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Books by Whitman


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Leaves
of
Grass.
BROOKLYN, NEW YORK,
1856.

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Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1856, by WALT WHITMAN, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York.


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Leaves of Grass

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1. Poem of Walt Whitman, an American . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5
2. Poem of Women . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 101
3. Poem of Salutation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 103
4. Poem of The Daily Work of The Workmen and
Workwomen of These States . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
121
5. Broad-Axe Poem . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 140
6. Poem of A Few Greatnesses . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 161
7. Poem of The Body . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 167
8. Poem of Many In One . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 180
9. Poem of Wonder at The Resurrection of The Wheat . . . . . . . . 202
10. Poem of You, Whoever You Are . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 206
11. Sun-Down Poem . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 211
12. Poem of The Road . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 223
13. Poem of Procreation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 240
14. Poem of The Poet . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 244
15. Clef Poem . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 249
16. Poem of The Dead Young Men of Europe, the 72d and 73d
Years of These States . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
252
17. Poem of The Heart of The Son of Manhattan Island . . . . . . . . 255
18. Poem of The Last Explanation of Prudence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 257
19. Poem of The Singers, and of The Words of Poems . . . . . . . . . 262
20. Faith Poem . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 265
21. Liberty Poem for Asia, Africa, Europe, America, Australia,
Cuba, and the Archipelagoes of The Sea . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
268
22. Poem of Apparitions in Boston, the 78th Year of These States . 271

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23. Poem of Remembrances for A Girl or A Boy of These States . 275
24. Poem of Perfect Miracles . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 279
25. Poem of The Child That Went Forth, and Always Goes
Forth, Forever and Forever . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
282
26. Night Poem . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 286
27. Poem of Faces . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 302
28. Bunch Poem . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 309
29. Lesson Poem . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 313
30. Poem of The Propositions of Nakedness . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 316
31. Poem of The Sayers of The Words of The Earth . . . . . . . . . . . . 322
32. Burial Poem . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 332
LEAVES-DROPPINGS.
Correspondence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 345
Opinions. 1855-6 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 359


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LEAVES OF GRASS.

1 — Poem of Walt Whitman, an American.


I CELEBRATE 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.

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,

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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, buzzed whispers, love-root, silk-
         thread, crotch, 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-colored sea-rocks, and of
         hay in the barn,
The sound of the belched words of my voice,
         words loosed 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 reckoned a thousand acres much?
         have you reckoned the earth much?
Have you practiced so long to learn to read?
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of
         poems?

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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
         yourself.

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.


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To elaborate is no avail—learned and unlearned
         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;

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As the hugging and loving Bed-fellow sleeps at
         my side through the night, and withdraws at
         the peep of the day,
And leaves for me baskets covered 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 contents of one, and exactly the con-
         tents of two, and which is ahead?

Trippers and askers surround me,
People I meet—the effect upon me of my early
         life, of the ward and city I live in, of the
         nation,
The latest news, discoveries, inventions, societies,
         authors old and new,
My dinner, dress, associates, looks, work, compli-
         ments, 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 depress-
         ions or exaltations,
They come to me days and nights and go from
         me again,
But they are not the Me myself.


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Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I
         am,
Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle,
         unitary,
Looks down, is erect, bends an arm on an
         impalpable certain rest,
Looks with its 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 cus-
         tom or lecture, not even the best,
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.

I mind how we lay in June, such a transparent
         summer morning,
You settled your head athwart my hips, and gently
         turned over upon me,

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And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and
         plunged your tongue to my bare-stript heart,
And reached till you felt my beard, and reached
         till you held my feet.

Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace
         and joy and knowledge that pass all the art
         and 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 bro-
         thers, 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, heaped stones,
         elder, mullen, pokeweed.

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,

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A scented gift and remembrancer, designedly
         dropped,
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, and from
         women, and 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,

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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 ceased the moment life appeared.

All goes onward and outward—nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one sup-
         posed, and luckier.


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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-washed babe, and am not contained be-
         tween my hat and boots,
And peruse manifold objects, no two alike, and
         every one good,
The earth good, and the stars good, and their ad-
         juncts 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 sweetheart 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.


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Who need be afraid of the merge?
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 can never be shaken away.

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,
It is so—I witnessed the corpse—there the
         pistol had fallen.

The blab of the pave, the tires of carts, sluff of
         boot-soles, talk of the promenaders,
The heavy omnibus, the driver with his interrogat-
         ing thumb, the clank of the shod horses on
         the granite floor,
The snow-sleighs, the clinking, shouted jokes,
         pelts of snow-balls,
The hurrahs for popular favorites, the fury of
         roused mobs,

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The flap of the curtained litter, the sick man in-
         side, 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,
The souls moving along—are they invisible,
         while the least of the stones is visible?
What groans of over-fed or half-starved who fall
         sun-struck, 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 restrained by decorum,
Arrests of criminals, slights, adulterous offers
         made, acceptances, rejections with convex lips,
I mind them or the 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 packed to the sagging mow;

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I am there, I help, I came stretched 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.

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-killed game,
Soundly falling asleep on the gathered leaves, my
         dog and gun by my side.

The Yankee clipper is under her three 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
         stopped for me,
I tucked 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,

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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 dressed
         mostly in skins, his luxuriant beard and curls
         protected his neck,
One hand rested on his rifle, the other hand held
         firmly the wrist of the red girl,
She had long eyelashes, her head was bare, her
         coarse straight locks descended upon her
         voluptuous limbs and reached to her feet.

The runaway slave came to my house and
         stopped outside,
I heard his motions crackling the twigs of the
         wood-pile,
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 filled a tub for his sweated
         body and bruised feet,
And gave him a room that entered 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;

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He staid with me a week before he was recuper-
         ated and passed north,
I had him sit next me at table—my fire-lock
         leaned in the corner.

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 glistened with wet,
         it ran from their long hair,
Little streams passed all over their bodies.

An unseen hand also passed over their bodies,

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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.

The butcher-boy puts off his killing-clothes, or
         sharpens his knife at the stall in the mar-
         ket,
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-strewed threshold I follow their
         movements,
The lithe sheer of their waists plays even with
         their massive arms,
Overhand the hammers roll, 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 huge dray of the stone-
         yard, steady and tall he stands poised 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 moustache,
         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, back-
         ward as well as forward slueing,
To niches aside and junior bending.

Oxen that rattle the yoke or halt in the 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 winged purposes,

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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 mocking-bird in the swamp 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 listen
         close,
I find its purpose and place up there toward the
         November sky.

The sharp-hoofed 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 hun-
         dred affections,

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They scorn the best I can do to relate them.
I am enamoured of growing outdoors,
Of men that live among cattle, or taste of the
         ocean or woods,
Of the builders and steerers of ships, of the wield-
         ers of axes and mauls, of 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 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,

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The duck-shooter walks by silent and cautious
         stretches,
The deacons are ordained with crossed hands at
         the altar,
The spinning-girl retreats and advances to the
         hum of the big wheel,
The farmer stops by the bars of a Sunday and
         looks at the oats and rye,
The lunatic is carried at last to the asylum, a con-
         firmed case,
He will never sleep any more as he did in the cot
         in his mother's bedroom;
The jour printer with gray head and gaunt jaws
         works at his case,
He turns his quid of tobacco, his eyes get blurred
         with the manuscript;
The malformed limbs are tied to the anatomist's
         table,
What is removed drops horribly in a pail;
The quadroon girl is sold at the stand—the
         drunkard nods by the bar-room stove,
The machinist rolls up his sleeves—the police-
         man 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 com-
         pete in the race,

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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,
The woolly-pates hoe in the sugar-field, the over-
         seer 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-roofed garret,
         and harks to the musical rain,
The Wolverine sets traps on the creek that helps
         fill the Huron,
The reformer ascends the platform, he spouts with
         his mouth and nose,
The company returns from its excursion, the
         darkey brings up the rear and bears the well-
         riddled target,
The squaw, wrapt in her yellow-hemmed cloth,
         is offering moccasins and bead-bags for sale,
The connoisseur peers along the exhibition-
         gallery with half-shut eyes bent side-ways,
The deck-hands make fast the steamboat, the plank
         is thrown for the shore-going passengers,
The young sister holds out the skein, the elder
         sister winds it off in a ball, and stops now
         and then for the knots,

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The one-year wife is recovering and happy, a
         week ago she bore her first child,
The clean-haired Yankee girl works with her sew-
         ing-machine, or in the factory or mill,
The nine months' gone is in the parturition cham-
         ber, her faintness and pains are advancing,
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
         red 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 baptised—the convert is making the
         first professions,
The regatta is spread on the bay—how the white
         sails sparkle!
The drover watches his drove, he sings out to
         them that would stray,
The pedlar sweats with his pack on his back, the
         purchaser higgles about the odd cent,
The camera and plate are prepared, the lady must
         sit for her daguerreotype,
The bride unrumples her white dress, the minute-
         hand of the clock moves slowly,
The opium-eater reclines with rigid head and just-
         opened lips,

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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 holds a cabinet council, he is sur-
         rounded by the Great Secretaries,
On the piazza walk five friendly matrons 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,
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 on-
         ward the laborers,
Seasons pursuing each other, the indescribable
         crowd is gathered—it is the Fourth of July
         —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,

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The stumps stand thick round the clearing, the
         squatter strikes deep with his axe,
Flatboatmen make fast toward dusk near the cot-
         ton-wood or pekan-trees,
Coon-seekers go through the regions of the Red
         river, or through those drained by the Ten-
         nessee, or through those of the Arkansaw,
Torches shine in the dark that hangs on the Chat-
         tahoochee or Altamahaw,
Patriarchs sit at supper with sons and grandsons
         and great-grandsons around them,
In walls of adobe, in canvass 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 one and all tend inward to me, and I
         tend outward to them,
And such as it is to be of these, more or less, I am.

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,
Stuffed with the stuff that is coarse, and stuffed
         with the stuff that is fine,

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One of the great nation, the nation of many
         nations, the smallest the same, the largest
         the same,
A southerner soon as a northerner, a planter non-
         chalant and hospitable,
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 boatman over lakes or bays, or along coasts —
         a Hoosier, Badger, Buckeye,
A Louisianian or Georgian, a Poke-easy from
         sand-hills and pines,
At home on Canadian 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
         thoughtfulest,
A novice beginning, experient of myriads of sea-
         sons,

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Of every hue, trade, rank, of every caste and re-
         ligion,
Not merely of the New World, but of Africa,
         Europe, Asia—a wandering savage,
A farmer, mechanic, artist, gentleman, sailor,
         lover, quaker,
A prisoner, fancy-man, rowdy, lawyer, physician,
         priest.

I resist anything better than my own diversity,
And breathe the air, and 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 suns I see, and the suns I cannot see, are
         in their place,
The palpable is in its place, and the impalpable
         is in its place.

These are 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 do not enclose everything, they are 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.


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This is the grass that grows wherever the land
         is and the water is,
This is the common air that bathes the globe.

This is the breath of laws, songs, behaviour,
This is the tasteless water of souls, this is the
         true sustenance,
It is for the illiterate, it is for the judges of the
         supreme court, it is for the federal capitol
         and the state capitols,
It is for the admirable communes of literats,
         composers, singers, lecturers, engineers, sa-
         vans,
It is for the endless races of work-people, farm-
         ers, seamen.

These are trills of thousands of clear cornets,
         screams of octave flutes, strike of triangles.

I play not a march for victors only, I play great
         marches for conquered 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 triumphal drums for the dead, I blow through
         my embouchures my loudest and gayest music
         to them,

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Vivas to those who have failed! and to those
         whose war-vessels sank in the sea! and
         those themselves who sank in the sea!
And to all generals that lost engagements! and all
         overcome heroes! and the numberless un-
         known heroes, equal to the greatest heroes
         known!

This is the meal pleasantly set, this is the meat
         and drink for natural hunger,
It is for the wicked just the 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 in-
         vited—the heavy-lipped 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 is the
         float and odor of hair,
This is the touch of my lips to yours, this is the
         murmur of yearning,
This is the far-off depth and height reflecting my
         own face,
This is the thoughtful merge of myself, and the
         outlet again.

Do you guess I have some intricate purpose?

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Well, I have—for the April rain has, and the mica
         on the side of a rock has.

Do you take it I would astonish?
Does the daylight astonish? Does the early red-
         start, 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,
That life is a suck and a sell, and nothing remains
         at the end but threadbare crape and tears.

Whimpering and truckling fold with powders for
         invalids, conformity goes to the fourth-
         removed,

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I cock my hat as I please, indoors or out.
Shall I pray? Shall I venerate and be cere-
         monious?
I have pried through the strata, analyzed to a hair,
Counselled with doctors, calculated close, found no
         sweeter fat than sticks to my own bones.

In all people I see myself—none more, not one a
         barleycorn less,
And the good or bad I say of myself I say of
         them.

And I know I am solid and sound,
To me the converging objects of the universe per-
         petually 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,

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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 myself,
And whether I come to my own today, or in ten
         thousand or ten million years,
I can cheerfully take it now, or with equal cheer-
         fulness I can wait.

My foothold is tenoned and mortised 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,

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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.

Press close, bare-bosomed 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-breathed earth!
Earth of the slumbering and liquid trees!
Earth of departed sunset! earth of the moun-
         tains, misty-topt!
Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon, just
         tinged with blue!


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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 elbowed earth! rich, apple-blos-
         somed earth!
Smile, for your lover comes!

Prodigal, you have given me love! therefore I
         to you give love!
O unspeakable passionate love!

Thruster holding me tight, and that I hold tight!
We hurt each other as the bridegroom and the
         bride hurt each other.

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 stretched ground-swells!
Sea breathing broad and convulsive breaths!

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Sea of the brine of life! sea of unshovelled and
         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, 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 the poet of commonsense, and of the demon-
         strable, and of immortality,
And am not the poet of goodness only—I do not
         decline to be the poet of wickedness also.

Washes and razors for foofoos—for me freckles
         and a bristling beard.

What blurt is this about virtue and about vice?
Evil propels me, and reform of evil propels me —
         I stand indifferent,
My gait is no fault-finder's or rejecter's gait,
I moisten the roots of all that has grown.


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Did you fear some scrofula out of the unflagging
         pregnancy?
Did you guess the celestial laws are yet to be
         worked over and rectified?

I step up to say that what we do is right, and
         what we affirm is right, and some is only the
         ore of right,
Witnesses of us, one side a balance, and the anti-
         podal 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 de-
         cillions,
There is no better than it and now.

What behaved well in the past, or behaves well
         today, is not such a wonder,
The wonder is always and always how can there
         be a mean man or an infidel.

Endless unfolding of words of ages!
And mine a word of the modern—a word en-
         masse,
A word of the faith that never balks,
One time as good as another time—here or
         henceforward it is all the same to me,

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A word of reality, materialism first and last im-
         bueing.

