! O PIONEERS!

COME my tan-faced children,

Follow well in order, get your weapons ready,

Have you your pistols? have you your sharp-edged axes?

Pioneers! O pioneers!

For we cannot tarry here,

We must march my darlings, we must bear the brunt of danger,

We the youthful sinewy races, all the rest on us depend,

Pioneers! O pioneers!

O you youths, Western youths,

So impatient, full of action, full of manly pride and friendship,

Plain I see you Western youths, see you tramping with the fore-
most

Pioneers! O pioneers!

Have the elder races halted?

Do they droop and end their lesson, wearied over there beyond
the seas?

We take up the task eternal, and the burden and the lesson,

Pioneers! O pioneers!

All the past we leave behind,

We debouch upon a newer mightier world, varied world,

Fresh and strong the world we seize, world of labor and the march,

Pioneers! O pioneers!

We detachments steady throwing,

Down the edges, through the passes, up the mountains steep,

Conquering, holding, daring, venturing as we go the unknown ways,

Pioneers! O pioneers!

We primeval forests felling,

We the rivers stemming, vexing we and piercing deep the mines
within,

We the surface broad surveying, we the virgin soil upheaving,

Pioneers! O pioneers!

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Colorado men are we,

From the peaks gigantic, from the great sierras and the high
plateaus,

From the mine and from the gully, from the hunting trail we come,

Pioneers! O pioneers!

From Nebraska, from Arkansas,

Central inland race are we, from Missouri, with the continental
blood intervein'd,

All the hands of comrades clasping, all the Southern, all the
Northern,

Pioneers! O pioneers!

O resistless restless race!

O beloved race in all! O my breast aches with tender love for all!

O I mourn and yet exult, I am rapt with love for all,

Pioneers! O pioneers!

Raise the mighty mother mistress,

Waving high the delicate mistress, over all the starry mistress,
(bend your heads all,)

Raise the fang'd and warlike mistress, stern, impassive, weapon'd
mistress,

Pioneers! O pioneers!

See my children, resolute children,

By those swarms upon our rear we must never yield or falter,

Ages back in ghostly millions frowning there behind us urging,

Pioneers! O pioneers!

On and on the compact ranks,

With accessions ever waiting, with the places of the dead quickly
fill'd,

Through the battle, through defeat, moving yet and never stopping,

Pioneers! O pioneers!

O to die advancing on!

Are there some of us to droop and die? has the hour come?

Then upon the march we fittest die, soon and sure the gap is fill'd,

Pioneers! O pioneers!

All the pulses of the world,

Falling in they beat for us, with the Western movement beat,

Holding single or together, steady moving to the front, all for us,

Pioneers! O pioneers!

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Life's involv'd and varied pageants,

All the forms and shows, all the workmen at their work,

All the seamen and the landsmen, all the masters with their slaves,

Pioneers! O pioneers!

All the hapless silent lovers,

All the prisoners in the prisons, all the righteous and the wicked,

All the joyous, all the sorrowing, all the living, all the dying,

Pioneers! O pioneers!

I too with my soul and body,

We, a curious trio, picking, wandering on our way,

Through these shores amid the shadows, with the apparitions
pressing,

Pioneers! O pioneers!

Lo, the darting bowling orb!

Lo, the brother orbs around, all the clustering suns and planets,

All the dazzling days, all the mystic nights with dreams,

Pioneers! O pioneers!

These are of us, they are with us,

All for primal needed work, while the followers there in embryo
wait behind,

We to-day's procession heading, we the route for travel clearing,

Pioneers! O pioneers!

O you daughters of the West!

O you young and elder daughters! O you mothers and you wives!

Never must you be divided, in our ranks you move united,

Pioneers! O pioneers!

Minstrels latent on the prairies!

(Shrouded bards of other lands, you may rest, you have done
your work,)

Soon I hear you coming warbling, soon you rise and tramp amid us,

Pioneers! O pioneers!

Not for delectations sweet,

Not the cushion and the slipper, not the peaceful and the studious,

Not the riches safe and palling, not for us the tame enjoyment,

Pioneers! O pioneers!

Do the feasters gluttonous feast?

Do the corpulent sleepers sleep? have they lock'd and bolted doors?

Still be ours the diet hard, and the blanket on the ground,

Pioneers! O pioneers!

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Has the night descended?

Was the road of late so toilsome? did we stop discouraged nodding
on our way?

Yet a passing hour I yield you in your tracks to pause oblivious,

Pioneers! O pioneers!

Till with sound of trumpet,

Far, far off the daybreak call—hark! how loud and clear I hear
it wind,

Swift! to the head of the army!—swift! spring to your places,

Pioneers! O pioneers!

TO YOU.

WHOEVER you are, I fear you are walking the walks of dreams,

I fear these supposed realities are to melt from under your feet
and hands,

Even now your features, joys, speech, house, trade, manners,
troubles, follies, costume, crimes, dissipate away from you,

Your true soul and body appear before me,

They stand forth out of affairs, out of commerce, shops, work,
farms, clothes, the house, buying, selling, eating, drinking,
suffering, dying.

Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you, that you be my
poem,

I whisper with my lips close to your ear,

I have loved many women and men, but I love none better than
you.

O I have been dilatory and dumb,

I should have made my way straight to you long ago,

I should have blabb'd nothing but you, I should have chanted
nothing but you.

I will leave all and come and make the hymns of you,

None has understood you, but I understand you,

None has done justice to you, you have not done justice to your-
self,

None but has found you imperfect, I only find no imperfection in
you,

None but would subordinate you, I only am he who will never
consent to subordinate you,

I only am he who places over you no master, owner, better, God,
beyond what waits intrinsically in yourself.

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Painters have painted their swarming groups and the centre-figure
of all,

From the head of the centre-figure spreading a nimbus of gold-
color'd light,

But I paint myriads of heads, but paint no head without its nim-
bus of gold-color'd light,

From my hand from the brain of every man and woman it streams,
effulgently flowing forever.

O I could sing such grandeurs and glories about you!

You have not known what you are, you have slumber'd upon
yourself all your life,

Your eyelids have been the same as closed most of the time,

What you have done returns already in mockeries,

(Your thrift, knowledge, prayers, if they do not return in mock-
eries, what is their return?)

The mockeries are not you,

Underneath them and within them I see you lurk,

I pursue you where none else has pursued you,

Silence, the desk, the flippant expression, the night, the accustom'd
routine, if these conceal you from others or from yourself,
they do not conceal you from me,

The shaved face, the unsteady eye, the impure complexion, if these
balk others they do not balk me,

The pert apparel, the deform'd attitude, drunkenness, greed, pre-
mature death, all these I part aside.

There is no endowment in man or woman that is not tallied in
you,

There is no virtue, no beauty in man or woman, but as good is in
you,

No pluck, no endurance in others, but as good is in you,

No pleasure waiting for others, but an equal pleasure waits for you.

As for me, I give nothing to any one except I give the like care-
fully to you,

I sing the songs of the glory of none, not God, sooner than I
sing the songs of the glory of you.

Whoever you are! claim your own at any hazard!

These shows of the East and West are tame compared to you,

These immense meadows, these interminable rivers, you are
immense and interminable as they,

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These furies, elements, storms, motions of Nature, throes of appar-
ent dissolution, you are he or she who is master or mistress
over them,

Master or mistress in your own right over Nature, elements, pain,
passion, dissolution.

