Leaves of Grass
Leaves of GrassNotesBOOK I. INSCRIPTIONSTo Foreign LandsBOOK IIBOOK IIIBOOK IV. CHILDREN OF ADAMI Am He That Aches with LoveFacing West from California's ShoresBOOK V. CALAMUSThese I Singing in SpringHere the Frailest Leaves of MeAmong the MultitudeBOOK VIBOOK VIIBOOK VIIIBOOK IXBOOK XBOOK XIBOOK XIIBOOK XIIIBOOK XIVBOOK XVBOOK XVIBOOK XVII. BIRDS OF PASSAGEBOOK XVIIIBOOK XIX. SEA-DRIFTThe World below the BrineBOOK XX. BY THE ROADSIDEMother and BabeBOOK XXI. DRUM-TAPSAs Toilsome I Wander'd Virginia's WoodsWorld Take Good NoticeBOOK XXII. MEMORIES OF PRESIDENT LINCOLNBOOK XXIIIBOOK XXIV. AUTUMN RIVULETSBOOK XXVBOOK XXVIBOOK XXVIIBOOK XXVIIIBOOK XXIXBOOK XXX. WHISPERS OF HEAVENLY DEATHBOOK XXXIBOOK XXXII. FROM NOON TO STARRY NIGHTFacesA Riddle SongBOOK XXXIII. SONGS OF PARTINGBOOK XXXIV. SANDS AT SEVENTYBOOKXXXV. GOOD-BYE MY FANCYMiragesCopyright
Leaves of Grass
Walt Whitman
Notes
Come, said my soul, Such verses for my Body let us
write, (for we are one,) That should I after
return, Or, long, long hence, in other
spheres, There to some group of mates the
chants resuming, (Tallying Earth's soil, trees,
winds, tumultuous waves,) Ever with pleas'd smile I may keep
on, Ever and ever yet the verses
owning—as, first, I here and now
BOOK I. INSCRIPTIONS
One's-Self I SingOne'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 SilenceAs 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 answer'd, 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, (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 SeaIn 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.
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.
Eidolons
I met a
seer, Passing the hues and objects of the
world, The fields of art and learning, pleasure,
sense, To glean
eidolons. 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
eidolons. Ever the dim
beginning, Ever the growth, the rounding of the
circle, Ever the summit and the merge at last, (to surely
start again,) Eidolons!
eidolons! Ever the
mutable, Ever materials, changing, crumbling,
re-cohering, Ever the ateliers, the factories divine, Issuing
eidolons. Lo, I or
you, Or woman, man, or state, known or
unknown, We seeming solid wealth, strength, beauty
build, But really build
eidolons. 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
eidolon. 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
eidolon. 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,
eidolons. The present now and
here, America's busy, teeming, intricate whirl, Of aggregate and segregate for only thence
releasing, To-day's
eidolons. 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
eidolons. Densities, growth,
facades, Strata of mountains, soils, rocks, giant
trees, Far-born, far-dying, living long, to
leave, Eidolons
everlasting. Exalte, rapt,
ecstatic, The visible but their womb of birth, Of orbic tendencies to shape and shape and
shape, The mighty
earth-eidolon. All space, all
time, (The stars, the terrible perturbations of the
suns, Swelling, collapsing, ending, serving their longer,
shorter use,) Fill'd with eidolons
only. The noiseless
myriads, The infinite oceans where the rivers
empty, The separate countless free identities, like
eyesight, The true realities,
eidolons. Not this the
world, Nor these the universes, they the
universes, Purport and end, ever the permanent life of
life, Eidolons,
eidolons. 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, eidolons. Unfix'd yet
fix'd, Ever shall be, ever have been and are, Sweeping the present to the infinite
future, Eidolons, eidolons,
eidolons. 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
eidolons. And thee my
soul, Joys, ceaseless exercises, exaltations, Thy yearning amply fed at last, prepared to
meet, Thy mates,
eidolons. 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
eidolon. 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
eidolon.
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.
Beginners
How they are provided for upon the earth, (appearing
at intervals,) 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 reward, 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 afterward 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, magnetic, And what you effuse may then return as the seasons
return, And may be just as much as the seasons.
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 progress 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 important than I
thought, Me toward the Mexican sea, or in the Mannahatta or the
Tennessee, 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 contingencies, 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, establishments, 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.
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 deckhand 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 morning, 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 quenchless, 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.
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
BOOK II
Starting from Paumanok1 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, 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. 2 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. 3 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 equidistant, Shooting in pulses of fire ceaseless to vivify
all. 4 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. 5 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, 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. 6 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 weapons 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 courteously every city large and
small, And employments! I will put in my poems that with you
is heroism 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, indicating 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? 7 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 winner'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 certain the future is. I say that the real and permanent grandeur of these
States must be their religion, Otherwise there is just no real and permanent
grandeur; (Nor character nor life worthy the name without
religion, Nor land nor man or woman without
religion.) 8 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. 9 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 coincide, It, magnificent, beyond materials, with continuous
hands sweeps and provides for all. 10 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 Religion. 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. 11 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. 12 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, 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. 13 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! 14 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? 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 Paumanok'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, 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 welcome 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. 15 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. 16 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,
Chattahoochee, 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. 17 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, fathomless, stirring,
preparing unprecedented waves and storms. 18 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 commerce, 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. 19 O camerado close! O you and me at last, and us two
only. 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.
BOOK III
Song of Myself1 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. 2 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. 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 passing 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. 3 I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk
of the beginning 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. 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? 4 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, 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. 5 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 valved
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, And brown ants in the little wells beneath
them, And mossy scabs of the worm fence, heap'd stones,
elder, mullein and poke-weed. 6 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, 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
children? 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. 7 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. 8 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. 9 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. 10 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. 11 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 bending arch, They do not think whom they souse with
spray. 12 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. 13 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 missing, 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. 14 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. 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. 15 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
Thanksgiving 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 manuscript; The malform'd limbs are tied to the surgeon's
table, What is removed drops horribly in a pail; 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 partners, 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 higgling about the odd
cent;) 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-grandsons 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, 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. 16 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 over lakes 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 tacking, 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, (loving 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.) 17 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. 18 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! 19 This is the meal equally set, this the meat for
natural hunger, It is for the wicked just same as the righteous, I
make appointments 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. 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. 20 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, conformity 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, 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,