Hurrah for positive science! long live exact
         demonstration!
Fetch stonecrop, mix it 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, I receive you and attach and clasp
         hands with you,
The facts are useful and real—they are not my
         dwelling—I enter by them to an area of the
         dwelling.

I am less the reminder of property or qualities,
         and more the reminder of life,
And go on the square for my own sake and for
         others' sakes,
And make short account of neuters and geldings,
         and favor men and women fully equipped,
And beat the gong of revolt, and stop with fugi-
         tives and them that plot and conspire.


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Walt Whitman, an American, one of the roughs,
         a kosmos,
Disorderly, fleshy, sensual, eating, drinking, breed-
         ing,
No sentimentalist, no stander above men and wo-
         men, 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,
And whatever I do or say, I also return.

Through me the afflatus surging and surging —
         through me the current 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 counterpart of on the same terms.

Through me many long dumb voices,
Voices of the interminable generations of slaves,
Voices of prostitutes, and of deformed persons,
Voices of the diseased and despairing, and of
         thieves and dwarfs,
Voices of cycles of preparation and accretion,

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And of the threads that connect the stars, and of
         wombs, and of the fatherstuff,
And of the rights of them the others are down
         upon,
Of the trivial, flat, foolish, despised,
Fog in the air, beetles rolling balls of dung.

Through me forbidden voices,
Voices of sexes and lusts—voices veiled, and I
         remove the veil,
Voices indecent, by me clarified and transfigured.

I do not press my finger 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.

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 touched from,
The scent of these arm-pits is aroma finer than
         prayer,
This head is more than churches, bibles, creeds.

If I worship any particular thing, it shall be some
         of the spread of my own body,

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Translucent mould of me, it shall be you!
Shaded ledges and rests, firm masculine coulter, it
         shall be you!
Whatever goes to the tilth of me, it shall be you!
You my rich blood! your milky stream, pale strip-
         pings of my life!
Breast that presses against other breasts, it shall
         be you!
My brain, it shall be your occult convolutions!
Root of washed sweet-flag, timorous pond-snipe,
         nest of guarded duplicate eggs, it shall be
         you!
Mixed 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 kissed, mortal I
         have ever touched, it shall be you!

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

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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 friendship I take again.

To walk up my stoop is unaccountable, I pause to
         consider if it really be,
That I eat and drink is spectacle enough for the
         great authors and schools,
A morning-glory at my window satisfies me more
         than the metaphysics of books.

To behold the day-break!
The little light fades the immense and diaphanous
         shadows,
The air tastes good to my palate.

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,

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The heaved 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, 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 understand
         enough, why don't you let it out then?

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


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Do you not know how the buds beneath 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 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 the best I am.

Encompass worlds, but never try to encompass
         me,
I crowd your noisiest talk by 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 confound the topmost
         skeptic.

I think I will do nothing for a long time but listen,
To accrue what I hear into myself, to let sounds
         contribute toward me.

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


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I hear the sound I love, the sound of the human
         voice,
I hear all sounds as they are tuned to their uses,
         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
         recitative of fish-pedlars and fruit-pedlars, 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
         shaky lips pronouncing 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-streaking engines and hose-
         carts, with premonitory tinkles and colored
         lights,
The steam-whistle, the solid roll of the train of
         approaching cars,
The slow-march played at night at the head of the
         association,
They go to guard some corpse, the flag-tops are
         draped with black muslin.

I hear the violincello or man's heart's complaint,
I hear the keyed cornet, it glides quickly in
         through my ears, it shakes mad-sweet pangs
         through my belly and breast.


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I hear the chorus, it is a grand-opera—this in-
         deed is music!

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 trained soprano, she convulses me like
         the climax of my love-grip,
The orchestra wrenches such ardors from me, I
         did not know I possessed them,
It throbs me to gulps of the farthest down horror,
It sails me, I dab with bare feet, they are licked
         by the indolent waves,
I am exposed, cut by bitter and poisoned hail,
Steeped amid honeyed morphine, my windpipe
         squeezed in the fakes of death,
Let up again to feel the puzzle of puzzles,
And that we call Being.

To be in any form, what is that?
If nothing lay more developed, 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.


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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
         sun-light 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
         awhile,

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Then all uniting to stand on a head-land 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 head-land, 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,
I went myself first to the head-land, 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! sheathed, hooded,
         sharp-toothed touch!
Did it make you ache so, leaving me?

Parting, tracked by arriving—perpetual payment
         of the perpetual loan,
Rich showering rain, and recompense richer after-
         ward.

Sprouts take and accumulate—stand by the curb
         prolific and vital,
Landscapes, projected, masculine, full-sized, golden.


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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 every one shall delight us, and we
         them.

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

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And the pismire is equally perfect, and a grain of
         sand, and the egg of the wren,
And the tree-toad is a chef-d'ouvre 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 depressed head sur-
         passes any statue,
And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sex-
         tillions of infidels,
And I could come every afternoon of my life to
         look at the farmer's girl boiling her iron tea-
         kettle and baking short-cake.

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,
And call any thing close 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 mastadon retreats beneath its own
         powdered bones,
In vain objects stand leagues off, and assume
         manifold shapes,

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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-billed 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-contained,
I stand and look at them sometimes half the day
         long.

They do not sweat and whine about their condi-
         tion,
They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for
         their sins,
They do not make me sick discussing their duty
         to God,
No 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 industrious over the
         whole earth.


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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 do not know where they got those tokens,
I may have passed that way untold times ago and
         negligently dropt them,
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 re-
         membrancers,
Picking out here one that I love, choosing to go
         with him on brotherly terms.

A gigantic beauty of a stallion, fresh and respon-
         sive to my caresses,
Head high in the forehead, wide between the
         ears,
Limbs glossy and supple, tail dusting the ground,
Eyes well apart, full of sparkling wickedness, ears
         finely cut, flexibly moving.

His nostrils dilate, my heels embrace him, his
         well-built limbs tremble with pleasure, we
         speed around and return.


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I but use you a moment, then I resign you stal-
         lion, do not need your paces, out-gallop them,
Myself, as I stand or sit, passing faster than you.

Swift wind! space! my soul! now I know it is
         true, what I guessed at,
What I guessed when I loafed on the grass,
What I guessed while I lay alone in my bed, and
         again as I walked the beach under the paling
         stars of the morning.

My ties and ballasts leave me—I travel, I sail,
         my elbows rest in the sea-gaps,
I skirt the sierras, my palms cover continents,
I am afoot with my vision.

By the city's quadrangular houses, in log-huts,
         camping with lumber-men,
Along the ruts of the turnpike, along the dry gulch
         and rivulet bed,
Weeding my onion-patch, hoeing rows of carrots
         and parsnips, crossing savannas, trailing in
         forests,
Prospecting, gold-digging, girdling the trees of a
         new purchase,
Scorched 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,

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Where the rattle-snake 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,
Where the black bear is searching for roots or
         honey, where the beaver pats the mud with
         his paddle-tail,
Over the growing sugar, over the cotton-plant,
         over the rice in its low moist field,
Over the sharp-peaked farm-house, with its scal-
         loped scum and slender shoots from the gut-
         ters,
Over the western persimmon, over the long-leaved
         corn, over the delicate blue-flowered 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 July eve, where the
         great gold-bug drops through the dark,
Where the flails keep time on the barn floor,
Where the brook puts out of the roots of the old
         tree and flows to the meadow,

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Where cattle stand and shake away flies with the
         tremulous shuddering of their hides,
Where the cheese-cloth hangs in the kitchen, where
         andirons straddle the hearth-slab, where cob-
         webs 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 out of its ribs,
Where the pear-shaped balloon is floating aloft,
         floating in it myself 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 calves and
         never forsakes them,
Where the steam-ship trails hind-ways its long
         pennant of smoke,
Where the ground-shark's fin cuts like a black
         chip out of the water,
Where the half-burned brig is riding on unknown
         currents,
Where shells grow to her slimy deck, where the
         dead are corrupting below,
Where the striped and starred flag is borne at the
         head of the regiments,
Approaching Manhattan, up by the long-stretching
         island,

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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 pic-nics or jigs,
         or a good game of base-ball,
At he-festivals, with blackguard jibes, ironical li-
         cense, bull-dances, drinking, laughter,
At the cider-mill, tasting the sweet of the brown
         sqush, 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 gur-
         gles, cackles, screams, weeps,
Where the hay-rick stands in the barn-yard, where
         the dry-stalks are scattered, 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 heifers browse, where geese nip their food
         with short jerks,
Where sun-down shadows lengthen over the limit-
         less and lonesome prairie,
Where herds of buffalo make a crawling spread
         of the square miles far and near,

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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-necked partridges roost in a ring on
         the ground with their heads out,
Where burial coaches enter the arched gates of a
         cemetery,
Where winter wolves bark amid wastes of snow
         and icicled trees,
Where the yellow-crowned heron comes to the
         edge of the marsh at night and feeds upon
         small crabs,
Where the splash of swimmers and divers cool
         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, under coni-
         cal firs,
Through the gymnasium, through the curtained
         saloon, through the office or public hall,
Pleased with the native, pleased with the foreign,
         pleased with the new and old,

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Pleased with women, the homely as well as the
         handsome,
Pleased with the quakeress as she puts off her
         bonnet and talks melodiously,
Pleased with the tunes of the choir of the white-
         washed church,
Pleased with the earnest words of the sweating
         Methodist preacher, or any preacher—look-
         ing seriously at the camp-meeting,
Looking in at the shop-windows in Broadway the
         whole forenoon, pressing the flesh of my nose
         to the thick plate-glass,
Wandering the same afternoon with my face
         turned up to the clouds,
My right and left arms round the sides of two
         friends, and I in the middle;
Coming home with the bearded and dark-cheeked
         bush-boy, riding behind him 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,
By the coffined corpse when all is still examin-
         ing with a candle,
Voyaging to every port to dicker and adven-
         ture,
Hurrying with the modern crowd, as eager and
         fickle as any,

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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 Judea, 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 tailed 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 ripened, and look at quin-
         tillions green.

I fly the flight of the 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 can prevent me.


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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 fore-truck, I take my place late at
         night in the crow's-nest, we sail through 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 direc-
         tions,
The white-topped mountains show in the dis-
         tance, 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 out-posts of the encamp-
         ments, we pass with still feet and caution,
Or we are entering by the suburbs some vast
         and ruined city, the blocks and fallen archi-
         tecture more than all the living cities of the
         globe.

I am a free companion, I bivouac by invading
         watchfires.


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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
         drowned.

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 one
         inch, and was faithful of days and faithful of
         nights,
And chalked in large letters, Be of good cheer,
         We will not desert you,
How he saved the drifting company at last,
How the lank loose-gowned women looked when
         boated from the side of their prepared graves,
How the silent old-faced infants, and the lifted
         sick, and the sharp-lipped unshaved men,
All this I swallow, it tastes good, I like it well, it
         becomes mine,
I am the man, I suffered, I was there.

The disdain and calmness of martyrs,

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The mother, condemned for a witch, burnt with
         dry wood, her children gazing on,
The hounded slave that flags in the race, leans by
         the fence, blowing, covered with sweat,
The twinges that sting like needles his legs and
         neck, the murderous buck-shot 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 marksmen,
I clutch the rails of the fence, my gore dribs,
         thinned 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, 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 hurt turns livid upon me as I lean on a cane
         and observe.

I am the mashed fireman with breastbone broken,
         tumbling walls buried me in their debris,
Heat and smoke I inspired, I heard the yelling
         shouts of my comrades,

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I heard the distant click of their picks and shov-
         els,
They have cleared the beams away, they tenderly
         life 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 un-
         happy,
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 bombard-
         ment, I am there again.

Again the reveille of drummers, again the attack-
         ing cannon, mortars, howitzers,
Again the attacked send cannon responsive;
I take part, I see and hear the whole,
The cries, curses, roar, the plaudits for well-aimed
         shots,
The ambulanza slowly passing, trailing its red
         drip,

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Workmen searching after damages, making indis-
         pensable repairs,
The fall of grenades through the rent roof, the
         fan-shaped explosion,
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 entrenchments.

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.

Hear now the tale of a jet-black sunrise,
Hear of the murder in cold-blood of four hundred
         and twelve young men.

Retreating, they had formed in a hollow square,
         with their baggage for breast-works,
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, re-
         ceived writing and seal, gave up their arms,
         marched back prisoners of war.


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They were the glory of the race of rangers,
Matchless with horse, rifle, song, supper, court-
         ship,
Large, turbulent, brave, handsome, generous,
         proud, affectionate,
Bearded, sunburnt, dressed in the free costume of
         hunters,
Not a single one over thirty years of age.

The second Sunday morning they were brought
         out in squads and massacred—it was beauti-
         ful early summer,
The work commenced about five o'clock and was
         over by eight.

None obeyed 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 maimed and mangled dug in the dirt, the
         new-comers saw them there,
Some, half-killed, attempted to crawl away,
These were dispatched with bayonets, or battered
         with the blunts of muskets,
A youth not seventeen years old seized his assas-
         sin, till two more came to release him,
The three were all torn, and covered with the
         boy's blood.


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At eleven o'clock began the burning of the bodies;
That is the tale of the murder of the four hun-
         dred and twelve young men,
And that was a jet-black sunrise.

Did you read in the sea-books of the old-fashioned
         frigate-fight?
Did you learn who won by the light of the moon
         and stars?

Our foe was no skulk in his ship, I tell you,
His was the English pluck, and there is no tougher
         or truer, and never was, and never will be,
Along the lowered eve he came, horribly raking
         us.

We closed with him, the yards entangled, the can-
         non touched,
My captain lashed fast with his own hands.

We had received some eighteen-pound shots un-
         der the water,
On our lower-gun-deck two large pieces had burst
         at the first fire, killing all around and blowing
         up overhead.

Ten o'clock at night and the full moon shining,
         and the leaks on the gain, and five feet of
         water reported,

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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 was now
         stopped by the sentinels,
They saw so many strange faces that they did not
         know whom to trust.

Our frigate was afire, the other asked if we de-
         manded quarter? if our colors were struck
         and the fighting done?

I laughed content when I heard the voice of my
         little captain,
We have not struck, he composedly cried, We
         have just begun our part of the fighting.

Only three guns were in use,
One was directed by the captain himself against
         the enemy's main-mast,
Two, well served with grape and canister,
         silenced his musketry and cleared his
         decks.

The tops alone seconded the fire of this little bat-
         tery, especially the main-top,
They all held out bravely during the whole of the
         action.

Not a moment's cease,

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The leaks gained fast on the pumps, the fire eat
         toward the powder-magazine,
One of the pumps was shot away, it was generally
         thought we were sinking.

Serene stood the little captain,
He was not hurried, his voice was neither high
         nor low,
His eyes gave more light to us than our battle-
         lanterns.