The hopples fall from your ankles, you find an unfailing sufficiency,

Old or young, male or female, rude, low, rejected by the rest,
whatever you are promulges itself,

Through birth, life, death, burial, the means are provided, nothing
is scanted,

Through angers, losses, ambition, ignorance, ennui, what you are
picks its way.

FRANCE,

The 18th Year of these States.

A GREAT year and place,

A harsh discordant natal scream out-sounding, to touch the
mother's heart closer than any yet.

I walk'd the shores of my Eastern sea,

Heard over the waves the little voice,

Saw the divine infant where she woke mournfully wailing, amid the
roar of cannon, curses, shouts, crash of falling buildings,

Was not so sick from the blood in the gutters running, nor from
the single corpses, nor those in heaps, nor those borne
away in the tumbrils,

Was not so desperate at the battues of death—was not so shock'd
at the repeated fusillades of the guns.

Pale, silent, stern, what could I say to that long-accrued retribu-
tion?

Could I wish humanity different?

Could I wish the people made of wood and stone?

Or that there be no justice in destiny or time?

O Liberty! O mate for me!

Here too the blaze, the grape-shot and the axe, in reserve, to
fetch them out in case of need,

Here too, though long represt, can never be destroy'd,

Here too could rise at last murdering and ecstatic,

Here too demanding full arrears of vengeance.

Hence I sign this salute over the sea,

And I do not deny that terrible red birth and baptism,

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But remember the little voice that I heard wailing, and wait with
perfect trust, no matter how long,

And from to-day sad and cogent I maintain the bequeath'd cause,
as for all lands,

And I send these words to Paris with my love,

And I guess some chansonniers there will understand them,

For I guess there is latent music yet in France, floods of it,

O I hear already the bustle of instruments, they will soon be
drowning all that would interrupt them,

O I think the east wind brings a triumphal and free march,

It reaches hither, it swells me to joyful madness,

I will run transpose it in words, to justify it,

I will yet sing a song for you ma femme.

MYSELF AND MINE.

MYSELF and mine gymnastic ever,

To stand the cold or heat, to take good aim with a gun, to sail a
boat, to manage horses, to beget superb children,

To speak readily and clearly, to feel at home among common
people,

And to hold our own in terrible positions on land and sea.

Not for an embroiderer,

(There will always be plenty of embroiderers, I welcome them also,)

But for the fibre of things and for inherent men and women.

Not to chisel ornaments,

But to chisel with free stroke the heads and limbs of plenteous
supreme Gods, that the States may realize them walking
and talking.

Let me have my own way,

Let others promulge the laws, I will make no account of the laws,

Let others praise eminent men and hold up peace, I hold up
agitation and conflict,

I praise no eminent man, I rebuke to his face the one that was
thought most worthy.

(Who are you? and what are you secretly guilty of all your life?

Will you turn aside all your life? will you grub and chatter all
your life?

And who are you, blabbing by rote, years, pages, languages,
reminiscences,

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Unwitting to-day that you do not know how to speak properly a
single word?)

Let others finish specimens, I never finish specimens,

I start them by exhaustless laws as Nature does, fresh and modern
continually.

I give nothing as duties,

What others give as duties I give as living impulses,

(Shall I give the heart's action as a duty?)

Let others dispose of questions, I dispose of nothing, I arouse
unanswerable questions,

Who are they I see and touch, and what about them?

What about these likes of myself that draw me so close by tender
directions and indirections?

I call to the world to distrust the accounts of my friends, but
listen to my enemies, as I myself do,

I charge you forever reject those who would expound me, for I
cannot expound myself,

I charge that there be no theory or school founded out of me,

I charge you to leave all free, as I have left all free.

After me, vista!

O I see life is not short, but immeasurably long,

I henceforth tread the world chaste, temperate, an early riser, a
steady grower,

Every hour the semen of centuries, and still of centuries.

I must follow up these continual lessons of the air, water, earth,

I perceive I have no time to lose.

YEAR OF METEORS.

(1859–60.)

YEAR of meteors! brooding year!

I would bind in words retrospective some of your deeds and signs,

I would sing your contest for the 19th Presidentiad,

I would sing how an old man, tall, with white hair, mounted the
scaffold in Virginia,

(I was at hand, silent I stood with teeth shut close, I watch'd,

I stood very near you old man when cool and indifferent, but
trembling with age and your unheal'd wounds you mounted
the scaffold;)

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I would sing in my copious song your census returns of the States,

The tables of population and products, I would sing of your ships
and their cargoes,

The proud black ships of Manhattan arriving, some fill'd with
immigrants, some from the isthmus with cargoes of gold,

Songs thereof would I sing, to all that hitherward comes would I
welcome give,

And you would I sing, fair stripling! welcome to you from me,
young prince of England!

(Remember you surging Manhattan's crowds as you pass'd with
your cortege of nobles?

There in the crowds stood I, and singled you out with attachment;)

Nor forget I to sing of the wonder, the ship as she swam up my
bay,

Well-shaped and stately the Great Eastern swam up my bay, she
was 600 feet long,

Her moving swiftly surrounded by myriads of small craft I forget
not to sing;

Nor the comet that came unannounced out of the north flaring in
heaven,

Nor the strange huge meteor-procession dazzling and clear shoot-
ing over our heads,

(A moment, a moment long it sail'd its balls of unearthly light
over our heads,

Then departed, dropt in the night, and was gone;)

Of such, and fitful as they, I sing—with gleams from them would
I gleam and patch these chants,

Your chants, O year all mottled with evil and good—year of
forebodings!

Year of comets and meteors transient and strange—lo! even here
one equally transient and strange!

As I flit through you hastily, soon to fall and be gone, what is this
chant,

What am I myself but one of your meteors?

WITH ANTECEDENTS.

WITH antecedents,

With my fathers and mothers and the accumulations of past
ages,

With all which, had it not been, I would not now be here, as I
am,

With Egypt, India, Phenicia, Greece and Rome,

With the Kelt, the Scandinavian, the Alb and the Saxon,

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With antique maritime ventures, laws, artisanship, wars and jour-
neys,

With the poet, the skald, the saga, the myth, and the oracle,

With the sale of slaves, with enthusiasts, with the troubadour, the
crusader, and the monk,

With those old continents whence we have come to this new
continent,

With the fading kingdoms and kings over there,

With the fading religions and priests,

With the small shores we look back to from our own large and
present shores,

With countless years drawing themselves onward and arrived at
these years,

You and me arrived—America arrived and making this year,

This year! sending itself ahead countless years to come.

O but it is not the years—it is I, it is You,

We touch all laws and tally all antecedents,

We are the skald, the oracle, the monk and the knight, we easily
include them and more,

We stand amid time beginningless and endless, we stand amid evil
and good,

All swings around us, there is as much darkness as light,

The very sun swings itself and its system of planets around us,

Its sun, and its again, all swing around us.

As for me, (torn, stormy, amid these vehement days,)

I have the idea of all, and am all and believe in all,

I believe materialism is true and spiritualism is true, I reject no
part.

(Have I forgotten any part? any thing in the past?

Come to me whoever and whatever, till I give you recogni-
tion.)

