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POEM OF JOYS.

1   O TO make a most jubilant poem!

O full of music! Full of manhood, womanhood,          infancy!

O full of common employments! Full of grain and          trees.

2   O for the voices of animals! O for the swiftness and          balance of fishes!

O for the dropping of rain-drops in a poem!

O for the sunshine and motion of waves in a poem.

3   O to be on the sea! the wind, the wide waters          around;

O to sail in a ship under full sail at sea.

4   O the joy of my spirit! It is uncaged! It darts like          lightning!

It is not enough to have this globe, or a certain time          —I will have thousands of globes, and all time.

5   O the engineer's joys!

To go with a locomotive!

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To hear the hiss of steam—the merry shriek—the          steam-whistle—the laughing locomotive!

To push with resistless way, and speed off in the          distance.

6   O the horseman's and horsewoman's joys!

The saddle—the gallop—the pressure upon the seat          —the cool gurgling by the ears and hair.

7   O the fireman's joys!

I hear the alarm at dead of night,

I hear bells—shouts!—I pass the crowd—I run!

The sight of the flames maddens me with pleasure.

8   O the joy of the strong-brawned fighter, towering          in the arena, in perfect condition, conscious of          power, thirsting to meet his opponent.

9   O the joy of that vast elemental sympathy which only          the human Soul is capable of generating and          emitting in steady and limitless floods.

10   O the mother's joys!

The watching—the endurance—the precious love—          the anguish—the patiently yielded life.

11   O the joy of increase, growth, recuperation,

The joy of soothing and pacifying—the joy of          concord and harmony.

12   O to go back to the place where I was born!

O to hear the birds sing once more!

To ramble about the house and barn, and over the          fields, once more,

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And through the orchard and along the old lanes          once more.

13   O male and female!

O the presence of women! (I swear, nothing is more          exquisite to me than the presence of women;)

O for the girl, my mate! O for happiness with my          mate!

O the young man as I pass! O I am sick after the          friendship of him who, I fear, is indifferent          to me.

14   O the streets of cities!

The flitting faces—the expressions, eyes, feet, cos-          tumes! O I cannot tell how welcome they are          to me;

O of men—of women toward me as I pass—The          memory of only one look—the boy lingering          and waiting.

15   O to have been brought up on bays, lagoons, creeks,          or along the coast!

O to continue and be employed there all my life!

O the briny and damp smell—the shore—the salt          weeds exposed at low water,

The work of fishermen—the work of the eel-fisher          and clam-fisher.

16   O it is I!

I come with my clam-rake and spade! I come with          my eel-spear;

Is the tide out? I join the group of clam-diggers on          the flats,

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I laugh and work with them—I joke at my work,          like a mettlesome young man.

17   In winter I take my eel-basket and eel-spear and travel          out on foot on the ice—I have a small axe to cut          holes in the ice;

Behold me, well-clothed, going gayly, or returning in          the afternoon—my brood of tough boys accom-          panying me,

My brood of grown and part-grown boys, who love          to be with none else so well as they love to be          with me,

By day to work with me, and by night to sleep with          me.

18   Or, another time, in warm weather, out in a boat, to          lift the lobster-pots, where they are sunk with          heavy stones, (I know the buoys;)

O the sweetness of the Fifth Month morning upon the          water, as I row, just before sunrise, toward the          buoys;

I pull the wicker pots up slantingly—the dark green          lobsters are desperate with their claws, as I take          them out—I insert wooden pegs in the joints of          their pincers,

I go to all the places, one after another, and then row          back to the shore,

There, in a huge kettle of boiling water, the lobsters          shall be boiled till their color becomes scarlet.

19   Or, another time, mackerel-taking,

Voracious, mad for the hook, near the surface, they          seem to fill the water for miles;

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Or, another time, fishing for rock-fish in Chesapeake          Bay—I one of the brown-faced crew;

Or, another time, trailing for blue-fish off Paumanok,          I stand with braced body,

My left foot is on the gunwale—my right arm throws          the coils of slender rope,

In sight around me the quick veering and darting of          fifty skiffs, my companions.