Toward twelve at night, there in the beams of the
         moon they surrendered to us.

Stretched and still lay the midnight,
Two great hulls motionless on the breast of the
         darkness,
Our vessel riddled and slowly sinking, prepara-
         tions to pass to the one we had conquered,
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 served in the
         cabin,
The dead face of an old salt with long white hair
         and carefully curled whiskers,
The flames, spite of all that could be done, flicker-
         ing aloft and below,
The husky voices of the two or three officers yet
         fit for duty,

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Formless stacks of bodies, bodies by them-
         selves, 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,
Delicate sniffs of sea-breeze, smells of sedgy grass
         and fields by the shore, death-messages
         given in change to survivors,
The hiss of the surgeon's knife, the gnawing teeth
         of his saw,
Wheeze, cluck, swash of falling blood, short wild
         scream, long dull tapering groan,
These so, these irretrievable.

O Christ! My fit is mastering me!
What the rebel said, gaily adjusting his throat to
         the rope-noose,
What the savage at the stump, his eye-sockets
         empty, his mouth spirting whoops and defi-
         ance,
What stills the traveler come to the vault at
         Mount Vernon,
What sobers the Brooklyn boy as he looks down
         the shores of the Wallabout and remembers
         the prison ships,
What burnt the gums of the red-coat at Saratoga
         when he surrendered his brigades,

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These become mine and me every one, and they
         are but little,
I become as much more as I like.

I become any presence or truth of humanity here,
And 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 barred at night.

Not a mutineer walks hand-cuffed to the jail, but I
         am hand-cuffed 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-colored, my sinews gnarl, away
         from me people retreat.

Askers embody themselves in me, and I am em-
         bodied in them,
I project my hat, sit shame-faced, beg.


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I rise extatic through all, sweep with the true
         gravitation,
The whirling and whirling is elemental within
         me.

Somehow I have been stunned. Stand back!
Give me a little time beyond my cuffed 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 bludgeons and hammers!
That I could look with a separate look on my own
         crucifixion and bloody crowning!

I remember, I resume the overstaid fraction,
The grave of rock multiplies what has been con-
         fided to it, or to any graves,
The corpses rise, the gashes heal, the fastenings
         roll away.

I troop forth replenished with supreme power,
         one of an average unending procession,
We walk the roads of Ohio, Massachusetts, Vir-
         ginia, Wisconsin, Manhattan Island, New
         Orleans, Texas, Montreal, San Francisco,
         Charleston, Havana, Mexico,
Inland and by the sea-coast and boundary lines,
         and we pass all boundary lines.


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Our swift ordinances are on their way over the
         whole earth,
The blossoms we wear in our hats are the growth
         of two thousand years.

Eleves, I salute you!
I see the approach of your numberless gangs, I
         see you understand yourselves and me,
And know that they who have eyes are divine,
         and the blind and lame are equally divine,
And that my steps drag behind yours, yet go be-
         fore them,
And are aware how I am with you no more than
         I am with everybody.

The friendly and flowing savage, Who is he?
Is he waiting for civilization, or past it and mas-
         tering it?

Is he some south-westerner, raised out-doors?
         Is he Canadian?
Is he from the Mississippi country? from Iowa,
         Oregon, California? from the mountains?
         prairie-life, bush-life? 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.


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Behaviour lawless as snow-flakes, words simple
         as grass, uncombed head, laughter, naivete,
Slow-stepping feet, common features, common
         modes and emanations,
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 sun-shine, 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,
And might tell what it is in me, and what it is in
         you, but cannot,
And might tell the pinings I have, the pulse of my
         nights and days.

Behold I do not give lectures or a little charity,
What I give I give out of myself.

You there, impotent, loose in the knees, open your
         scarfed chops till I blow grit within you,

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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 a drudge of the cotton-fields 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 arro-
         gant 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, I raise him with re-
         sistless will.

O despairer, here is my neck,

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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 armed
         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.

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,
The most they offer for mankind and eternity less
         than a spirt of my own seminal wet,

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Taking myself the exact dimensions of Jehovah —
         lithographing Kronos, Zeus his son, 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 day,
Admitting they bore mites, as for unfledged birds,
         who have now to rise and fly and sing for
         themselves,
Accepting the rough deific sketches to fill out bet-
         ter 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
         rolled-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,
Those ahold of fire-engines and hook-and-ladder
         ropes no less to me than the gods of the
         antique wars,

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Minding their voices peal through the crash of
         destruction,
Their brawny limbs passing safe over charred
         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 bagged out at
         their waists,
The snag-toothed hostler with red hair redeeming
         sins past and to come,
Selling all he possesses, travelling 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 worshipped half
         enough,
Dung and dirt more admirable than was dreamed,
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 pro-
         digious,
Guessing when I am it will not tickle me much
         to receive puffs out of pulpit or print;
By my life-lumps! becoming already a creator!

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Putting myself here and now to the ambushed
         womb of the shadows!

A call in the midst of the crowd,
My own voice, orotund, sweeping, final.

Come my children,
Come my boys and girls, my women, household,
         intimates,
Now the performer launches his nerve, he has
         passed his prelude on the reeds within.

Easily written, loose-fingered chords! I feel the
         thrum of their 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 thorned
         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;

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Ever love, ever the sobbing liquid of life,
Ever the bandage under the chin, ever the tressels
         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 payment receiving,
A few idly owning, and they the wheat continu-
         ally claiming.

This is the city, and I am one of the citizens,
Whatever interests the rest interests me—poli-
         tics, markets, newspapers, schools, benevolent
         societies, improvements, banks, tariffs, steam-
         ships, factories, stocks, stores, real estate,
         personal estate.

They who piddle and patter here in collars and
         tailed coats, I am aware who they are—they
         are not worms or fleas,
I acknowledge the duplicates of myself—the weak-
         est 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.


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I know perfectly well my own egotism,
I know my omnivorous words, and cannot say any
         less,
And would fetch you, whoever you are, flush with
         myself.

My words are words of a questioning, and to in-
         dicate reality;
This printed and bound book—but the printer,
         and the printing-office boy?
The marriage estate and settlement—but the
         body and mind of the bridegroom? also those
         of the bride?
The panorama of the sea—but the sea itself?
The well-taken photographs—but your wife or
         friend close and solid in your arms?
The fleet of ships of the line, and all the modern
         improvements—but the craft and pluck of
         the admiral?
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 your-
         self?
Sermons, creeds, theology—but the human brain,
         and what is called reason, and what is called
         love, and what is called life?


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I do not despise you, priests,
My faith is the greatest of faiths, and the least of
         faiths,
Enclosing all 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 fetish of the first rock or stump, powow-
         ing with sticks in the circle of obis,
Helping the lama or brahmin as he trims the
         lamps of the idols,
Dancing yet through the streets in a phallic pro-
         cession—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 di-
         vine,
To the mass kneeling, to the puritan's prayer ris-
         ing, sitting patiently in a pew,
Ranting and frothing in my insane crisis, waiting
         dead-like till my spirit arouses me,
Looking forth on pavement and land, and outside
         of pavement and land,

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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 be-
         fore a journey.

Down-hearted doubters, dull and excluded,
Frivolous, sullen, moping, angry, affected, dis-
         heartened, atheistical,
I know every one of you, I know the unspoken
         interrogatories,
By experience I know them.

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,
Day and night are for you, me, all,
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 is sure, alive, sufficient.


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Each who passes is considered, each who stops is
         considered, 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 peeped 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 disorder,
Nor the numberless slaughtered and wrecked, nor
         the brutish koboo called 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,
Nor any thing in the myriads of spheres, nor
         one of 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.


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The clock indicates the moment, but what does
         eternity indicate?

Eternity lies in bottomless reservoirs, its buckets
         are rising forever and ever,
They pour, they pour, and exhale away.

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 accomplished, and I an
         encloser of things to be.


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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 traveled, 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 fœtid
         carbon.

Long I was hugged close—long and long.

Immense have been the preparations for me,
Faithful and friendly the arms that have helped me.

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,

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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 employed to com-
         plete and delight me,
Now I stand on this spot with my soul.

Span of youth! ever-pushed elasticity! manhood,
         balanced, florid, 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
         under-brush,
Or while I swim in the bath, or drink from the
         pump at the corner, or the curtain is down at
         the opera, or I glimpse at a woman's face in
         the rail-road car,
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.


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Old age superbly rising! Ineffable grace of dying
         days!

Every condition promulges not only itself, it pro-
         mulges 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, outward, forever outward.

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, the worlds, all beneath or upon their
         surfaces, and all the palpable life, were this
         moment reduced back to a pallid float, it
         would not avail in the long run,

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We should surely bring up again where we now
         stand,
And as surely go as much farther, and then far-
         ther 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,
The Lord will be there and wait till I come on
         perfect terms.

I know I have the best of time and space, and
         was never measured, and never will be
         measured.

I tramp a perpetual journey,
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,

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But each man and each woman of you I lead upon
         a knoll,
My left hand hooks you round the waist,
My right hand points to landscapes of continents,
         and a plain 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 every where on water and on
         land.

Shoulder your duds, I will mine, 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 ser-
         vice to me,
For after we start we never lie by again.

This day before dawn I ascended a hill and
         looked at the crowded heaven,

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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 filled and satisfied then?
And my spirit said No, we 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 awhile wayfarer,
Here are biscuits to eat, here is milk to drink,
But as soon as you sleep and renew yourself in
         sweet clothes, I will certainly kiss you with
         my good-bye kiss, and open the gate for your
         egress hence.

Long enough have you dreamed 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, laughingly dash with your hair.

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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,
Wicked, rather than virtuous out of conformity of
         fear,
Fond of his sweetheart, relishing well his steak,
Unrequited love, or a slight, cutting him worse
         than a wound 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 faces pitted with small-pox,
         over all latherers and 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,

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It is you talking just as much as myself, I act as
         the tongue of you,
It was tied in your mouth, in mine it begins to be
         loosened.

I swear I will never mention love or death inside
         a house,
And I swear I never will 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 shuttered 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 pretty well,
The wood-man 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,

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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, dressed in his
         shroud,
And I or you, pocketless of a dime, may pur-
         chase 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 wheeled universe,
And any man or woman shall stand cool and
         supercilious before a million universes.

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And I call 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 I
         understand God not in the least,
Nor do I understand who there can be more won-
         derful 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 dropped in the street, and
         every one is signed by God's name,
And I leave them where they are, for I know
         that others will punctually come forever and
         ever.

And as to you death, and you bitter hug of mor-
         tality, it is idle to try to alarm me.

To his work without flinching the accoucheur
         comes,

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I see the elder-hand, pressing, receiving, support-
         ing,
I recline by the sills of the exquisite flexible
         doors, mark the outlet, 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 grow-
         ing,
I reach to the leafy lips, I reach to the polished
         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 trans-
         fers and promotions, if you do not say any-
         thing, how can I say anything?

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!

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I ascend from the moon, I ascend from the night,
And perceive of the ghastly glimmer the sun-
         beams 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.

Wrenched 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.

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 filled them,
         emptied them,

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And proceed to fill my next fold of the future.
Listener up there! here you! 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 untrans-
         latable,

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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 shadowed wilds,
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.

I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the
         run-away sun,
I effuse my flash 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.

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 some where waiting for you.


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2 — Poem of Women.


UNFOLDED only out of the folds of the
         woman, man comes unfolded, and is always
         to come unfolded,
Unfolded only out of the superbest woman of the
         earth is to come the superbest man of the
         earth,
Unfolded out of the friendliest woman is to come
         the friendliest man,
Unfolded only out of the perfect body of a
         woman, can a man be formed of perfect body,
Unfolded only out of the inimitable poem of
         the woman can come the poems of man —
         only thence have my poems come,
Unfolded out of the strong and arrogant woman
         I love, only thence can appear the strong
         and arrogant man I love,
Unfolded by brawny embraces from the well-
         muscled woman I love, only thence come the
         brawny embraces of the man,
Unfolded out of the folds of the woman's brain,
         come all the folds of the man's brain, duly
         obedient,

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Unfolded out of the justice of the woman, all jus-
         tice is unfolded,
Unfolded out of the sympathy of the woman is all
         sympathy;
A man is a great thing upon the earth, and
         through eternity—but every jot of the great-
         ness of man is unfolded out of woman,
First the man is shaped in the woman, he can
         then be shaped in himself.


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3 — Poem of Salutation.


O TAKE my hand, Walt Whitman!
Such gliding wonders! Such sights and
         sounds!
Such joined unended links, each hooked 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 lands are
         here?
Who are the infants? some playing, some slum-
         bering?
Who are the girls? Who are the married
         women?
Who are the three old men going slowly with
         their arms about each others' necks?
What rivers are these? What forests and fruits
         are these?
What are the mountains called that rise so high
         in the mists?


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What myriads of dwellings are they, filled 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,
Stretched in due time within me the midnight sun
         just rises above the horizon, and sinks again;
Within me zones, seas, cataracts, plains, volca-
         noes, groups,
Oceanica, Australasia, Polynesia, and the great
         West Indian islands.

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 the inimitable music of the voices of
         mothers,
I hear the persuasions of lovers,
I hear quick rifle-cracks from the riflemen of East
         Tennessee and Kentucky, hunting on hills,

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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 reci-
         tative of old poems,
I hear the Virginia plantation chorus of negroes,
         of a harvest night, in the glare of pine
         knots,
I hear the strong baritone of the 'long-shore-men
         of Manahatta—I hear the stevedores unlad-
         ing the cargoes, and singing,
I hear the screams of the water-fowl of solitary
         northwest lakes,
I hear the rustling pattering of locusts, as they
         strike the grain and grass with the showers
         of their terrible clouds,
I hear the Coptic refrain toward sun-down pen-
         sively falling on the breast of the black ven-
         erable vast mother, the Nile,
I hear the bugles of raft-tenders on the streams
         of Canada,
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,

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I hear Christian priests at the altars of their
         churches—I hear the responsive base and
         soprano,
I hear the wail of utter despair of the white-
         haired Irish grand-parents, when they learn
         the death of their grand-son,
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, fastened together with
         wrist-chains and ankle-chains,
I hear the entreaties of women tied up for punish-
         ment, I hear the sibilant whisk of thongs
         through the air,
I hear the appeal of the greatest orator, he that
         turns states by the tip of his tongue,
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?

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Who are they you salute, and that one after
         another salute you?