I respect Assyria, China, Teutonia, and the Hebrews,

I adopt each theory, myth, god, and demi-god,

I see that the old accounts, bibles, genealogies, are true, without
exception,

I assert that all past days were what they must have been,

And that they could no-how have been better than they were,

And that to-day is what it must be, and that America is,

And that to-day and America could no-how be better than they
are.

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In the name of these States and in your and my name, the
Past,

And in the name of these States and in your and my name, the
Present time.

I know that the past was great and the future will be great,

And I know that both curiously conjoint in the present time,

(For the sake of him I typify, for the common average man's sake, your
sake if you are he,)

And that where I am or you are this present day, there is the
centre of all days, all races,

And there is the meaning to us of all that has ever come of races
and days, or ever will come.

—————

A BROADWAY PAGEANT.

OVER the Western sea hither from Niphon come,

Courteous, the swart-cheek'd two-sworded envoys,

Leaning back in their open barouches, bare-headed, impassive,

Ride to-day through Manhattan.

Libertad! I do not know whether others behold what I behold,

In the procession along with the nobles of Niphon, the errand-
bearers,

Bringing up the rear, hovering above, around, or in the ranks
marching,

But I will sing you a song of what I behold Libertad.

When million-footed Manhattan unpent descends to her pavements,

When the thunder-cracking guns arouse me with the proud roar
I love,

When the round-mouth'd guns out of the smoke and smell I love
spit their salutes,

When the fire-flashing guns have fully alerted me, and heaven-
clouds canopy my city with a delicate thin haze,

When gorgeous the countless straight stems, the forests at the
wharves, thicken with colors,

When every ship richly drest carries her flag at the peak,

When pennants trail and street-festoons hang from the windows,

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When Broadway is entirely given up to foot-passengers and foot-
standers, when the mass is densest,

When the façades of the houses are alive with people, when eyes
gaze riveted tens of thousands at a time,

When the guests from the islands advance, when the pageant
moves forward visible,

When the summons is made, when the answer that waited thou-
sands of years answers,

I too arising, answering, descend to the pavements, merge with
the crowd, and gaze with them.

Superb-faced Manhattan!

Comrade Americanos! to us, then at last the Orient comes.

To us, my city,

Where our tall-topt marble and iron beauties range on opposite
sides, to walk in the space between,

To-day our Antipodes comes.

The Originatress comes,

The nest of languages, the bequeather of poems, the race of eld,

Florid with blood, pensive, rapt with musings, hot with passion,

Sultry with perfume, with ample and flowing garments,

With sunburnt visage, with intense soul and glittering eyes,

The race of Brahma comes.

See my cantabile! these and more are flashing to us from the
procession,

As it moves changing, a kaleidoscope divine it moves changing
before us.

For not the envoys nor the tann'd Japanee from his island only,

Lithe and silent the Hindoo appears, the Asiatic continent itself
appears, the past, the dead,

The murky night-morning of wonder and fable inscrutable,

The envelop'd mysteries, the old and unknown hive-bees,

The north, the sweltering south, eastern Assyria, the Hebrews, the
ancient of ancients,

Vast desolated cities, the gliding present, all of these and more are
in the pageant-procession.

Geography, the world, is in it,

The Great Sea, the brood of islands, Polynesia, the coast beyond,

The coast you henceforth are facing—you Libertad! from your
Western golden shores,

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The countries there with their populations, the millions en-masse
are curiously here,

The swarming market-places, the temples with idols ranged along
the sides or at the end, bonze, brahmin, and llama,

Mandarin, farmer, merchant, mechanic, and fisherman,

The singing-girl and the dancing-girl, the ecstatic persons, the
secluded emperors,

Confucius himself, the great poets and heroes, the warriors, the
castes, all,

Trooping up, crowding from all directions, from the Altay moun-
tains,

From Thibet, from the four winding and far-flowing rivers of
China,

From the southern peninsulas and the demi-continental islands,
from Malaysia,

These and whatever belongs to them palpable show forth to me,
and are seiz'd by me,

And I am seiz'd by them, and friendlily held by them,

Till as here them all I chant, Libertad! for themselves and for
you.

For I too raising my voice join the ranks of this pageant,

I am the chanter, I chant aloud over the pageant,

I chant the world on my Western sea,

I chant copious the islands beyond, thick as stars in the sky,

I chant the new empire grander than any before, as in a vision it
comes to me,

I chant America the mistress, I chant a greater supremacy,

I chant projected a thousand blooming cities yet in time on those
groups of sea-islands,

My sail-ships and steam-ships threading the archipelagoes,

My stars and stripes fluttering in the wind,

Commerce opening, the sleep of ages having done its work, races
reborn, refresh'd,

Lives, works resumed—the object I know not—but the old, the
Asiatic renew'd as it must be,

Commencing from this day surrounded by the world.

And you Libertad of the world!

You shall sit in the middle well-pois'd thousands and thousands of
years,

As to-day from one side the nobles of Asia come to you,

As to-morrow from the other side the queen of England sends her
eldest son to you.

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The sign is reversing, the orb is enclosed,

The ring is circled, the journey is done,

The box-lid is but perceptibly open'd, nevertheless the perfume
pours copiously out of the whole box.

Young Libertad! with the venerable Asia, the all-mother,

Be considerate with her now and ever hot Libertad, for you are all,

Bend your proud neck to the long-off mother now sending mes-
sages over the archipelagoes to you,

Bend your proud neck low for once, young Libertad.

Were the children straying westward so long? so wide the tramping?

Were the precedent dim ages debouching westward from Paradise
so long?

Were the centuries steadily footing it that way, all the while
unknown, for you, for reasons?

They are justified, they are accomplish'd, they shall now be turn'd
the other way also, to travel toward you thence,

They shall now also march obediently eastward for your sake
Libertad.

—————

SEA-DRIFT.

—————

OUT OF THE CRADLE ENDLESSLY ROCKING.

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 fall-
ings I heard,

From under that yellow half-moon late-risen and swollen as if with
tears,

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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 blowsouth, 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,

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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 wafting 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!

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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,

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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 tumultu-
ously 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.

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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 day-
break,

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.

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AS I EBB'D WITH THE OCEAN OF LIFE.

AS I ebb'd with the ocean of life,

As I wended the shores I know,

As I walk'd where the ripples continually wash you Paumanok,

Where they rustle up hoarse and sibilant,

Where the fierce old mother endlessly cries for her castaways,

I musing late in the autumn day, gazing off southward,

Held by this electric self out of the pride of which I utter poems,

Was seiz'd by the spirit that trails in the lines underfoot,

The rim, the sediment that stands for all the water and all the
land of the globe.

Fascinated, my eyes reverting from the south, dropt, to follow
those slender windrows,

Chaff, straw, splinters of wood, weeds, and the sea-gluten,

Scum, scales from shining rocks, leaves of salt-lettuce, left by the
tide,

Miles walking, the sound of breaking waves the other side of me,

Paumanok there and then as I thought the old thought of likenesses,

These you presented to me you fish-shaped island,

As I wended the shores I know,

As I walk'd with that electric self seeking types.

As I wend to the shores I know not,

As I list to the dirge, the voices of men and women wreck'd,

As I inhale the impalpable breezes that set in upon me,

As the ocean so mysterious rolls toward me closer and closer,

I too but signify at the utmost a little wash'd-up drift,

A few sands and dead leaves to gather,

Gather, and merge myself as part of the sands and drift.