I see a great round wonder rolling through the
         air,
I see diminute farms, hamlets, ruins, grave-yards,
         jails, factories, palaces, hovels, huts of barba-
         rians, tents of nomads, upon the surface,
I see the shaded part on one side where the
         sleepers are sleeping, and the sun-lit part on
         the other side,
I see the curious silent 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 and Alleghanies, I see where they
         range,
I see plainly the Himmalehs, Chian Shahs, Al-
         tays, Gauts,
I see the Rocky Mountains, and the Peak of
         Winds,
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—I see the Anahuacs,

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I see the Mountains of the Moon, and the Snow
         Mountains, and the Red Mountains of Mada-
         gascar,
I see the Vermont hills, and the long string of
         Cordilleras;
I see the vast deserts of Western America,
I see the Libyan, 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 Japan waters, those of Hindostan, the China
         Sea, and the Gulf of Guinea,
The spread of the Baltic, Caspian, Bothnia, the
         British shores, and the Bay of Biscay,
The clear-sunned Mediterranean, and from one to
         another of its islands,
The inland fresh-tasted seas of North America,
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 steam-ships of the world,
Some double the Cape of Storms, some Cape
         Verde, others Cape Guardafui, Bon, or Baja-
         dore,

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Others Dondra Head, others pass the Straits of
         Sunda, others Cape Lopatka, others Beh-
         ring's Straits,
Others Cape Horn, others 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,
Others traverse the Zuyder Zee or the Scheld,
Others add to the exits and entrances at Sandy
         Hook,
Others to the comers and goers at Gibraltar or the
         Dardanelles,
Others sternly push their way through the north-
         ern winter-packs,
Others descend or ascend the Obi or the Lena,
Others the Niger or the Congo, others the Hoang-
         ho and Amoor, others the Indus, the Buram-
         pooter and Cambodia,
Others wait at the wharves of Manahatta,
         steamed up, ready to start,
Wait swift and swarthy in the ports of Australia,
Wait at Liverpool, Glasgow, Dublin, Marseilles,
         Lisbon, Naples, Hamburgh, Bremen, Bor-
         deaux, the Hague, Copenhagen,
Wait at Valparaiso, Rio Janeiro, Panama,
Wait at their moorings at Boston, Philadelphia,
         Baltimore, Charleston, New Orleans, Galves-
         ton, San Francisco.


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I see the tracks of the rail-roads of the earth,
I see them welding state to state, county to
         county, city to city, through North America,
I see them in Great Britain, I see them in Eu-
         rope,
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 thick river-stripes of the earth,
I see where the Mississippi flows, I see where
         the Columbia flows,
I see the St. Lawrence and the falls of Niagara,
I see the Amazon and the Paraguay,
I see where the Seine flows, and where the
         Loire, the Rhone, and the Guadalquivir
         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 great 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.


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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
         lamas, monks, muftis, exhorters,
I see where druids walked the groves of Mona, I
         see the misletoe and vervain,
I see the temples of the deaths of the bodies of
         gods, I see the old signifiers,
I see Christ once more eating the bread of his last
         supper in the midst of youths and old persons,
I see where the strong divine young man, the Her-
         cules, toiled faithfully and long, and then died,
I see the place of the innocent rich life and hap-
         less fate of the beautiful nocturnal son, the
         full-limbed Bacchus,
I see Kneph, blooming, dressed in blue, with the
         crown of feathers on his head,
I see Hermes, unsuspected, dying, well-beloved,
         saying to the people, Do not weep for me,
         this is not my true country, I have lived
         banished 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 expedi-
         tions.


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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 boulders and cliffs, I see green mea-
         dows 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 refreshed 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 notched with ravines, I see
         the jungles and deserts,
I see the camel, the wild steed, the bustard, the
         fat-tailed sheep, the antelope, and the bur-
         rowing wolf.

I see the high-lands of Abyssinia,

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I see flocks of goats feeding, I see the fig-tree,
         tamarind, date,
I see fields of teff-wheat, I see the places of
         verdure and gold.

I see the Brazilian vaquero,
I see the Bolivian ascending Mount Sorata,
I see the Guacho 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 little and large sea-dots, some inhabited,
         some uninhabited;
I see two boats with nets, lying off the shore of
         Paumanok, quite still,
I see ten fishermen waiting—they discover now
         a thick school of mossbonkers, they drop
         the joined seine-ends in the water,
The boats separate, they diverge and row off,
         each on its rounding course to the beach,
         enclosing the mossbonkers,
The net is drawn in by a windlass by those
         who stop ashore,
Some of the fishermen lounge in the boats,
         others stand negligently ankle-deep in the
         water, poised on strong legs,
The boats are partly drawn up, the water slaps
         against them,

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On the sand, in heaps and winrows, well out from
         the water, lie the green-backed spotted moss-
         bonkers.

I see the despondent red man in the west,
         lingering about the banks of Moingo, and
         about Lake Pepin,
He has beheld the quail and honey-bee, and
         sadly prepared to depart.

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 Pacific and the North Atlantic,
I see the cliffs, glaciers, torrents, valleys, of Switz-
         erland—I mark the long winters and the
         isolation.

I see the cities of the earth, and make myself a
         part of them,
I am a real Londoner, Parisian, Viennese,
I am a habitan of St. Petersburgh, Berlin, Con-
         stantinople,
I am of Adelaide, Sidney, Melbourne,
I am of Manchester, Bristol, Edinburgh, Limerick,

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I am of Madrid, Cadiz, Barcelona, Oporto, Lyons,
         Brussels, Berne, Frankfort, Stuttgart, Turin,
         Florence,
I belong in Moscow, Cracow, Warsaw—or north-
         ward in Christiana or Stockholm—or in
         some street in Iceland,
I descend upon all those cities, and rise from them
         again.

I see vapors exhaling from unexplored coun-
         tries,
I see the savage types, the bow and arrow, the
         poisoned splint, the fetish and the obi.

I see African and Asiatic towns,
I see Algiers, Tripoli, Derne, Mogadore, Timbuc-
         too, Monrovia,
I see the swarms of Pekin, Canton, Benares,
         Delhi, Calcutta,
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 toil-
         ing onward;
I see Egypt and the Egyptians, I see the pyramids
         and obelisks,

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I look on chiselled histories, songs, philosophies,
         cut in slabs of sand-stone or granite blocks,
I see at Memphis mummy-pits, containing mum-
         mies, embalmed, 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 the menials of the earth, laboring,
I see the prisoners in the prisons,
I see the defective human bodies of the earth,
I see the blind, the deaf and dumb, idiots, hunch-
         backs, lunatics,
I see the pirates, thieves, betrayers, murderers,
         slave-makers of the earth,
I see 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, inevitable where you are!
You daughter or son of England!


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You free man of Australia! you of Tasmania! you
         of Papua! you free woman of the same!
You of the mighty Slavic tribes and empires! you
         Russ in Russia!
You dim-descended, black, divine-souled African,
         large, fine-headed, nobly-formed, superbly
         destined, 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 sturdy Austrian! you Lombard! Hun! Bohe-
         mian! 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! you Swabian!
         Saxon! Wallachian! Bulgarian!
You citizen of Prague! you Roman! Napolitan!
         Greek!
You lithe matador in the arena at Seville!
You mountaineer living lawlessly on the Taurus
         or Caucasus!
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!


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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 Euphrates! 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 Babel-
         mandel, ruling your families and tribes!
You olive-grower tending your fruit on fields off
         Nazareth, Damascus, or Lake Tiberias!
You Thibet trader on the wide inland, or bargain-
         ing 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 archi-
         pelagoes of the sea!
And you of centuries hence, when you listen to me!
And you everywhere whom I specify not, but in-
         clude just the same!

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I salute you for myself and for America.
Each of us inevitable,
Each of us limitless—each of us with his or her
         right upon the earth,
Each of us allowed the eternal purport of the earth,
Each of us here as divinely as any is here.

You Hottentot with clicking palate!
You woolly-haired hordes! you white or black
         owners of slaves!
You owned persons dropping sweat-drops or
         blood-drops!
You felons, deformed persons, idiots!
You human forms with the fathomless ever-
         impressive countenances of brutes!
You poor koboo whom the meanest of the rest
         look down upon, for all your glimmering
         language and spirituality!
You low expiring aborigines of the hills of Utah,
         Oregon, California!
You dwarfed Kamskatkan, Greenlander, Lapp!
You Austral negro, naked, red, sooty, with pro-
         trusive lip, grovelling, seeking your food!
You Caffre, Berber, Soudanese!
You haggard, uncouth, untutored Bedowee!
You plague-swarms in Madras, Nankin, Kaubul,
         Cairo!
You bather bathing in the Ganges!

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You benighted roamer of Amazonia! you Pat-
         agonian! you Fegee-man!
You peon of Mexico! you Russian serf! you
         quadroon of Carolina, Texas, Tennessee!
I do not refuse you my hand, or prefer others
         before you,
I do not say one word against you.

My spirit has passed in compassion and deter-
         mination around the whole earth,
I have looked for brothers, sisters, lovers, and
         found them ready for me in all lands.

I think I have risen with you, you vapors, and
         moved away to distant continents, and fallen
         down there, for reasons,
I think I have blown with you, you winds,
I think, you waters, I have fingered every shore
         with you,
I think I have run through what any river or strait
         of the globe has run through,
I think I have taken my stand on the bases of
         peninsulas, and on imbedded rocks.

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,
I find my home wherever there are any homes of
         men.


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4 — Poem of The Daily Work of The Workmen and Workwomen of These States.


COME closer to me,
Push close, my lovers, and take the best I
         possess,
Yield closer and closer, and give me the best you
         possess.

This is unfinished business with me—How is it
         with you?
I was chilled with the cold types, cylinder, wet
         paper between us.

I pass so poorly with paper and types, I must pass
         with the contact of bodies and souls.

I do not thank you for liking me as I am, and
         liking the touch of me—I know that it is
         good for you to do so.

Were all educations practical and ornamental well
         displayed out of me, what would it amount to?


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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 learned, virtuous, benevolent, and the usual
         terms,
A man like me, and never the usual terms.

Neither a servant nor a master am 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.

If you are a workman or workwoman, I stand as
         nigh as the nighest that works 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 outlawed deeds,
         do you think I cannot remember my own
         foolish and outlawed deeds? plenty of them?
If you carouse at the table, I carouse at the
         opposite side of the table,

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If you meet some stranger in the street, and love
         him or her, do I not often meet strangers in
         the street and love them?
If you see a good deal remarkable in me, I see
         just as much, perhaps more, in you.

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 that you
         was once drunk, or a thief, or diseased, or
         rheumatic, or a prostitute, or are so now, 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 untouch-
         ing,
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
         —I see and hear you, and what you give and
         take,
What is there you cannot give and take?

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I see not merely that you are polite or white-faced,
         married, single, citizens of old states, citizens
         of new states, eminent in some profession, a
         lady or gentleman in a parlor, or dressed in
         the jail uniform, or pulpit uniform,
Not only the free Utahan, Kansian, Arkansian —
         not only the free Cuban, not merely the slave,
         not Mexican native, Flatfoot, negro from
         Africa,
Iroquois eating the war-flesh, fish-tearer in his lair
         of rocks and sand, Esquimaux in the dark
         cold snow-house, Chinese with his transverse
         eyes, Bedowee, wandering nomad, taboun-
         schik at the head of his droves,
Grown, half-grown, and babe, of this country and
         every country, indoors and outdoors, I see —
         and all else is 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 those not rich, boys apprenticed to
         trades,
Young fellows working on farms, and old fellows
         working on farms,

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The naive, the simple and hardy, he going to the
         polls to vote, he who has a good time, and he
         who has a bad time,
Mechanics, southerners, new arrivals, laborers
         sailors, mano'warsmen, merchantmen, coast-
         ers,
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, but as good,
I send no agent or medium, offer no representative
         of value, but offer the value itself.

There is something that comes home to one now
         and perpetually,
It is not what is printed, preached, 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 not them, though it is endlessly provoked
         by them—what is there ready and near you
         now?


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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 the weekly papers,
Or in the census returns, assessors' 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 recon-
         noissance,
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 out-stretching of man, unspeakable
         joys and sorrows,

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The wonder every one sees in every one else he
         sees, and the wonders that fill each minute
         of time forever, and each acre of surface and
         space forever,
Have you reckoned them for a trade or farm-work?
         or for the profits of a store? or to achieve
         yourself a position? or to fill a gentleman's
         leisure, or a lady's leisure?

Have you reckoned 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 ta-
         bles, or agriculture 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,

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I rate them 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 eternally 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 December for you,

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Laws, courts, the forming of States, the charters
         of cities, the going and coming of commerce
         and mails, are all for you.

All doctrines, all politics and civilization, exurge
         from you,
All sculpture and monuments, and anything in-
         scribed 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 renowned poems would be ashes, ora-
         tions 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 ro-
         manza, nor that of the men's chorus, nor that
         of the women's chorus,
It is nearer and farther than they.


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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, and here with me?

The old, forever-new things—you foolish child!
         the closest, simplest things, this moment with
         you,
Your person, and every particle that relates to
         your person,
The pulses of your brain, waiting their chance
         and encouragement at every deed or sight,
Anything you do in public by day, and anything
         you do in secret between-days,
What is called right and what is called wrong,
         what you behold or touch, what causes your
         anger or wonder,
The ankle-chain of the slave, the bed of the bed-
         house, the cards of the gambler, the plates
         of the forger,
What is seen or learnt in the street, or intui-
         tively learnt,
What is learnt in the public school, spelling,
         reading, writing, ciphering, the black-board,
         the teacher's diagrams,
The panes of the windows, all that appears
         through them, the going forth in the morning,
         the aimless spending of the day,

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(What is it that you made money? what is it that
         you got what you wanted?)
The usual routine, the work-shop, factory, yard,
         office, store, desk,
The jaunt of hunting or fishing, the life of hunt-
         ing or fishing,
Pasture-life, foddering, milking, herding, all the
         personnel and usages,
The plum-orchard, apple-orchard, gardening,
         seedlings, cuttings, flowers, vines,
Grains, manures, marl, clay, loam, the subsoil
         plough, the shovel, pick, rake, hoe, irrigation,
         draining,
The curry-comb, the horse-cloth, the halter, bridle,
         bits, the very wisps of straw,
The barn and barn-yard, the bins, mangers, mows,
         racks,
Manufactures, commerce, engineering, the build-
         ing of cities, every trade carried on there,
         the implements of every trade,
The anvil, tongs, hammer, the axe and wedge,
         the square, mitre, jointer, smoothing-plane,
The plumbob, trowel, level, the wall-scaffold, the
         work of walls and ceilings, any mason-
         work,
The steam-engine, lever, crank, axle, piston, shaft,
         air-pump, boiler, beam, pulley, hinge, flange,
         band, bolt, throttle, governors, up and down
         rods,

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The ship's compass, the sailor's tarpaulin, the
         stays and lanyards, the ground tackle for
         anchoring or mooring, the life-boat for
         wrecks,
The sloop's tiller, the pilot's wheel and bell, the
         yacht or fish-smack, the great gay-pennanted
         three-hundred-foot steamboat under full head-
         way, with her proud fat breasts and her deli-
         cate swift-flashing paddles,
The trail, line, hooks, sinkers, the seine, hauling
         the seine,
The arsenal, small-arms, rifles, gunpowder, shot,
         caps, wadding, ordnance for war, carriages;
Every-day objects, house-chairs, carpet, bed,
         counterpane of the bed, him or her sleeping
         at night, wind blowing, indefinite noises,
The snow-storm or rain-storm, the tow-trowsers,
         the lodge-hut in the woods, the still-hunt,
City and country, fire-place, candle, gas-light,
         heater, aqueduct,
The message of the governor, mayor, chief of
         police—the dishes of breakfast, dinner, sup-
         per,
The bunk-room, the fire-engine, the string-term,
         the car or truck behind,
The paper I write on or you write on, every word
         we write, every cross and twirl of the pen,
         and the curious way we write what we think,
         yet very faintly,

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The directory, the detector, the ledger, the books
         in ranks on the book-shelves, the clock at-
         tached to the wall,
The ring on your finger, the lady's wristlet, the
         scent-powder, the druggist's vials and jars,
         the draught of lager-beer,
The etui of surgical instruments, the etui of ocu-
         list's or aurist's instruments, or dentist's in-
         struments,
The permutating lock that can be turned and
         locked as many different ways as there are
         minutes in a year,
Glass-blowing, nail-making, salt-making, tin-roof-
         ing, shingle-dressing, candle-making, lock-
         making and hanging,
Ship-carpentering, dock-building, fish-curing, ferry-
         ing, stone-breaking, flagging of side-walks
         by flaggers,
The pump, the pile-driver, the great derrick, the
         coal-kiln and brick-kiln,
Coal-mines, all that is down there, the lamps in
         the darkness, echoes, songs, what medita-
         tions, 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—the blast-
         furnace and the puddling-furnace, the loup-

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         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,
Lead-mines, and all that is done in lead-mines, or
         with the lead afterward,
Copper-mines, the sheets of copper, and what is
         formed out of the sheets, and all the work in
         forming it,
Stone-cutting, shapely trimmings for facades,
         or window or door lintels—the mallet,
         the tooth-chisel, the jib to protect the
         thumb,
Oakum, the oakum-chisel, the caulking-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 screen of the coal-
         screener, the mould of the moulder, the
         working-knife of the butcher, the ice-saw,
         and all the work with ice,
The four-double cylinder press, the hand-press,
         the frisket and tympan, the compositor's stick
         and rule, type-setting, making up the forms,
         all the work of newspaper counters, folders,
         carriers, news-men,

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The implements for daguerreotyping—the tools
         of the rigger, grappler, sail-maker, block-
         maker,
Goods of gutta-percha, papier-mache, colors,
         brushes, brush-making, glazier's implements,
The veneer and glue-pot, the confectioner's orna-
         ments, 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 ladders and hanging ropes of the gymnasium,
         manly exercises, the game of base-ball, run-
         ning, leaping, pitching quoits,
The designs for wall-papers, oil-cloths, carpets,
         the fancies for goods for women, the book-
         binder's stamps,
The brewery, brewing, the malt, the vats, every-
         thing that is done by brewers, also by wine-
         makers, also vinegar-makers,
Leather-dressing, coach-making, boiler-making,
         rope-twisting, distilling, sign-painting, lime-
         burning, coopering, cotton-picking, electro-
         plating, stereotyping,
Stave-machines, planing-machines, reaping-ma-
         chines, ploughing-machines, thrashing-ma-
         chines, steam-wagons,

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The cart of the carman, the omnibus, the ponder-
         ous dray,
The wires of the electric telegraph stretched on
         land, or laid at the bottom of the sea, and
         then the message in an instant from ten
         thousand miles off,
The snow-plough and two engines pushing it, the
         ride in the express-train of only one car, the
         swift go through a howling storm—the locomo-
         tive, and all that is done about a locomotive,
The bear-hunt or coon-hunt, the bonfire of shav-
         ings in the open lot in the city, the crowd of
         children watching,
The blows of the fighting-man, the upper-cut and
         one-two-three,
Pyrotechny, letting off colored fire-works at
         night, fancy figures and jets,
Shop-windows, coffins in the sexton's ware-room,
         fruit on the fruit-stand—beef in the butcher's
         stall, the slaughter-house of the butcher,
         the butcher in his killing-clothes,
The area of 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 winter-work 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,

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Bread and cakes in the bakery, the milliner's rib-
         bons, the dress-maker's patterns, the tea-table,
         the home-made sweetmeats;
Coins and medals, the ancient bronze coin, bust,
         inscription, date, ring-money, the copper
         cent, the silver dime, the five-dime piece, the
         gold dollar, the fifty-dollar piece—Modern
         coins, and all the study and reminiscence of
         old coins,
Cheap literature, maps, charts, lithographs, daily
         and weekly newspapers,
The column of wants in the one-cent paper,
         the news by telegraph, amusements, operas,
         shows,
The business parts of a city, the trottoirs of a
         city when thousands of well-dressed people
         walk up and down,
The cotton, woolen, linen you wear, the money
         you make and spend,
Your room and bed-room, your piano-forte, the
         stove and cook-pans,
The house you live in, the rent, the other tenants,
         the deposite in the savings-bank, the trade at
         the grocery,
The pay on Saturday night, the going home, and
         the purchases;
In them the heft of the heaviest—in them far
         more than you estimated, and far less also,

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In them, not yourself—you and your soul enclose
         all things, regardless of estimation,
In them your themes, hints, provokers—if not,
         the whole earth has no themes, hints, pro-
         vokers, and never had.

I do not affirm 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, sadder, hap-
         pier, than those 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 also the sweetest,
         strongest, lovingest,
Happiness not in another place, but this place —
         not for another hour, but this hour,
Man in the first you see or touch, always in your
         friend, brother, nighest neighbor—Woman in
         your mother, lover, wife,
The popular tastes and occupations taking prece-
         dence in poems or anywhere,
You workwomen and workmen of These States
         having your own divine and strong life —
         looking the President always sternly in the
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         face, unbending, nonchalant, understanding
         that he is to be kept by you to short and
         sharp account of himself,
And all else thus far giving place to men and
         women.

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 the sacred vessels, or the bits of the eucha-
         rist, or the lath and plast, procreate as effec-
         tually as the young silver-smiths or bakers, or
         the masons in their over-alls,
When a university course convinces like a slum-
         bering 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.


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5 — Broad-Axe Poem.


BROAD-AXE, 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 leaned, 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,
Welcome are lands of wheat and maize—welcome
         those of the grape,
Welcome are lands of sugar and rice,

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Welcome the cotton-lands—welcome those of the
         white potato and sweet potato,
Welcome are mountains, flats, sands, forests, prai-
         ries,
Welcome the rich borders of rivers, table-lands,
         openings,
Welcome the measureless grazing lands—wel-
         come 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 cleared for a garden,
The irregular tapping of rain down on the leaves,
         after the storm is lulled,
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-fashioned
         houses and barns;

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The remembered print or narrative, the voyage at
         a venture of men, families, goods,
The disembarcation, the founding of a new city,
The voyage of those who sought a New England
         and found it,
The Year 1 of These States, the weapons that year
         began with, scythe, pitch-fork, club, horse-
         pistol,
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 per-
         sons,
The beauty of wood-boys and wood-men, with
         their clear untrimmed faces,
The beauty of independence, departure, actions
         that rely on themselves,
The American contempt for statutes and cere-
         monies, the boundless 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 rafts-man,
         the pioneer,
Lumber-men in their winter camp, day-break in the
         woods, stripes of snow on the limbs of trees,
         the occasional snapping,

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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, mor-
         tising,
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 curved limbs,
Bending, standing, astride the beams, driving in
         pins, holding on by posts and braces,
The hooked arm over the plate, the other arm
         wielding the axe,
The floor-men forcing the planks close, to be
         nailed,
Their postures bringing their weapons downward
         on the bearers,
The echoes resounding through the vacant building;
The huge store-house 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,

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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 and bricks,
The bricks, one after another, each laid so work-
         man-like 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-hewed
         log, shaping it toward the shape of a
         mast,
The brisk short crackle of the steel driven slant-
         ingly into the pine,
The butter-colored chips flying off in great flakes
         and slivers,
The limber motion of brawny young arms and hips
         in easy costumes;
The constructor of wharves, bridges, piers, bulk-
         heads, floats, stays against the sea;
The city fire-man—the fire that suddenly bursts
         forth in the close-packed square,
The arriving engines, the hoarse shouts, the
         nimble stepping and daring,

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The strong command through the fire-trumpets,
         the forming in line, the echoed rise and fall
         of the arms forcing the water,
The slender, spasmic blue-white jets—the bring-
         ing 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 temperer,
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,

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The death-howl, the limpsey tumbling, the
         rush of friend and foe thither,
The siege of revolted lieges determined for lib-
         erty,
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 tumult-
         uously 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,
And the roughness of the earth and of man en-
         closes as much as the delicatesse of the earth
         and of man,
And nothing endures but personal qualities.


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What do you think endures?
Do you think the greatest city endures?
Or a teeming manufacturing state? or a prepared
         constitution? or the best built steam-ships?
Or hotels of granite and iron? or any chef-
         d'oeuvres of engineering, forts, armaments?

Away! These are not to be cherished for them-
         selves,
They fill their hour, the dancers dance, the musi-
         cians play for them,
The show passes, all does well enough of course,
All does very well till one flash of defiance.

The greatest city is that which has the greatest
         man or woman,
If it be a few ragged huts, it is still the greatest
         city in the whole world.

The place where the greatest city stands is not
         the place of stretched wharves, docks, manu-
         factures, deposites of produce,
Nor the place of ceaseless salutes of new-comers,
         or the anchor-lifters of the departing,
Nor the place of the tallest and costliest build-
         ings, 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,

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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 beloved by these,
         and loves them in return, and understands
         them,
Where these may be seen going every day in the
         streets, with their arms familiar to the shoul-
         ders of their friends,
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 behavior is the finest of the fine arts,
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 auda-
         city of elected persons,
Where fierce men and women pour forth as the
         sea to the whistle of death pours its sweeping
         and unript waves,
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,

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Where children are taught from the jump that
         they are 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, and are appealed
         to by the orators 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 greatest city stands.

How beggarly appear poems, arguments, orations,
         before an electric 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 over-
         awed,
The dispute on the soul stops,

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The old customs and phrases are confronted,
         turned 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?

Was that your best? Were those your vast and
         solid?
Riches, opinions, politics, institutions, to part obe-
         diently from the path of one man or woman!
The centuries, and all authority, to be trod under
         the foot-soles of one man or woman!

—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 accom-
         plished, the hammers-men are at hand with
         their tongs and hammers,
What always served and always serves, is at hand.
Than this nothing has better served—it has served
         all,

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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
         Hindostanee,
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, and the
         bloody body laid in the hollow of the great
         stone,
Served the artificial clefts, vast, high, silent, on
         the snow-covered 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 pastoral tribes and nomads,
Served the incalculably distant Celt, 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,

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For the medieval ages, and before the medieval
         ages,
Served not the living only, then as now, but
         served the dead.

I see the European headsman,
He stands masked, clothed in red, with huge legs,
         and strong naked arms,
And leans on a ponderous axe.

Whom have you slaughtered lately, European
         headsman?
Whose is that blood upon you, so wet and
         sticky?

I see the clear sun-sets of the martyrs,
I see from the scaffolds the descending
         ghosts,
Ghosts of dead princes, uncrowned ladies, im-
         peached 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.


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I see the blood washed entirely away from the
         axe,
Both blade and helve are clean,
They spirt no more the blood of European nobles,
         —they clasp no more the necks of queens.

I see the headsman withdraw and become use-
         less,
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, exhibi-
         tion-house, library,
Cornice, trellis, pilaster, balcony, window, shutter,
         turret, porch,
Hoe, rake, pitch-fork, pencil, wagon, staff, saw,
         jackplane, mallet, wedge, rounce,

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Chair, tub, hoop, table, wicket, vane, sash, floor,
Work-box, chest, stringed instrument, boat, frame,
         and what not,
Capitols of States, and capitol of the nation of
         States,
Long stately rows in avenues, hospitals for or-
         phans 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 St. John's, or Kennebec,
Dwellers in cabins among the Californian moun-
         tains, or by the little lakes,
Dwellers south on the banks of the Gila or Rio
         Grande—friendly gatherings, the characters
         and fun,
Dwellers up north in Minnesota and by the
         Yellowstone river, dwellers on coasts and
         off coasts,
Seal-fishers, whalers, arctic seamen breaking pas-
         sages through the ice.

The shapes arise!
Shapes of factories, arsenals, foundries, markets,
Shapes of the two-threaded tracks of railroads,

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Shapes of the sleepers of bridges, vast frame-
         works, girders, arches,
Shapes of the fleets of barges, tows, lake craft,
         river craft.

The shapes arise!
Ship-yards and dry-docks along the Atlantic and
         Pacific, and in many a bay and by-place,
The live-oak kelsons, the pine planks, the spars,
         the hackmatuck-roots for knees,
The ships themselves on their ways, the tiers of
         scaffolds, the workmen busy outside and in-
         side,
The tools lying around, the great augur and little
         augur, the adze, bolt, line, square, gouge,
         bead-plane.

The shapes arise!
The shape measured, sawed, jacked, joined,
         stained,
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,

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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 cooked 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 pill-box, the disgraceful oint-
         ment-box, the nauseous application, and him
         or her applying it,
The shape of the liquor-bar leaned against by the
         young rum-drinker and the old rum-drinker,
The shape of the shamed and angry stairs, trod
         by sneaking footsteps,
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 slats of the bed of a corrupted
         body, the bed of the corruption of gluttony or
         alcoholic drinks,
The shape of the step-ladder for the convicted
         and sentenced murderer, the murderer with
         haggard face and pinioned arms,

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The sheriff at hand with his deputies, the silent
         and white-lipped crowd, the sickening dan-
         gling of the rope.

The shapes arise!
Shapes of doors giving so many exits and
         entrances,
The door passing the dissevered friend, flushed,
         and in haste,
The door that admits good news and bad news,
The door whence the son left home, confident and
         puffed up,
The door he entered from a long and scandalous
         absence, diseased, broken down, without in-
         nocence, without means.

Their shapes arise, the shapes of full-sized men!
Men taciturn yet loving, used to the open air, and
         the manners of the open air,
Saying their ardor in native forms, saying the old
         response,
Take what I have then, (saying fain,) take the pay
         you approached for,
Take the white tears of my blood, if that is what
         you are after.