O baffled, balk'd, bent to the very earth,

Oppress'd with myself that I have dared to open my mouth,

Aware now that amid all that blab whose echoes recoil upon me I
have not once had the least idea who or what I am,

But that before all my arrogant poems the real Me stands yet
untouch'd, untold, altogether unreach'd,

Withdrawn far, mocking me with mock-congratulatory signs and
bows,

With peals of distant ironical laughter at every word I have written,

Pointing in silence to these songs, and then to the sand beneath.

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I perceive I have not really understood any thing, not a single
object, and that no man ever can,

Nature here in sight of the sea taking advantage of me to dart
upon me and sting me,

Because I have dared to open my mouth to sing at all.

You oceans both, I close with you,

We murmur alike reproachfully rolling sands and drift, knowing
not why,

These little shreds indeed standing for you and me and all.

You friable shore with trails of debris,

You fish-shaped island, I take what is underfoot,

What is yours is mine my father.

I too Paumanok,

I too have bubbled up, floated the measureless float, and been
wash'd on your shores,

I too am but a trail of drift and debris,

I too leave little wrecks upon you, you fish-shaped island.

I throw myself upon your breast my father,

I cling to you so that you cannot unloose me,

I hold you so firm till you answer me something.

Kiss me my father,

Touch me with your lips as I touch those I love,

Breathe to me while I hold you close the secret of the murmuring
I envy.

Ebb, ocean of life, (the flow will return,)

Cease not your moaning you fierce old mother,

Endlessly cry for your castaways, but fear not, deny not me,

Rustle not up so hoarse and angry against my feet as I touch you
or gather from you.

I mean tenderly by you and all,

I gather for myself and for this phantom looking down where we
lead, and following me and mine.

Me and mine, loose windrows, little corpses,

Froth, snowy white, and bubbles,

(See, from my dead lips the ooze exuding at last,

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See, the prismatic colors glistening and rolling,)

Tufts of straw, sands, fragments,

Buoy'd hither from many moods, one contradicting another,

From the storm, the long calm, the darkness, the swell,

Musing, pondering, a breath, a briny tear, a dab of liquid or soil,

Up just as much out of fathomless workings fermented and thrown,

A limp blossom or two, torn, just as much over waves floating,
drifted at random,

Just as much for us that sobbing dirge of Nature,

Just as much whence we come that blare of the cloud-trumpets,

We, capricious, brought hither we know not whence, spread out
before you,

You up there walking or sitting,

Whoever you are, we too lie in drifts at your feet.

TEARS.

TEARS! tears! tears!

In the night, in solitude, tears,

On the white shore dripping, dripping, suck'd in by the sand,

Tears, not a star shining, all dark and desolate,

Moist tears from the eyes of a muffled head;

O who is that ghost? that form in the dark, with tears?

What shapeless lump is that, bent, crouch'd there on the sand?

Streaming tears, sobbing tears, throes, choked with wild cries;

O storm, embodied, rising, careering with swift steps along the
beach!

O wild and dismal night storm, with wind—O belching and des-
perate!

O shade so sedate and decorous by day, with calm countenance
and regulated pace,

But away at night as you fly, none looking—O then the unloosen'd
ocean,

Of tears! tears! tears!

TO THE MAN-OF-WAR-BIRD.

THOU who hast slept all night upon the storm,

Waking renew'd on thy prodigious pinions,

(Burst the wild storm? above it thou ascended'st,

And rested on the sky, thy slave that cradled thee,)

Now a blue point, far, far in heaven floating,

As to the light emerging here on deck I watch thee,

(Myself a speck, a point on the world's floating vast.)

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Far, far at sea,

After the night's fierce drifts have strewn the shore with wrecks,

With re-appearing day as now so happy and serene,

The rosy and elastic dawn, the flashing sun,

The limpid spread of air cerulean,

Thou also re-appearest.

Thou born to match the gale, (thou art all wings,)

To cope with heaven and earth and sea and hurricane,

Thou ship of air that never furl'st thy sails,

Days, even weeks untired and onward, through spaces, realms
gyrating,

At dusk that look'st on Senegal, at morn America,

That sport'st amid the lightning-flash and thunder-cloud,

In them, in thy experiences, had'st thou my soul,

What joys! what joys were thine!

ABOARD AT A SHIP'S HELM.

ABOARD at a ship's helm,

A young steersman steering with care.

Through fog on a sea-coast dolefully ringing,

An ocean-bell—O a warning bell, rock'd by the waves.

O you give good notice indeed, you bell by the sea-reefs ringing,

Ringing, ringing, to warn the ship from its wreck-place.

For as on the alert O steersman, you mind the loud admonition,

The bows turn, the freighted ship tacking speeds away under her
gray sails,

The beautiful and noble ship with all her precious wealth speeds
away gayly and safe.

But O the ship, the immortal ship! O ship aboard the ship!

Ship of the body, ship of the soul, voyaging, voyaging, voyaging.

ON THE BEACH AT NIGHT.

ON the beach at night,

Stands a child with her father,

Watching the east, the autumn sky.

Up through the darkness,

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While ravening clouds, the burial clouds, in black masses spreading,

Lower sullen and fast athwart and down the sky,

Amid a transparent clear belt of ether yet left in the east,

Ascends large and calm the lord-star Jupiter,

And nigh at hand, only a very little above,

Swim the delicate sisters the Pleiades.

From the beach the child holding the hand of her father,

Those burial-clouds that lower victorious soon to devour all,

Watching, silently weeps.

Weep not, child,

Weep not, my darling,

With these kisses let me remove your tears,

The ravening clouds shall not long be victorious,

They shall not long possess the sky, they devour the stars only in
apparition,

Jupiter shall emerge, be patient, watch again another night, the
Pleiades shall emerge,

They are immortal, all those stars both silvery and golden shall
shine out again,

The great stars and the little ones shall shine out again, they
endure,

The vast immortal suns and the long-enduring pensive moons
shall again shine.

Then dearest child mournest thou only for Jupiter?

Considerest thou alone the burial of the stars?

Something there is,

(With my lips soothing thee, adding I whisper,

I give thee the first suggestion, the problem and indirection,)

Something there is more immortal even than the stars,

(Many the burials, many the days and nights, passing away,)

Something that shall endure longer even than lustrous Jupiter,

Longer than sun or any revolving satellite,

Or the radiant sisters the Pleiades.

THE WORLD BELOW THE BRINE.

THE world below the brine,

Forests at the bottom of the sea, the branches and leaves,

Sea-lettuce, vast lichens, strange flowers and seeds, the thick tangle,
openings, and pink turf,

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Different colors, pale gray and green, purple, white, and gold, the
play of light through the water,

Dumb swimmers there among the rocks, coral, gluten, grass, rushes,
and the aliment of the swimmers,

Sluggish existences grazing there suspended, or slowly crawling
close to the bottom,

The sperm-whale at the surface blowing air and spray, or disporting
with his flukes,

The leaden-eyed shark, the walrus, the turtle, the hairy sea-leopard,
and the sting-ray,

Passions there, wars, pursuits, tribes, sight in those ocean-depths,
breathing that thick-breathing air, as so many do,

The change thence to the sight here, and to the subtle air breathed
by beings like us who walk this sphere,

The change onward from ours to that of beings who walk other
spheres.

ON THE BEACH AT NIGHT ALONE.

ON the beach at night alone,

As the old mother sways her to and fro singing her husky song,

As I watch the bright stars shining, I think a thought of the clef
of the universes and of the future.

A vast similitude interlocks all,

All spheres, grown, ungrown, small, large, suns, moons, planets,

All distances of place however wide,

All distances of time, all inanimate forms,

All souls, all living bodies though they be ever so different, or in
different worlds,

All gaseous, watery, vegetable, mineral processes, the fishes, the
brutes,

All nations, colors, barbarisms, civilizations, languages,

All identities that have existed or may exist on this globe, or any
globe,

All lives and deaths, all of the past, present, future,

This vast similitude spans them, and always has spann'd,

And shall forever span them and compactly hold and enclose them.

SONG FOR ALL SEAS, ALL SHIPS.

TO-DAY a rude brief recitative,

Of ships sailing the seas, each with its special flag or ship-signal,

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Of unnamed heroes in the ships—of waves spreading and spread-
ing far as the eye can reach,

Of dashing spray, and the winds piping and blowing,

And out of these a chant for the sailors of all nations,

Fitful, like a surge.

Of sea-captains young or old, and the mates, and of all intrepid
sailors,

Of the few, very choice, taciturn, whom fate can never surprise
nor death dismay,

Pick'd sparingly without noise by thee old ocean, chosen by thee,

Thou sea that pickest and cullest the race in time, and unitest
nations,

Suckled by thee, old husky nurse, embodying thee,

Indomitable, untamed as thee.

(Ever the heroes on water or on land, by ones or twos appearing,

Ever the stock preserv'd and never lost, though rare, enough for
seed preserv'd.)

Flaunt out O sea your separate flags of nations!

Flaunt out visible as ever the various ship-signals!

But do you reserve especially for yourself and for the soul of man
one flag above all the rest,

A spiritual woven signal for all nations, emblem of man elate above
death,

Token of all brave captains and all intrepid sailors and mates,

And all that went down doing their duty,

Reminiscent of them, twined from all intrepid captains young or old,

A pennant universal, subtly waving all time, o'er all brave sailors,

All seas, all ships.

PATROLING BARNEGAT.

WILD, wild the storm, and the sea high running,

Steady the roar of the gale, with incessant undertone muttering,

Shouts of demoniac laughter fitfully piercing and pealing,

Waves, air, midnight, their savagest trinity lashing,

Out in the shadows there milk-white combs careering,

On beachy slush and sand spirts of snow fierce slanting,

Where through the murk the easterly death-wind breasting,

Through cutting swirl and spray watchful and firm advancing,

(That in the distance! is that a wreck? is the red signal flaring?)

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Slush and sand of the beach tireless till daylight wending,

Steadily, slowly, through hoarse roar never remitting,

Along the midnight edge by those milk-white combs careering,

A group of dim, weird forms, struggling, the night confronting,

That savage trinity warily watching.

AFTER THE SEA-SHIP.

AFTER the sea-ship, after the whistling winds,

After the white-gray sails taut to their spars and ropes,

Below, a myriad myriad waves hastening, lifting up their necks,

Tending in ceaseless flow toward the track of the ship,

Waves of the ocean bubbling and gurgling, blithely prying,

Waves, undulating waves, liquid, uneven, emulous waves,

Toward that whirling current, laughing and buoyant, with curves,

Where the great vessel sailing and tacking displaced the surface,

Larger and smaller waves in the spread of the ocean yearnfully
flowing,

The wake of the sea-ship after she passes, flashing and frolicsome
under the sun,

A motley procession with many a fleck of foam and many fragments,

Following the stately and rapid ship, in the wake following.

—————

BY THE ROADSIDE.

—————

A BOSTON BALLAD.

(1854.)

TO get betimes in Boston town I rose this morning early,

Here's a good place at the corner, I must stand and see the show.

Clear the way there Jonathan!

Way for the President's marshal—way for the government cannon!

Way for the Federal foot and dragoons, (and the apparitions
copiously tumbling.)

I love to look on the Stars and Stripes, I hope the fifes will play
Yankee Doodle.

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How bright shine the cutlasses of the foremost troops!

Every man holds his revolver, marching stiff through Boston town.

A fog follows, antiques of the same come limping,

Some appear wooden-legged, and some appear bandaged and
bloodless.

Why this is indeed a show—it has called the dead out of the
earth!

The old graveyards of the hills have hurried to see!

Phantoms! phantoms countless by flank and rear!

Cock'd hats of mothy mould—crutches made of mist!

Arms in slings—old men leaning on young men's shoulders.

What troubles you Yankee phantoms? what is all this chattering
of bare gums?

Does the ague convulse your limbs? do you mistake your crutches
for firelocks and level them?

If you blind your eyes with tears you will not see the President's
marshal,

If you groan such groans you might balk the government cannon.

For shame old maniacs—bring down those toss'd arms, and let
your white hair be,

Here gape your great grandsons, their wives gaze at them from
the windows,

See how well dress'd, see how orderly they conduct themselves.

Worse and worse—can't you stand it? are you retreating?

Is this hour with the living too dead for you?

Retreat then—pell-mell!

To your graves—back—back to the hills old limpers!

I do not think you belong here anyhow.

But there is one thing that belongs here—shall I tell you what it
is, gentlemen of Boston?

I will whisper it to the Mayor, he shall send a committee to
England,

They shall get a grant from the Parliament, go with a cart to the
royal vault,

Dig out King George's coffin, unwrap him quick from the grave-
clothes, box up his bones for a journey,

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Find a swift Yankee clipper—here is freight for you, black-bellied
clipper,

Up with your anchor—shake out your sails—steer straight toward
Boston bay.

Now call for the President's marshal again, bring out the govern-
ment cannon,

Fetch home the roarers from Congress, make another procession,
guard it with foot and dragoons.

This centre-piece for them;

Look, all orderly citizens—look from the windows, women!

The committee open the box, set up the regal ribs, glue those that
will not stay,

Clap the skull on top of the ribs, and clap a crown on top of the
skull.

You have got your revenge, old buster—the crown is come to its
own, and more than its own.

Stick your hands in your pockets, Jonathan—you are a made
man from this day,

You are mighty cute—and here is one of your bargains.

EUROPE,

The 72d and 73d Years of These States.

SUDDENLY out of its stale and drowsy lair, the lair of slaves,

Like lightning it le'pt forth half startled at itself,

Its feet upon the ashes and the rags, its hands tight to the throats
of kings.

O hope and faith!

O aching close of exiled patriots' lives!

O many a sicken'd heart!

Turn back unto this day and make yourselves afresh.

And you, paid to defile the People—you liars, mark!

Not for numberless agonies, murders, lusts,

For court thieving in its manifold mean forms, worming from his
simplicity the poor man's wages,

For many a promise sworn by royal lips and broken and laugh'd
at in the breaking,

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Then in their power not for all these did the blows strike revenge,
or the heads of the nobles fall;

The People scorn'd the ferocity of kings.

But the sweetness of mercy brew'd bitter destruction, and the
frighten'd monarchs come back,

Each comes in state with his train, hangman, priest, tax-gatherer,

Soldier, lawyer, lord, jailer, and sycophant.