Her shape arises!
She, less guarded than ever, yet more guarded
         than ever,

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The gross and soiled she moves among do not
         make her gross and soiled,
She knows the thoughts as she passes, nothing is
         concealed from her,
She is none the less considerate or friendly there-
         fore,
She is the best-beloved, it is without exception,
         she has no reason to fear, and she does not
         fear,
Oaths, quarrels, hiccuped songs, smutty expres-
         sions, are idle to her as she passes,
She is silent, she is possessed 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 greater
         than she is.

His shape arises!
Arrogant, masculine, naive, rowdyish,
Laugher, weeper, worker, idler, citizen, country-
         man,
Saunterer of woods, stander upon hills, summer
         swimmer in rivers or by the sea,
Of pure American breed, of reckless health, his
         body perfect, free from taint from top to toe,
         free forever from headache and dyspepsia,
         clean-breathed,

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Ample-limbed, a good feeder, weight a hundred
         and eighty pounds, full-blooded, six feet high,
         forty inches round the breast and back,
Countenance sun-burnt, bearded, calm, unrefined,
Reminder of animals, meeter of savage and gen-
         tleman on equal terms,
Attitudes lithe and erect, costume free, neck open,
         of slow movement on foot,
Passer of his right arm round the shoulders of his
         friends, companion of the street,
Persuader always of people to give him their
         sweetest touches, and never their meanest,
A Manhattanese bred, fond of Brooklyn, fond of
         Broadway, fond of the life of the wharves
         and the great ferries,
Enterer everywhere, welcomed everywhere, eas-
         ily understood after all,
Never offering others, always offering himself,
         corroborating his phrenology,
Voluptuous, inhabitive, combative, conscientious,
         alimentive, intuitive, of copious friendship,
         sublimity, firmness, self-esteem, comparison,
         individuality, form, locality, eventuality,
Avowing by life, manners, works, to contribute
         illustrations of results of The States,
Teacher of the unquenchable creed, namely,
         egotism,
Inviter of others continually henceforth to try
         their strength against his.


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The shapes arise!
Shapes of America, shapes of centuries,
Shapes of those that do not joke with life, but are
         in earnest with life,
Shapes ever projecting other shapes,
Shapes of a hundred Free States, begetting
         another hundred north and south,
Shapes of the turbulent manly cities,
Shapes of the untamed breed of young men and
         natural persons,
Shapes of women fit for These States,
Shapes of the composition of all the varieties of
         the earth,
Shapes of the friends and home-givers of the
         whole earth,
Shapes bracing the whole earth, and braced with
         the whole earth.


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6 — Poem of a Few Greatnesses.


GREAT are the myths, I too delight in them,
Great are Adam and Eve, I too look back and
         accept them,
Great the risen and fallen nations, and their poets,
         women, sages, inventors, rulers, warriors,
         priests.

Great is liberty! Great is equality! I am their
         follower,
Helmsmen of nations, choose your craft! where
         you sail, I sail!
Yours is the muscle of life or death, yours is the
         perfect science, in you I have absolute faith.

Great is today, and beautiful,
It is good to live in this age, there never was any
         better.

Great are the plunges, throes, triumphs, falls of
         democracy,
Great the reformers, with their lapses and screams,
Great the daring and venture of sailors on new
         explorations.


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Great are yourself and myself,
We are just as good and bad as the oldest and
         youngest or any,
What the best and worst did, we could do,
What they felt, do not we feel it in ourselves?
What they wished, do we not wish the same?

Great is youth, equally great is old age—great are
         the day and night,
Great is wealth, great is poverty, great is expres-
         sion, great is silence,

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 im-
         mense sun, action, ambition, laughter,
The night follows close, with millions of suns,
         and sleep, and restoring darkness.

Wealth with the flush hand, fine clothes, hospi-
         tality,
But then the soul's wealth, which is candor,
         knowledge, pride, enfolding love;
(Who goes for men and women showing poverty
         richer than wealth?)

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Expression of speech! in what is written or said,
         forget not that silence is also expressive,
That anguish as hot as the hottest, and contempt
         as cold as the coldest, may be without words,
That the true adoration is likewise without words,
         and without kneeling.

Great is the greatest nation! the nation of clus-
         ters of equal nations!

Great is the earth, and the way it became what it
         is,
Do you imagine it is stopped at this? the increase
         abandoned?
Understand then that it goes as far onward from
         this, as this is from the times when it lay in
         covering waters and gases.

Great is the quality of truth in man,
The quality of truth in man supports itself
         through all changes,
It is inevitably in the man—he and it are in love,
         and never leave each other.

The truth in man is no dictum, it is vital as eye-
         sight,
If there be any soul, there is truth—if there be
         man or woman, there is truth—if there be
         physical or moral, there is truth,

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If there be equilibrium or volition, there is truth
         —if there be things at all upon the earth,
         there is truth.

O truth of the earth! O truth of things! I am
         determined to press the whole way toward
         you,
Sound your voice! I scale mountains, or dive in
         the sea after you.

Great is language—it is the mightiest of the
         sciences,
It is the fulness, color, form, diversity of the
         earth, and of men and women, and of all
         qualities and processes,
It is greater than wealth—it is greater than
         buildings, ships, religions, paintings, music.

Great is the English speech—what speech is so
         great as the English?
Great is the English brood—what brood has so
         vast a destiny as the English?
It is the mother of the brood that must rule the
         earth with the new rule,
The new rule shall rule as the soul rules, and as
         the love, justice, equality in the soul, rule.

Great in the law—great are the old few land-
         marks of the law,

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They are the same in all times, and shall not be
         disturbed.

Great are marriage, commerce, newspapers,
         books, free-trade, rail-roads, steamers, interna-
         tional mails, telegraphs, exchanges.

Great is justice!
Justice is not settled by legislators and laws—it
         is in the soul,
It cannot be varied by statutes, any more than
         love, pride, the attraction of gravity, can,
It is immutable—it does not depend on major-
         ities—majorities or what not come at last
         before the same passionless and exact tri-
         bunal.

For justice are the grand natural lawyers and per-
         fect judges, it is in their souls,
It is well assorted, they have not studied for noth-
         ing, the great includes the less,
They rule on the highest grounds, they oversee
         all eras, states, administrations.

The perfect judge fears nothing, he could go front
         to front before God,
Before the perfect judge all shall stand back —
         life and death shall stand back—heaven and
         hell shall stand back.


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Great is goodness!
I do not know what it is any more than I know
         what health is, but I know it is great.

Great is wickedness—I find I often admire it just
         as much as I admire goodness,
Do you call that a paradox? It certainly is a par-
         adox.

The eternal equilibrium of things is great, and the
         eternal overthrow of things is great,
And there is another paradox.

Great is life, real and mystical, wherever and
         whoever,
Great is death—sure as life holds all parts to-
         gether, death holds all parts together,
Death has just as much purport as life has,
Do you enjoy what life confers? you shall enjoy
         what death confers,
I do not understand the realities of death, but I
         know they are great,
I do not understand the least reality of life —
         how then can I understand the realities of
         death?


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7 — Poem of The Body.


THE bodies of men and women engirth me, and
         I engirth them,
They will not let me off, nor I them, till I go with
         them, respond to them, love them.

Was it doubted if those who corrupt their own live
         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 as much as the soul?
And if the body were not the soul, what is the
         soul?

The expression of the body of man or woman
         balks account,
The male is perfect, and that of the female is per-
         fect.

The expression of a well-made man appears not
         only in his face,
It is in his limbs and joints also, it is curiously in
         the joints of his hips and wrists,

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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, supple quality he has, strikes
         through the cotton and flannel,
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 shoulder-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 con-
         tour 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 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 per-
         formances,
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
         guiding his six horses through the crowd,

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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 blinding the eyes;
The march of firemen in their own costumes, the
         play of masculine muscle through clean-set-
         ting trowsers and waist-straps,
The slow return from the fire, the pause when the
         bell strikes suddenly again, the listening on
         the alert,
The natural, perfect, varied attitudes, the bent
         head, the curved neck, 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, pause, listen,
         count.

I knew a man, he was a common farmer, he was
         the father of five sons, and in them were the
         fathers of sons, and in them were the fathers
         of sons.

This man was of wonderful vigor, calmness,
         beauty of person,

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The shape of his head, the richness and breadth
         of his manners, the pale yellow and white
         of his hair and beard, the immeasurable
         meaning of his black eyes,
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 showed like scar-
         let through the clear brown skin of his face,
He was a frequent gunner and fisher, he sailed 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 perceived that to be with those I like is
         enough,

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To stop in company with the rest at evening is
         enough,
To be surrounded by beautiful, curious, breath-
         ing, laughing flesh is enough,
To pass among them, to touch any one, to 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 looking on them, and in the con-
         tact 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,
         the atmosphere and the clouds, what was
         expected of heaven or feared of hell, are now
         consumed,
Mad filaments, ungovernable shoots play out of it,
         the response likewise ungovernable,

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Hair, bosom, hips, bend of legs, negligent falling
         hands, all diffused—mine too diffused,
Ebb stung by the flow, and flow stung by the ebb,
         love-flesh swelling and deliciously aching,
Limitless limpid jets of love hot and enormous,
         quivering jelly of love, white-blow and deliri-
         ous juice,
Bridegroom-night of love, working surely and
         softly into the prostrate dawn,
Undulating into the willing and yielding day,
Lost in the cleave of the clasping and sweet-
         fleshed day.

This is the nucleus—after the child is born of
         woman, the man is born of woman,
This is the bath of birth—this is the merge of
         small and large, and the outlet again.

Be not ashamed, women! your privilege encloses
         the rest, it 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, she moves with
         perfect balance,
She is all things duly veiled, she is both passive
         and active—she is to conceive daughters as
         well as sons, and sons as well as daughters.


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As I see my soul reflected in nature, as I see
         through a mist, one with inexpressible com-
         pleteness and beauty—see the bent head and
         arms folded over the breast, the female I
         see,
I see the bearer of the great fruit which is im-
         mortality—the good thereof is not tasted
         by roues, and never can be.

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 defi-
         ance become him well,
The fiercest 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 ex-
         cellent to the soul,
Knowledge becomes him, he likes it always, he
         brings everything to the test of himself,
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—it is no matter who,

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Is it a slave? Is it one of the dull-faced immi-
         grants 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
         beautiful motion!

Do you know so much, that you call the slave or
         the dull-face 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
         diffused float, and the soil is on the surface,
         and water runs, and vegetation sprouts, for
         you, and not for him and her?

A man's body at auction!
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
         rolled.


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In this head the all-baffling brain,
In it and below it the making of the attributes of
         heroes.

Examine these limbs, red, black, or white—they
         are so 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 back-bone and
         neck, flesh not flabby, good-sized arms and
         legs,
And wonders within there yet.

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 expressed in parlors and lecture-rooms?

This is not only one man—this is the father of
         those who shall be fathers in their turns,
In him the start of populous states and rich re-
         publics,
Of him countless immortal lives, with countless
         embodiments and enjoyments.

How do you know who shall come from the off-
         spring of his offspring through the centuries?

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Who might you find you have come from yourself,
         if you could trace back through the cen-
         turies?

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.

Her daughters, or their daughters' daughters —
         who knows who shall mate with them?
Who knows through the centuries what heroes
         may come from them?

In them, and of them, natal love—in them
         the divine mystery, the same old beautiful
         mystery.

Have you ever loved the body of a woman?
Have you ever loved the body of a man?
Your father, where is your father?
Your mother, is she living? Have you been
         much with her? and has she been much
         with you?
Do you not see that these are exactly the same
         to all, in all nations and times, all over the
         earth?


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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 beautiful as 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,
I believe the likes of you shall stand or fall with
         my poems—for they are 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, eye-brows, 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,

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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, arm-pit, elbow-socket, lower-arm, arm-
         sinews, arm-bones,
Wrist and wrist-joints, hand, palm, knuckles,
         thumb, forefinger, finger-balls, finger-joints,
         finger-nails,
Broad breast-front, curling hair of the breast,
         breast-bone, breast-side,
Ribs, belly, back-bone, joints of the back-bone,
Hips, hip-sockets, hip-strength, inward and out-
         ward 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,

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The womb, the teats, nipples, breast-milk, tears,
         laughter, weeping, love-looks, love-perturba-
         tions and risings,
The voice, articulation, language, whispering,
         shouting aloud,
Food, drink, pulse, digestion, sweat, sleep, walk-
         ing, 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 sun-burnt shade, freckles, hair,
The curious sympathy one feels, when feeling
         with the hand the naked meat of his own
         body or another person's body,
The circling rivers, the breath, and breathing it in
         and out,
The beauty of the waist, and thence of the hips,
         and thence downward 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 think these are not the parts and poems of
         the body only, but of the soul,
O I think these are the soul!
If these are not the soul, what is the soul?


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8 — Poem of Many In One.


A NATION announcing itself,
I myself make the only growth by which I
         can be appreciated,
I reject none, accept all, reproduce all in my own
         forms.

A breed whose testimony is behaviour,
What we are, we are—nativity is answer enough
         to objections;
We wield ourselves as a weapon is wielded,
We are powerful and tremendous in ourselves,
We are executive in ourselves—we are sufficient
         in the variety of ourselves,
We are the most beautiful to ourselves and in our-
         selves,
Nothing is sinful to us outside of ourselves,
Whatever appears, whatever does not appear, we
         are beautiful or sinful in ourselves.

Have you thought there could be but a single
         Supreme?


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There can be any number of Supremes—one
         does not countervail another any more than
         one eye-sight countervails another, or one life
         countervails another.

All is eligible to all,
All is for individuals—all is for you,
No condition is prohibited, not God's or any,
If one is lost, you are inevitably lost.

All comes by the body—only health puts you
         rapport with the universe.

Produce great persons, the rest follows.
How dare a sick man, or an obedient man, write
         poems?
Which is the theory or book that is not diseased?

Piety and conformity to them that like!
Peace, obesity, allegiance, to them that like!
I am he who tauntingly compels men, women,
         nations, to leap from their seats and contend
         for their lives!

I am he who goes through the streets with a
         barbed tongue, questioning every one I meet
         —questioning you up there now,
Who are you, that wanted only to be told what
         you knew before?

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Who are you, that wanted only a book to join you
         in your nonsense?

Are you, or would you be, better than all that has
         ever been before?
If you would be better than all that has ever been
         before, come listen to me, and I will to you.

Fear grace! Fear delicatesse!
Fear the mellow sweet, the sucking of honey-
         juice!
Beware the advancing mortal ripening of nature!
Beware what precedes the decay of the rugged-
         ness of states and men!

Ages, precedents, poems, have long been accumu-
         lating undirected materials,
America brings builders, and brings its own styles.

Mighty bards have done their work, and passed to
         other spheres,
One work forever remains, the work of surpassing
         all they have done.

America, curious toward foreign characters,
         stands sternly by its own,
Stands removed, spacious, composite, sound,
Sees itself promulger of men and women, initiates
         the true use of precedents,

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Does not repel them or the past, or what they
         have produced under their forms, or amid
         other politics, or amid the idea of castes, or
         the old religions,
Takes the lesson with calmness, perceives the
         corpse slowly borne from the eating and
         sleeping rooms of the house,
Perceives that it waits a little while in the door,
         that it was fittest for its days, that its life has
         descended to the stalwart and well-shaped
         heir who approaches, and that he shall be fit-
         test for his days.

Any period, one nation must lead,
One land must be the promise and reliance of the
         future.

These States are the amplest poem,
Here is not merely a nation, but a teeming nation
         of nations,
Here the doings of men correspond with the
         broadcast doings of the day and night,
Here is what moves in magnificent masses, care-
         lessly faithful of particulars,
Here are the roughs, beards, friendliness, com-
         bativeness, the soul loves,
Here the flowing trains, here the crowds, equality,
         diversity, the soul loves.

Race of races, and bards to corroborate!

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Of them, standing among them, one lifts to the
         light his west-bred face,
To him the hereditary countenance bequeathed,
         both mother's and father's,
His first parts substances, earth, water, animals, trees,
Built of the common stock, having room for far
         and near,
Used to dispense with other lands, incarnating this
         land,
Attracting it body and soul to himself, hanging on
         its neck with incomparable love,
Plunging his semitic muscle into its merits and
         demerits,
Making its geography, cities, beginnings, events,
         glories, defections, diversities, vocal in him,
Making its rivers, lakes, bays, embouchure in him,
Mississippi with yearly freshets and changing
         chutes, Missouri, Columbia, Ohio, St. Law-
         rence, Hudson, spending themselves lovingly
         in him,
The blue breadth over the sea off Massachusetts
         and Maine, or over the Virginia and Maryland
         sea, or over inland Champlain, Ontario, Erie,
         Huron, Michigan, Superior, or over the
         Texan, Mexican, Cuban, Floridian seas, or
         over the seas off California and Oregon, not
         tallying the breadth of the waters below,
         more than the breadth of above and below is
         tallied in him,

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If the Atlantic coast stretch, or the Pacific coast
         stretch, he stretching with them north or south,
Spanning between them east and west, and touch-
         ing whatever is between them,
Growths growing from him to offset the growth of
         pine, cedar, hemlock, live-oak, locust, chest-
         nut, cypress, hickory, lime-tree, cotton-wood,
         tulip-tree, cactus, tamarind, orange, magnolia,
         persimmon,
Tangles as tangled in him as any cane-brake or
         swamp,
He likening sides and peaks of mountains, forests
         coated with transparent ice, and icicles hang-
         ing from the boughs,
Off him pasturage sweet and natural as savannah,
         upland, prairie,
Through him flights, songs, screams, answering
         those of the wild-pigeon, high-hold, orchard-
         oriole, coot, surf-duck, red-shouldered-hawk,
         fish-hawk, white-ibis, indian-hen, cat-owl,
         water-pheasant, qua-bird, pied-sheldrake,
         mocking-bird, buzzard, condor, night-heron,
         eagle;
His spirit surrounding his country's spirit, unclosed
         to good and evil,
Surrounding the essences of real things, old times
         and present times,
Surrounding just found shores, islands, tribes of
         red aborigines,

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Weather-beaten vessels, landings, settlements, the
         rapid stature and muscle,
The haughty defiance of the Year 1—war, peace,
         the formation of the Constitution,
The separate States, the simple, elastic scheme,
         the immigrants,
The Union, always swarming with blatherers, and
         always calm and impregnable,
The unsurveyed interior, log-houses, clearings,
         wild animals, hunters, trappers;
Surrounding the multiform agriculture, mines,
         temperature, the gestation of new States,
Congress convening every December, the mem-
         bers duly coming up from the uttermost
         parts;
Surrounding the noble character of mechanics and
         farmers, especially the young men,
Responding their manners, speech, dress, friend-
         ships—the gait they have of persons who
         never knew how it felt to stand in the
         presence of superiors,
The freshness and candor of their physiognomy, the
         copiousness and decision of their phrenology,
The picturesque looseness of their carriage, their
         deathless attachment to freedom, their fierce-
         ness when wronged,
The fluency of their speech, their delight in
         music, their curiosity, good-temper, open-
         handedness,

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The prevailing ardor and enterprise, the large
         amativeness,
The perfect equality of the female with the male,
         the fluid movement of the population,
The superior marine, free commerce, fisheries,
         whaling, gold-digging,
Wharf-hemm'd cities, railroad and steamboat lines,
         intersecting all points,
Factories, mercantile life, labor-saving machinery,
         the north-east, north-west, south-west,
Manhattan firemen, the Yankee swap, southern
         plantation life,
Slavery, the tremulous spreading of hands to
         shelter it—the stern opposition to it, which
         ceases only when it ceases.

For these, and the like, their own voices! For
         these, space ahead!
Others take finish, but the republic is ever con-
         structive, and ever keeps vista;
Others adorn the past—but you, O, days of the
         present, I adorn you!
O days of the future, I believe in you!
O America, because you build for mankind, I build
         for you!
O well-beloved stone-cutters! I lead them who
         plan with decision and science,
I lead the present with friendly hand toward the
         future.


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Bravas to states whose semitic impulses send
         wholesome children to the next age!
But damn that which spends itself on flaunters and
         dallyers, with no thought of the stains, pains,
         dismay, feebleness, it is bequeathing!

By great bards only can series of peoples and
         States be fused into the compact organism of
         one nation.

To hold men together by paper and seal, or by
         compulsion, is no account,
That only holds men together which is living
         principles, as the hold of the limbs of the
         body, or the fibres of plants.

Of all races and eras, These States, with veins full
         of poetical stuff, most need poets, and are to
         have the greatest, and use them the greatest,
Their Presidents shall not be their common ref-
         eree so much as their poets shall.

Of mankind, the poet is the equable man,
Not in him, but off from him, things are grotesque,
         eccentric, fail of their full returns,
Nothing out of its place is good, nothing in its
         place is bad,
He bestows on every object or quality its fit pro-
         portions, neither more nor less,
He is the arbiter of the diverse, he is the key,

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He is the equalizer of his age and land
He supplies what wants supplying—he checks
         what wants checking,
In peace, out of him speaks the spirit of peace,
         large, rich, thrifty, building populous towns,
         encouraging agriculture, arts, commerce,
         lighting the study of man, the soul, health,
         immortality, government,
In war he is the best backer of the war—he
         fetches artillery as good as the engineer's, he
         can make every word he speaks draw blood;
The years straying toward infidelity he withholds
         by his steady faith,
He is no arguer, he is judgment,
He judges not as the judge judges, but as the sun
         falling round a helpless thing,
As he sees the farthest he has the most faith,
His thoughts are the hymns of the praise of things,
In the dispute on God and eternity he is silent,
He sees eternity less like a play with a prologue
         and denouement,
He sees eternity in men and women—he does
         not see men and women as dreams or dots.

An American literat fills his own place,
He justifies science—did you think the demon-
         strable less divine than the mythical?
He stands by liberty according to the compact of
         the first day of the first year of These States,

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He concentres in the real body and soul, and in
         the pleasure of things,
He possesses the superiority of genuineness over
         fiction and romance;
As he emits himself, facts are showered over with
         light,
The day-light is lit with more volatile light—the
         deep between the setting and rising sun goes
         deeper many fold,
Each precise object, condition, combination, pro-
         cess, exhibits a beauty—the multiplication-
         table its, old age its, the carpenter's trade
         its, the grand-opera its,
The huge-hulled clean-shaped Manhattan clipper
         at sea, under steam or full sail, gleams with
         unmatched beauty,
The national circles and large harmonies of gov-
         ernment gleam with theirs,
The commonest definite intentions and actions
         with theirs.

Of the idea of perfect individuals, the idea of
         These States, their bards walk in advance,
         leaders of leaders,
The attitudes of them cheer up slaves and horrify
         despots.

Without extinction is liberty! Without retrograde
         is equality!


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They live in the feelings of young men, and the
         best women,
Not for nothing have the indomitable heads of the
         earth been always ready to fall for liberty!

Language-using controls the rest;
Wonderful is language!
Wondrous the English language, language of live
         men,
Language of ensemble, powerful language of re-
         sistance,
Language of a proud and melancholy stock, and
         of all who aspire,
Language of growth, faith, self-esteem, rudeness,
         justice, friendliness, amplitude, prudence, de-
         cision, exactitude, courage,
Language to well-nigh express the inexpressible,
Language for the modern, language for America.

Who would use language to America may well
         prepare himself, body and mind,
He may well survey, ponder, arm, fortify, harden,
         make lithe, himself,
He shall surely be questioned beforehand by me
         with many and stern questions.

Who are you that would talk to America?
Have you studied out my land, its idioms and
         men?


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Have you learned the physiology, phrenology,
         politics, geography, pride, freedom, friendship,
         of my land? its substratums and objects?
Have you considered the organic compact of the
         first day of the first year of the independence
         of The States?
Have you possessed yourself of the Federal Con-
         stitution?
Do you acknowledge liberty with audible and
         absolute acknowledgment, and set slavery at
         naught for life and death?
Do you see who have left described processes and
         poems behind them, and assumed new ones?
Are you faithful to things? Do you teach what-
         ever the land and sea, the bodies of men,
         womanhood, amativeness, angers, excesses,
         crimes, teach?
Have you sped through customs, laws, popu-
         larities?
Can you hold your hand against all seductions,
         follies, whirls, fierce contentions?
Are you not of some coterie? some school or
         religion?
Are you done with reviews and criticisms of life?
         animating to life itself?
Have you possessed yourself with the spirit of the
         maternity of These States?
Have you sucked the nipples of the breasts of the
         mother of many children?


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Have you too the old, ever-fresh, forbearance and
         impartiality?
Do you hold the like love for those hardening to
         maturity? for the last-born? little and big?
         and for the errant?
What is this you bring my America?
Is it uniform with my country?
Is it not something that has been better told or
         done before?
Have you imported this, or the spirit of it, in some
         ship?
Is it a mere tale? a rhyme? a prettiness?
Has it never dangled at the heels of the poets,
         politicians, literats, of enemies' lands?
Does it not assume that what is notoriously gone
         is still here?
Does it answer universal needs? Will it improve
         manners?
Can your performance face the open fields and the
         sea-side?
Will it absorb into me as I absorb food, air,
         nobility, meanness—to appear again in my
         strength, gait, face?
Have real employments contributed to it? original
         makers, not amanuenses?
Does it meet modern discoveries, calibers, facts,
         face to face?
Does it respect me? America? the soul? to-
         day?

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What does it mean to me? to American persons, pro-
         gresses, cities? Chicago, Canada, Arkansas?
         the planter, Yankee, Georgian, native, immi-
         grant, sailors, squatters, old States, new States?
Does it encompass all The States, and the
         unexceptional rights of all men and women,
         the genital impulse of The States?
Does it see behind the apparent custodians, the
         real custodians, standing, menacing, silent,
         the mechanics, Manhattanese, western men,
         southerners, significant alike in their apathy
         and in the promptness of their love?
Does it see what befals and has always befallen
         each temporiser, patcher, outsider, partialist,
         alarmist, infidel, who has ever asked any-
         thing of America?
What mocking and scornful negligence?
The track strewed with the dust of skeletons?
By the road-side others disdainfully tossed?

Rhymes and rhymers pass away—poems dis-
         tilled from other poems pass away,
The swarms of reflectors and the polite pass, and
         leave ashes,
Admirers, importers, obedient persons, make the
         soil of literature;
America justifies itself, give it time—no disguise
         can deceive it or conceal from it—it is im-
         passive enough,

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Only toward the likes of itself will it advance to
         meet them,
If its poets appear, it will advance to meet them,
         there is no fear of mistake,
The proof of a poet shall be sternly deferred till
         his country absorbs him as affectionately as
         he has absorbed it.

He masters whose spirit masters—he tastes
         sweetest who results sweetest,
The blood of the brawn beloved of time is uncon-
         straint,
In the need of poems, philosophy, politics,
         manners, engineering, an appropriate native
         grand-opera, ship-craft, any craft, he or she
         is greatest who contributes the greatest
         original practical example.

Already a nonchalant breed silently fills the
         houses and streets,
People's lips salute only doers, lovers, satisfiers,
         positive knowers;
There will shortly be no more priests—their
         work is done,
Death is without emergencies here, but life is per-
         petual emergencies here,
Are your body, days, manners, superb? after death
         you shall be superb,

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Friendship, self-esteem, justice, health, clear the
         way with irresistible power.

Give me the pay I have served for!
Give me to speak beautiful words! take all the
         rest;
I have loved the earth, sun, animals—I have de-
         spised riches,
I have given alms to every one that asked, stood
         up for the stupid and crazy, devoted my in-
         come and labor to others,
I have hated tyrants, argued not concerning God,
         had patience and indulgence toward the peo-
         ple, taken off my hat to nothing known or
         unknown,
I have gone freely with powerful uneducated per-
         sons, and with the young, and with the
         mothers of families,
I have read these leaves to myself in the open air,
         I have tried them by trees, stars, rivers,
I have dismissed whatever insulted my own soul
         or defiled my body,
I have claimed nothing to myself which I have
         not carefully claimed for others on the same
         terms,
I have studied my land, its idioms and men,
I am willing to wait to be understood by the
         growth of the taste of myself,
I reject none, I permit all,

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Whom I have staid with once I have found long-
         ing for me ever afterwards.

I swear I begin to see the meaning of these
         things!
It is not the earth, it is not America who is so
         great,
It is I who am great, or to be great—it is you, or
         any one,
It is to walk rapidly through civilizations, govern-
         ments, theories, nature, poems, shows, to in-
         dividuals.

Underneath all are individuals,
I swear nothing is good that ignores individuals!
The American compact is with individuals,
The only government is that which makes minute
         of individuals.

Underneath all is nativity,
I swear I will stand by my own nativity—pious
         or impious, so be it!
I swear I am charmed with nothing except
         nativity!
Men, women, cities, nations, are only beautiful
         from nativity.

Underneath all is the need of the expression of
         love for men and women,

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I swear I have had enough of mean and impotent
         modes of expressing love for men and
         women,
After this day I take my own modes of express-
         ing love for men and women.

I swear I will have each quality of my race in
         myself,
Talk as you like, he only suits These States
         whose manners favor the audacity and sub-
         lime turbulence of These States.

Underneath the lessons of things, spirits, nature,
         governments, ownerships, I swear I perceive
         other lessons,
Underneath all to me is myself—to you, your-
         self,
If all had not kernels for you and me, what were
         it to you and me?