Yet behind all lowering stealing, lo, a shape,

Vague as the night, draped interminably, head, front and form, in
scarlet folds,

Whose face and eyes none may see,

Out of its robes only this, the red robes lifted by the arm,

One finger crook'd pointed high over the top, like the head of a
snake appears.

Meanwhile corpses lie in new-made graves, bloody corpses of
young men,

The rope of the gibbet hangs heavily, the bullets of princes are
flying, the creatures of power laugh aloud,

And all these things bear fruits, and they are good.

Those corpses of young men,

Those martyrs that hang from the gibbets, those hearts pierc'd by
the gray lead,

Cold and motionless as they seem live elsewhere with unslaugh-
ter'd vitality.

They live in other young men O kings!

They live in brothers again ready to defy you,

They were purified by death, they were taught and exalted.

Not a grave of the murder'd for freedom but grows seed for free-
dom, in its turn to bear seed,

Which the winds carry afar and re-sow, and the rains and the
snows nourish.

Not a disembodied spirit can the weapons of tyrants let loose,

But it stalks invisibly over the earth, whispering, counseling,
cautioning.

Liberty, let others despair of you—I never despair of you.

Is the house shut? is the master away?

Nevertheless, be ready, be not weary of watching,

He will soon return, his messengers come anon.

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A HAND-MIRROR.

HOLD it up sternly—see this it sends back, (who is it? is it
you?)

Outside fair costume, within ashes and filth,

No more a flashing eye, no more a sonorous voice or springy
step,

Now some slave's eye, voice, hands, step,

A drunkard's breath, unwholesome eater's face, venerealee's flesh,

Lungs rotting away piecemeal, stomach sour and cankerous,

Joints rheumatic, bowels clogged with abomination,

Blood circulating dark and poisonous streams,

Words babble, hearing and touch callous,

No brain, no heart left, no magnetism of sex;

Such from one look in this looking-glass ere you go hence,

Such a result so soon—and from such a beginning!

GODS.

LOVER divine and perfect Comrade,

Waiting content, invisible yet, but certain,

Be thou my God.

Thou, thou, the Ideal Man,

Fair, able, beautiful, content, and loving,

Complete in body and dilate in spirit,

Be thou my God.

O Death, (for Life has served its turn,)

Opener and usher to the heavenly mansion,

Be thou my God.

Aught, aught of mightiest, best I see, conceive, or know,

(To break the stagnant tie—thee, thee to free, O soul,)

Be thou my God.

All great ideas, the races' aspirations,

All heroisms, deeds of rapt enthusiasts,

Be ye my Gods.

Or Time and Space,

Or shape of Earth divine and wondrous,

Or some fair shape I viewing, worship,

Or lustrous orb of sun or star by night,

Be ye my Gods.

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GERMS.

FORMS, qualities, lives, humanity, language, thoughts,

The ones known, and the ones unknown, the ones on the stars,

The stars themselves, some shaped, others unshaped,

Wonders as of those countries, the soil, trees, cities, inhabitants,
whatever they may be,

Splendid suns, the moons and rings, the countless combinations
and effects,

Such-like, and as good as such-like, visible here or anywhere,
stand provided for in a handful of space, which I extend
my arm and half enclose with my hand,

That containing the start of each and all, the virtue, the germs
of all.

THOUGHTS.

OF ownership—as if one fit to own things could not at pleasure
enter upon all, and incorporate them into himself or herself;

Of vista—suppose some sight in arriere through the formative
chaos, presuming the growth, fulness, life, now attain'd on
the journey,

(But I see the road continued, and the journey ever continued;)

Of what was once lacking on earth, and in due time has become
supplied—and of what will yet be supplied,

Because all I see and know I believe to have its main purport in
what will yet be supplied.

WHEN I HEARD THE LEARN'D ASTRONOMER.

WHEN I heard the learn'd astronomer,

When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me,

When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add, divide, and
measure them,

When I sitting heard the astronomer where he lectured with much
applause in the lecture-room,

How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick,

Till rising and gliding out I wander'd off by myself,

In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,

Look'd up in perfect silence at the stars.

PERFECTIONS.

ONLY themselves understand themselves and the like of themselves,

As souls only understand souls.

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O ME! O LIFE!

O ME! O life! of the questions of these recurring,

Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill'd with the
foolish,

Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I,
and who more faithless?)

Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the
struggle ever renew'd,

Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I
see around me,

Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest me inter-
twined,

The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these,
O me, O life?

Answer.

That you are here—that life exists and identity,

That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.

TO A PRESIDENT.

ALL you are doing and saying is to America dangled mirages,

You have not learn'd of Nature—of the politics of Nature you
have not learn'd the great amplitude, rectitude, impartiality,

You have not seen that only such as they are for these States,

And that what is less than they must sooner or later lift off from
these States.

I SIT AND LOOK OUT.

I SIT and look out upon all the sorrows of the world, and upon all
oppression and shame,

I hear secret convulsive sobs from young men at anguish with
themselves, remorseful after deeds done,

I see in low life the mother misused by her children, dying,
neglected, gaunt, desperate,

I see the wife misused by her husband, I see the treacherous
seducer of young women,

I mark the ranklings of jealousy and unrequited love attempted to
be hid, I see these sights on the earth,

I see the workings of battle, pestilence, tyranny, I see martyrs and
prisoners,

I observe a famine at sea, I observe the sailors casting lots who
shall be kill'd to preserve the lives of the rest,

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I observe the slights and degradations cast by arrogant persons
upon laborers, the poor, and upon negroes, and the like;

All these—all the meanness and agony without end I sitting look
out upon,

See, hear, and am silent.

TO RICH GIVERS.

WHAT you give me I cheerfully accept,

A little sustenance, a hut and garden, a little money, as I rendez-
vous with my poems,

A traveler's lodging and breakfast as I journey through the States,
—why should I be ashamed to own such gifts? why to
advertise for them?

For I myself am not one who bestows nothing upon man and woman,

For I bestow upon any man or woman the entrance to all the gifts
of the universe.

THE DALLIANCE OF THE EAGLES.

SKIRTING the river road, (my forenoon walk, my rest,)

Skyward in air a sudden muffled sound, the dalliance of the eagles,

The rushing amorous contact high in space together,

The clinching interlocking claws, a living, fierce, gyrating wheel,

Four beating wings, two beaks, a swirling mass tight grappling,

In tumbling turning clustering loops, straight downward falling,

Till o'er the river pois'd, the twain yet one, a moment's lull,

A motionless still balance in the air, then parting, talons loosing,

Upward again on slow-firm pinions slanting, their separate diverse
flight,

She hers, he his, pursuing.

ROAMING IN THOUGHT.

(After reading HEGEL.)

Roaming in thought over the Universe, I saw the little that is
Good steadily hastening towards immortality,

And the vast all that is call'd Evil I saw hastening to merge itself
and become lost and dead.

A FARM PICTURE.

THROUGH the ample open door of the peaceful country barn,

A sunlit pasture field with cattle and horses feeding,

And haze and vista, and the far horizon fading away.

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A CHILD'S AMAZE

SILENT and amazed even when a little boy,

I remember I heard the preacher every Sunday put God in his
statements,

As contending against some being or influence.

THE RUNNER.