O I see now that this America is only you and
         me,
Its power, weapons, testimony, are you and me,
Its roughs, beards, haughtiness, ruggedness, are
         you and me,
Its ample geography, the sierras, the prairies,
         Mississippi, Huron, Colorado, Boston, To-
         ronto, Releigh, Nashville, Havana, are you
         and me,

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Its settlements, wars, the organic compact, peace,
         Washington, the Federal Constitution, are
         you and me,
Its young men's manners, speech, dress, friend-
         ships, are you and me,
Its crimes, lies, thefts, defections, slavery, are you
         and me,
Its Congress is you and me, the officers, capitols,
         armies, ships, are you and me,
Its endless gestations of new States are you and
         me,
Its inventions, science, schools, are you and me,
Its deserts, forests, clearings, log-houses, hunters,
         are you and me,
The perpetual arrivals of immigrants are you and
         me,
Natural and artificial are you and me,
Freedom, language, poems, employments, are you
         and me,
Failures, successes, births, deaths, are you and me,
Past, present, future, are only you and me.

I swear I dare not shirk any part of myself,
Not America, nor any part of America,
Not my body, not friendship, hospitality, pro-
         creation,
Not my soul, not the last explanation of prudence,
Not the similitude that interlocks me with all
         identities that exist, or ever have existed,

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Not faith, sin, defiance, nor any disposition or duty
         of myself,
Not the promulgation of liberty, not to cheer up
         slaves and horrify despots,
Not to build for that which builds for mankind,
Not to balance ranks, complexions, creeds, and
         the sexes,
Not to justify science, not the march of equality,
Not to feed the arrogant blood of the brawn
         beloved of time.

I swear I am for those that have never been
         mastered!
For men and women whose tempers have never
         been mastered,
For those whom laws, theories, conventions, can
         never master.

I swear I am for those who walk abreast with
         America and with the earth!
Who inaugurate one to inaugurate all.

I swear I will not be outfaced by irrational things!
I will penetrate what it is in them that is sarcastic
         upon me!
I will make cities and civilizations defer to me!
I will confront these shows of the day and night!
I will know if I am to be less than they!
I will see if I am not as majestic as they!

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I will see if I am not as subtle and real as they!
I will see if I am to be less generous than they!
I will see if I have no meaning, and the houses
         and ships have meaning!
I will see if the fishes and birds are to be enough
         for themselves, and I am not to be enough for
         myself!

I match my spirit against yours, you orbs, growths,
         mountains, brutes,
I will learn why the earth is gross, tantalizing,
         wicked,
I take you to be mine, you beautiful, terrible, rude
         forms.


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9 — Poem of Wonder at The Resurrection of The Wheat.


SOMETHING startles me where I thought I
         was safest,
I withdraw from the still woods I loved,
I will not go now on the pastures to walk,
I will not strip my clothes from my body to meet
         my lover the sea,
I will not touch my flesh to the earth, as to other
         flesh, to renew me.

How can the ground not sicken of men?
How can you be alive, you growths of spring?
How can you furnish health, you blood of herbs,
         roots, orchards, grain?
Are they not continually putting distempered
         corpses in the earth?
Is not every continent worked over and over with
         sour dead?
Where have you disposed of those carcasses of
         the drunkards and gluttons of so many gen-
         erations?


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Where have you drawn off all the foul liquid and
         meat?
I do not see any of it upon you today—or per-
         haps I am deceived,
I will run a furrow with my plough—I will press
         my spade through the sod, and turn it up
         underneath,
I am sure I shall expose some of the foul meat.

Behold!
This is the compost of billions of premature
         corpses,
Perhaps every mite has once formed part of a
         sick person,
Yet Behold!
The grass covers the prairies,
The bean bursts noiselessly through the mould in
         the garden,
The delicate spear of the onion pierces upward,
The apple-buds cluster together on the apple-
         branches,
The resurrection of the wheat appears with pale
         visage out of its graves,
The tinge awakes over the willow-tree and the
         mulberry-tree,
The he-birds carol mornings and evenings, while
         the she-birds sit on their nests,
The young of poultry break through the hatched
         eggs,

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The new-born of animals appear, the calf is
         dropt from the cow, the colt from the mare,
Out of its little hill faithfully rise the potato's
         dark green leaves,
Out of its hill rises the yellow maize-stalk;
The summer growth is innocent and disdainful
         above all those strata of sour dead.

What chemistry!
That the winds are really not infectious!
That this is no cheat, this transparent green-wash
         of the sea, which is so amorous after me!
That it is safe to allow it to lick my naked
         body all over with its tongues!
That it will not endanger me with the fevers that
         have deposited themselves in it!
That all is clean, forever and forever!
That the cool drink from the well tastes so good!
That blackberries are so flavorous and juicy!
That the fruits of the apple-orchard, and of the
         orange-orchard—that melons, grapes, peaches,
         plums, will none of them poison me!
That when I recline on the grass I do not catch
         any disease!
Though probably every spear of grass rises out
         of what was once a catching disease.

Now I am terrified at the earth! it is that calm
         and patient,

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It grows such sweet things out of such corrup-
         tions,
It turns harmless and stainless on its axis, with
         such endless successions of diseased corpses,
It distils such exquisite winds out of such infused
         fetor,
It renews with such unwitting looks, its prodigal,
         annual, sumptuous crops,
It gives such divine materials to men, and accepts
         such leavings from them at last.


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10 — Poem of You, Whoever You Are.


WHOEVER you are, I fear you are walking
         the walks of dreams,
I fear those 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, law, science, work, farms, clothes, the
         house, medicine, print, buying, selling, eating,
         drinking, suffering, begetting, dying,
They receive these in their places, they find these
         or the like of these, eternal, for reasons,
They find themselves eternal, they do not find that
         the water and soil tend to endure forever —
         and they not endure.

Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you,
         that you be my poem,
I whisper with my lips close to your ear,

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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 blabbed nothing but you, I should
         have chanted nothing but you.

I will leave all, and come and make the hymns
         of you;
None have understood you, but I understand you,
None have done justice to you, you have not done
         justice to yourself,
None but have 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 intrin-
         sically in yourself.

Painters have painted their swarming groups, and
         the centre figure of all,
From the head of the centre figure spreading a
         nimbus of gold-colored light,
But I paint myriads of heads, but paint no head
         without its nimbus of gold-colored light,
From my hand, from the brain of every man and
         woman it streams, effulgently flowing forever.


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O I could sing such grandeurs and glories about
         you!
You have not known what you are—you have
         slumbered upon yourself all your life,
Your eye-lids have been as much as closed most
         of the time,
What you have done returns already in mock-
         eries,
Your thrift, knowledge, prayers, if they do not
         return in mockeries, 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 accustomed routine, if these con-
         ceal 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 deformed attitude, drunken-
         ness, greed, premature death, all these I part
         aside,
I track through your windings and turnings—I
         come upon you where you thought eye should
         never come upon you.

There is no endowment in man or woman that is
         not tallied in you,

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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 plea-
         sure waits for you.

As for me, I give nothing to any one, except I
         give the like carefully 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, you are to hold your own at
         any hazard,
These shows of the east and west are tame com-
         pared to you,
These immense meadows, these interminable riv-
         ers—you are immense and interminable as
         they,
These furies, elements, storms, motions of nature,
         throes of apparent 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!


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Old, young, male, 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.


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11 — Sun-Down Poem.


FLOOD-TIDE of the river, flow on! I watch
         you, face to face,
Clouds of the west! sun 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 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-joined scheme—my-
         self disintegrated, every one disintegrated,
         yet part of the scheme,
The similitudes of the past and those of the
         future,

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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,
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 sun-set, the pouring in of the flood-
         tide, the falling back to the sea of the ebb-
         tide.

It avails not, neither time or place—distance
         avails not,
I am with you, you men and women of a genera-
         tion, or ever so many generations hence,

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I project myself, also I return—I am with you,
         and know how it is.

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 refreshed by the gladness
         of the river, and the bright flow, I was
         refreshed,
Just as you stand and lean on the rail, yet hurry
         with the swift current, I stood, yet was hur-
         ried,
Just as you look on the numberless masts of ships,
         and the thick-stemmed pipes of steamboats, I
         looked.

I too many and many a time crossed the river,
         the sun half an hour high,
I watched the December sea-gulls, I saw them
         high in the air floating with motionless
         wings oscillating their bodies,
I saw how the glistening yellow lit up parts of
         their bodies, and left the rest in strong
         shadow,
I saw the slow-wheeling circles and the gradual
         edging toward the south.

I too saw the reflection of the summer-sky in the
         water.


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Had my eyes dazzled by the shimmering track of
         beams,
Looked at the fine centrifugal spokes of light
         round the shape of my head in the sun-lit
         water,
Looked on the haze on the hills southward and
         southwestward,
Looked on the vapor as it flew in fleeces tinged
         with violet,
Looked toward the lower bay to notice the arriv-
         ing ships,
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 pi-
         lots in their pilot-houses,
The white wake left by the passage, the quick
         tremulous whirl of the wheels,
The flags of all nations, the falling of them at
         sun-set,
The scallop-edged waves in the twilight, the
         ladled cups, the frolicsome crests and glisten-
         ing,

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The stretch afar growing dimmer and dimmer, the
         gray walls of the granite store-houses by the
         docks,
On the river the shadowy group, the big steam-
         tug closely flanked on each side by the
         barges—the hay-boat, the belated lighter,
On the neighboring shore the fires from the foun-
         dry 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 project myself a moment to tell you—also I
         return.

I loved well those cities,
I 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 looked forward to them,
The time will come, though I stop here today and
         tonight.

What is it, then, between us? What is the
         count of the scores or hundreds of years
         between us?


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Whatever it is, it avails not—distance avails not,
         and place avails not.

I too lived,
I too walked the streets of Manhattan Island, and
         bathed in the waters around it;
I too felt the curious abrupt questionings stir with-
         in 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 received 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 patches down upon me also,
The best I had done seemed to me blank and sus-
         picious,
My great thoughts, as I supposed them, were they
         not in reality meagre? Would not people
         laugh at me?

It is not you alone who know what it is to be
         evil,

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I am he who knew what it was to be evil,
I too knitted the old knot of contrariety,
Blabbed, blushed, resented, lied, stole, grudged,
Had guile, anger, lust, hot wishes I dared not
         speak,
Was wayward, vain, greedy, shallow, sly, a solitary
         committer, a coward, a malignant person,
The wolf, the snake, the hog, not wanting in me,
The cheating look, the frivolous word, the adul-
         terous wish, not wanting,
Refusals, hates, postponements, meanness, lazi-
         ness, none of these wanting.

But I was a Manhattanese, free, friendly, and
         proud!
I was called by my nighest name by clear loud
         voices of young men as they saw me ap-
         proaching or passing,
Felt their arms on my neck as I stood, or the neg-
         ligent 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,
Played 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.


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Closer yet I approach you,
What thought you have of me, I had as much of
         you—I laid in my stores in advance,
I considered 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 but I am as good as looking at you
         now, for all you cannot see me?

It is not you alone, nor I alone,
Not a few races, not a few generations, not a few
         centuries,
It is that each came, or comes, or shall come,
         from its due emission, without fail, either
         now, or then, or henceforth.

Every thing indicates—the smallest does, and
         the largest does,
A necessary film envelops all, and envelops the
         soul for a proper time.

Now I am curious what sight can ever be more
         stately and admirable to me than my mast-
         hemm'd Manhatta, my river and sun-set, and
         my scallop-edged waves of flood-tide, the
         sea-gulls oscillating their bodies, the hay-boat
         in the twilight, and the belated lighter,

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Curious 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,
Curious 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 promised without mentioning it, have
         you not accepted?
What the study could not teach—what the
         preaching could not accomplish is accom-
         plished, is it not?
What the push of reading could not start is
         started by me personally, is it not?

Flow on, river! Flow with the flood-tide, and
         ebb with the ebb-tide!
Frolic on, crested and scallop-edged waves!
Gorgeous clouds of the sun-set, drench with your
         splendor me, or the men and women genera-
         tions after me!
Cross from shore to shore, countless crowds of
         passengers!
Stand up, tall masts of Manahatta!—stand up,
         beautiful hills of Brooklyn!


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Bully for you! you proud, friendly, free Manhat-
         tanese!
Throb, baffled and curious brain! throw out ques-
         tions and answers!
Suspend here and everywhere, eternal float of
         solution!
Blab, blush, lie, steal, you or I or any one after
         us!
Gaze, loving and thirsting eyes, in the house or
         street or public assembly!
Sound out, voices of young men! loudly and mu-
         sically 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 cur-
         rent!
Fly on, sea-birds! fly sideways, or wheel in large
         circles high in the air!
Receive the summer-sky, you water! 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 sun-lit
         water!


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Come on, ships, from the lower bay! pass up
         or down, white-sailed schooners, sloops,
         lighters!
Flaunt away, flags of all nations! be duly lowered
         at sun-set!
Burn high your fires, foundry chimneys! cast
         black shadows at night-fall! cast red and
         yellow light over the tops of the houses!
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!

We descend upon you and all things, we arrest
         you all,
We realize the soul only by you, you faithful solids
         and fluids,
Through you color, form, location, sublimity,
         ideality,
Through you every proof, comparison, and all the
         suggestions and determinations of ourselves.


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You have waited, you always wait, you dumb
         beautiful ministers! you novices!
We receive you with free sense at last, and are
         insatiate henceforward,
Not you any more shall be able to foil us, or with-
         hold yourselves from us,
We use you, and do not cast you aside—we
         plant you permanently 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.


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12 — Poem of The 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!

Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I am good-
         fortune,
Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more,
         need nothing,
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 filled with them, and I will fill them in
         return.


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You road I travel and look around! I believe you
         are not all that is here!
I believe that something unseen is also here.

Here is the profound lesson of reception, neither
         preference or denial,
The black with his woolly head, the felon, the
         diseased, the illiterate person, are not de-
         nied,
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 are 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 animals moving serenely over the earth!
You birds that wing yourselves through the air!
         you insects!


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You sprouting growths from the farmers' fields!
         you stalks and weeds by the fences!
You paths worn in the irregular hollows by the
         road-sides!
I think you are latent with curious existences —
         you are so dear to me.

You flagged 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!
You rows of houses! you window-pierced facades!
         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 been near you I believe you
         have imparted to yourselves, and now would
         impart the same secretly to me,
From the living and the dead I think you have
         peopled your impassive surfaces, and the
         spirits thereof would be evident and ami-
         cable with me.

The earth expanding right hand and left hand,

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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! O public road! 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 undenied—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 conceived in the
         open air,
I think I could stop here myself, and do miracles,
I think whatever I meet on the road I shall like,
         and whatever beholds me shall like me,
I think whoever I see must be happy.

From this hour, freedom!
From this hour, I ordain myself loosed of limits
         and imaginary lines!
Going where I list—my own master, total and
         absolute,

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Listening to others, and considering well what
         they say,
Pausing, searching, receiving, contemplating,
Gently but with undeniable will divesting myself
         of the holds that would hold me.