ON a flat road runs the well-train'd runner,

He is lean and sinewy with muscular legs,

He is thinly clothed, he leans forward as he runs,

With lightly closed fists and arms partially rais'd.

BEAUTIFUL WOMEN.

WOMEN sit or move to and fro, some old, some young,

The young are beautiful—but the old are more beautiful than the
young.

MOTHER AND BABE.

I SEE the sleeping babe nestling the breast of its mother,

The sleeping mother and babe—hush'd, I study them long and
long.

THOUGHT.

OF obedience, faith, adhesiveness;

As I stand aloof and look there is to me something profoundly
affecting in large masses of men following the lead of those
who do not believe in men.

VISOR'D.

A MASK, a perpetual natural disguiser of herself,

Concealing her face, concealing her form,

Changes and transformations every hour, every moment,

Falling upon her even when she sleeps.

THOUGHT.

OF Justice—as if Justice could be any thing but the same ample
law, expounded by natural judges and saviors,

As if it might be this thing or that thing, according to decisions.

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GLIDING O'ER ALL.

GLIDING o'er all, through all,

Through Nature, Time, and Space,

As a ship on the waters advancing,

The voyage of the soul—not life alone,

Death, many deaths I'll sing.

HAST NEVER COME TO THEE AN HOUR.

HAST never come to thee an hour,

A sudden gleam divine, precipitating, bursting all these bubbles,
fashions, wealth?

These eager business aims—books, politics, art, amours,

To utter nothingness?

THOUGHT.

OF Equality—as if it harm'd me, giving others the same chances
and rights as myself—as if it were not indispensable to
my own rights that others possess the same.

TO OLD AGE.

I SEE in you the estuary that enlarges and spreads itself grandly as
it pours in the great sea.

LOCATIONS AND TIMES.

LOCATIONS and times—what is it in me that meets them all, when-
ever and wherever, and makes me at home?

Forms, colors, densities, odors—what is it in me that corresponds
with them?

OFFERINGS.

A THOUSAND perfect men and women appear,

Around each gathers a cluster of friends, and gay children and
youths, with offerings.

TO THE STATES,

To Identify the 16th, 17th, or 18th Presidentiad.

WHY reclining, interrogating? why myself and all drowsing?

What deepening twilight—scum floating atop of the waters,

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Who are they as bats and night-dogs askant in the capitol?

What a filthy Presidentiad! (O South, your torrid suns! O North,
your arctic freezings!)

Are those really Congressmen? are those the great Judges? is that
the President?

Then I will sleep awhile yet, for I see that these States sleep, for
reasons;

(With gathering murk, with muttering thunder and lambent shoots
we all duly awake,

South, North, East, West, inland and seaboard, we will surely
awake.)

—————

DRUM-TAPS.

—————

FIRST O SONGS FOR A PRELUDE.

FIRST O songs for a prelude,

Lightly strike on the stretch'd tympanum pride and joy in my city,

How she led the rest to arms, how she gave the cue,

How at once with lithe limbs unwaiting a moment she sprang,

(O superb! O Manhattan, my own, my peerless!

O strongest you in the hour of danger, in crisis! O truer than steel!)

How you sprang—how you threw off the costumes of peace with
indifferent hand,

How your soft opera-music changed, and the drum and fife were
heard in their stead,

How you led to the war, (that shall serve for our prelude, songs
of soldiers,)

How Manhattan drum-taps led.

Forty years had I in my city seen soldiers parading,

Forty years as a pageant, till unawares the lady of this teeming
and turbulent city,

Sleepless amid her ships, her houses, her incalculable wealth,

With her million children around her, suddenly,

At dead of night, at news from the south,

Incens'd struck with clinch'd hand the pavement.

A shock electric, the night sustain'd it,

Till with ominous hum our hive at daybreak pour'd out its myriads.

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From the houses then and the workshops, and through all the
doorways,

Leapt they tumultuous, and lo! Manhattan arming.

To the drum-taps prompt,

The young men falling in and arming,

The mechanics arming, (the trowel, the jack-plane, the black-
smith's hammer, tost aside with precipitation,)

The lawyer leaving his office and arming, the judge leaving the
court,

The driver deserting his wagon in the street, jumping down,
throwing the reins abruptly down on the horses' backs,

The salesman leaving the store, the boss, book-keeper, porter, all
leaving;

Squads gather everywhere by common consent and arm,

The new recruits, even boys, the old men show them how to wear
their accoutrements, they buckle the straps carefully,

Outdoors arming, indoors arming, the flash of the musket-barrels,

The white tents cluster in camps, the arm'd sentries around, the
sunrise cannon and again at sunset,

Arm'd regiments arrive every day, pass through the city, and
embark from the wharves,

(How good they look as they tramp down to the river, sweaty,
with their guns on their shoulders!

How I love them! how I could hug them, with their brown faces
and their clothes and knapsacks cover'd with dust!)

The blood of the city up—arm'd! arm'd! the cry everywhere,

The flags flung out from the steeples of churches and from all the
public buildings and stores,

The tearful parting, the mother kisses her son, the son kisses his
mother,

(Loth is the mother to part, yet not a word does she speak to
detain him,)

The tumultuous escort, the ranks of policemen preceding, clearing
the way,

The unpent enthusiasm, the wild cheers of the crowd for their
favorites,

The artillery, the silent cannons bright as gold, drawn along,
rumble lightly over the stones,

(Silent cannons, soon to cease your silence,

Soon unlimber'd to begin the red business;)

All the mutter of preparation, all the determin'd arming,

The hospital service, the lint, bandages and medicines,

The women volunteering for nurses, the work begun for in earnest,
no mere parade now;

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War! an arm'd race is advancing! the welcome for battle, no
turning away;

War! be it weeks, months, or years, an arm'd race is advancing
to welcome it.

Mannahatta a-march—and it's O to sing it well!

It's O for a manly life in the camp.

And the sturdy artillery,

The guns bright as gold, the work for giants, to serve well the guns,

Unlimber them! (no more as the past forty years for salutes for
courtesies merely,

Put in something now besides powder and wadding.)

And you lady of ships, you Mannahatta,

Old matron of this proud, friendly, turbulent city,

Often in peace and wealth you were pensive or covertly frown'd
amid all your children,

But now you smile with joy exulting old Mannahatta.

EIGHTEEN SIXTY-ONE.

ARM'D year—year of the struggle,

No dainty rhymes or sentimental love verses for you terrible year,

Not you as some pale poetling seated at a desk lisping cadenzas
piano,

But as a strong man erect, clothed in blue clothes, advancing,
carrying a rifle on your shoulder,

With well-gristled body and sunburnt face and hands, with a knife
in the belt at your side,

As I heard you shouting loud, your sonorous voice ringing across
the continent,

Your masculine voice O year, as rising amid the great cities,

Amid the men of Manhattan I saw you as one of the workmen,
the dwellers in Manhattan,

Or with large steps crossing the prairies out of Illinois and
Indiana,

Rapidly crossing the West with springy gait and descending the
Alleghanies,

Or down from the great lakes or in Pennsylvania, or on deck
along the Ohio river,

Or southward along the Tennessee or Cumberland rivers, or at
Chattanooga on the mountain top,

Saw I your gait and saw I your sinewy limbs clothed in blue,
bearing weapons, robust year,

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Heard your determin'd voice launch'd forth again and again,

Year that suddenly sang by the mouths of the round-lipp'd cannon,

I repeat you, hurrying, crashing, sad, distracted year.

BEAT! BEAT! DRUMS!

BEAT! beat! drums!—blow! bugles! blow!

Through the windows—through doors—burst like a ruthless
force,

Into the solemn church, and scatter the congregation,

Into the school where the scholar is studying;

Leave not the bridegroom quiet—no happiness must he have
now with his bride,

Nor the peaceful farmer any peace, ploughing his field or gathering
his grain,

So fierce you whirr and pound you drums—so shrill you bugles
blow.

Beat! beat! drums!—blow! bugles! blow!

Over the traffic of cities—over the rumble of wheels in the
streets;

Are beds prepared for sleepers at night in the houses? no sleepers
must sleep in those beds,

No bargainers' bargains by day—no brokers or speculators—
would they continue?

Would the talkers be talking? would the singer attempt to sing?

Would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case before the
judge?

Then rattle quicker, heavier drums—you bugles wilder blow.

Beat! beat! drums!—blow! bugles! blow!

Make no parley—stop for no expostulation,

Mind not the timid—mind not the weeper or prayer,

Mind not the old man beseeching the young man,

Let not the child's voice be heard, nor the mother's entreaties,

Make even the trestles to shake the dead where they lie awaiting
the hearses,

So strong you thump O terrible drums—so loud you bugles blow.

FROM PAUMANOK STARTING I FLY LIKE A BIRD.

FROM Paumanok starting I fly like a bird,

Around and around to soar to sing the idea of all,

To the north betaking myself to sing there arctic songs,

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To Kanada till I absorb Kanada in myself, to Michigan then,

To Wisconsin, Iowa, Minnesota, to sing their songs, (they are
inimitable;)

Then to Ohio and Indiana to sing theirs, to Missouri and Kansas
and Arkansas to sing theirs,

To Tennessee and Kentucky, to the Carolinas and Georgia to sing
theirs,

To Texas and so along up toward California, to roam accepted
everywhere;

To sing first, (to the tap of the war-drum if need be,)

The idea of all, of the Western world one and inseparable,

And then the song of each member of these States.

SONG OF THE BANNER AT DAYBREAK.

Poet.

O A new song, a free song,

Flapping, flapping, flapping, flapping, by sounds, by voices clearer,

By the wind's voice and that of the drum,

By the banner's voice and child's voice and sea's voice and father's
voice,

Low on the ground and high in the air,

On the ground where father and child stand,

In the upward air where their eyes turn,

Where the banner at daybreak is flapping.

Words! book-words! what are you?

Words no more, for hearken and see,

My song is there in the open air, and I must sing,

With the banner and pennant a-flapping.

I'll weave the chord and twine in,

Man's desire and babe's desire, I'll twine them in, I'll put in life,

I'll put the bayonet's flashing point, I'll let bullets and slugs whizz,

(As one carrying a symbol and menace far into the future,

Crying with trumpet voice, Arouse and beware! Beware and
arouse!)

I'll pour the verse with streams of blood, full of volition, full of joy,

Then loosen, launch forth, to go and compete,

With the banner and pennant a-flapping.

Pennant.

Come up here, bard, bard,

Come up here, soul, soul,

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Come up here, dear little child,

To fly in the clouds and winds with me, and play with the measure-
less light.

Child.

Father what is that in the sky beckoning to me with long finger?

And what does it say to me all the while?

Father.

Nothing my babe you see in the sky,

And nothing at all to you it says—but look you my babe,

Look at these dazzling things in the houses, and see you the
money-shops opening,

And see you the vehicles preparing to crawl along the streets with
goods;

These, ah these, how valued and toil'd for these!

How envied by all the earth.

Poet.

Fresh and rosy red the sun is mounting high,

On floats the sea in distant blue careering through its channels,

On floats the wind over the breast of thesea setting in toward
land,

The great steady wind from west or west-by-south,

Floating so buoyant with milk-white foam on the waters.

But I am not the sea nor the red sun,

I am not the wind with girlish laughter,

Not the immense wind which strengthens, not the wind which
lashes,

Not the spirit that ever lashes its own body to terror and death,

But I am that which unseen comes and sings, sings, sings,

Which babbles in brooks and scoots in showers on the land,

Which the birds know in the woods mornings and evenings,

And the shore-sands know and the hissing wave, and that banner
and pennant,

Aloft there flapping and flapping.

Child.

O father it is alive—it is full of people—it has children,

O now it seems to me it is talking to its children,

I hear it—it talks to me—O it is wonderful!

O it stretches—it spreads and runs so fast—O my father,

It is so broad it covers the whole sky.

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Father.

Cease, cease, my foolish babe,

What you are saying is sorrowful to me, much it displeases me;

Behold with the rest again I say, behold not banners and pennants
aloft,

But the well-prepared pavements behold, and mark the solid-wall'd
houses.

Banner and Pennant.

Speak to the child O bard out of Manhattan,

To our children all, or north or south of Manhattan,

Point this day, leaving all the rest, to us over all—and yet we
know not why,

For what are we, mere strips of cloth profiting nothing,

Only flapping in the wind?

Poet.

I hear and see not strips of cloth alone,

I hear the tramp of armies, I hear the challenging sentry,

I hear the jubilant shouts of millions of men, I hear Liberty!

I hear the drums beat and the trumpets blowing,

I myself move abroad swift-rising flying then,

I use the wings of the land-bird and use the wings of the sea-bird,
and look down as from a height,

I do not deny the precious results of peace, I see populous cities
with wealth incalculable,

I see numberless farms, I see the farmers working in their fields
or barns,

I see mechanics working, I see buildings everywhere founded,
going up, or finish'd,

I see trains of cars swiftly speeding along railroad tracks drawn
by the locomotives,

I see the stores, depots, of Boston, Baltimore, Charleston, New
Orleans,

I see far in the West the immense area of grain, I dwell awhile
hovering,

I pass to the lumber forests of the North, and again to the South-
ern plantation, and again to California;

Sweeping the whole I see the countless profit, the busy gatherings,
earn'd wages,

See the Identity formed out of thirty-eight spacious and haughty
States, (and many more to come,)

See forts on the shores of harbors, see ships sailing in and out;

Then over all, (aye! aye!) my little and lengthen'd pennant
shaped like a sword,

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Runs swiftly up indicating war and defiance—and now the hal-
yards have rais'd it,

Side of my banner broad and blue, side of my starry banner,

Discarding peace over all the sea and land.

Banner and Pennant.

Yet louder, higher, stronger, bard! yet farther, wider cleave!

No longer let our children deem us riches and peace alone,

We may be terror and carnage, and are so now,

Not now are we any one of these spacious and haughty States,
(nor any five, nor ten,)

Nor market nor depot we, nor money-bank in the city,

But these and all, and the brown and spreading land, and the
mines below, are ours,

And the shores of the sea are ours, and the rivers great and small,

And the fields they moisten, and the crops and the fruits are ours,

Bays and channels and ships sailing in and out are ours—while
we over all,

Over the area spread below, the three or four millions of square
miles, the capitals,

The forty millions of people,—O bard! in life and death supreme,

We, even we, henceforth flaunt out masterful, high up above,

Not for the present alone, for a thousand years chanting through
you,

This song to the soul of one poor little child.

Child.

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