20   O boating on the rivers!

The voyage down the Niagara, (the St. Lawrence,)—          the superb scenery—the steamers,

The ships sailing—the Thousand Islands—the occa-          sional timber-raft, and the raftsmen with long-          reaching sweep-oars,

The little huts on the rafts, and the stream of smoke          when they cook supper at evening.

21   O something pernicious and dread!

Something far away from a puny and pious life!

Something unproved! Something in a trance!

Something escaped from the anchorage, and driving          free.

22   O to work in mines, or forging iron!

Foundry casting—the foundry itself—the rude high          roof—the ample and shadowed space,

The furnace—the hot liquid poured out and running.

23   O the joys of the soldier!

To feel the presence of a brave general! to feel his          sympathy!

To behold his calmness! to be warmed in the rays of          his smile!

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To go to battle! to hear the bugles play, and the drums          beat!

To hear the artillery! to see the glittering of the bay-          onets and musket-barrels in the sun!

To see men fall and die and not complain!

To taste the savage taste of blood! to be so devilish!

To gloat so over the wounds and deaths of the enemy.

24   O the whaleman's joys! O I cruise my old cruise          again!

I feel the ship's motion under me—I feel the Atlantic          breezes fanning me,

I hear the cry again sent down from the mast-head,           There she blows,

Again I spring up the rigging, to look with the rest—          We see—we descend, wild with excitement,

I leap in the lowered boat—We row toward our prey,          where he lies,

We approach, stealthy and silent—I see the moun-          tainous mass, lethargic, basking,

I see the harpooner standing up—I see the weapon          dart from his vigorous arm;

O swift, again, now, far out in the ocean, the wounded          whale, settling, running to windward, tows me,

Again I see him rise to breathe—We row close          again,

I see a lance driven through his side, pressed deep,          turned in the wound,

Again we back off—I see him settle again—the life          is leaving him fast,

As he rises, he spouts blood—I see him swim in cir-          cles narrower and narrower, swiftly cutting the          water—I see him die,

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He gives one convulsive leap in the centre of the cir-          cle, and then falls flat and still in the bloody          foam.

25   O the old manhood of me, my joy!

My children and grand-children—my white hair and          beard,

My largeness, calmness, majesty, out of the long          stretch of my life.

26   O the ripened joy of womanhood!

O perfect happiness at last!

I am more than eighty years of age—my hair, too, is          pure white—I am the most venerable mother;

How clear is my mind! how all people draw nigh to          me!

What attractions are these, beyond any before? what          bloom, more than the bloom of youth?

What beauty is this that descends upon me, and rises          out of me?

27   O the joy of my Soul leaning poised on itself—receiv-          ing identity through materials, and loving them          —observing characters, and absorbing them;

O my Soul, vibrated back to me, from them—from          facts, sight, hearing, touch, my phrenology,          reason, articulation, comparison, memory, and          the like;

O the real life of my senses and flesh, transcending          my senses and flesh;

O my body, done with materials—my sight, done          with my material eyes;

O what is proved to me this day, beyond cavil, that it          is not my material eyes which finally see,

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Nor my material body which finally loves, walks,          laughs, shouts, embraces, procreates.

28   O the farmer's joys!

Ohioan's, Illinoisian's, Wisconsinese', Kanadian's, Io-          wan's, Kansian's, Missourian's, Oregonese' joys,

To rise at peep of day, and pass forth nimbly to work,

To plough land in the fall for winter-sown crops,

To plough land in the spring for maize,

To train orchards—to graft the trees—to gather          apples in the fall.

29   O the pleasure with trees!

The orchard—the forest—the oak, cedar, pine,          pekan-tree,

The honey-locust, black-walnut, cottonwood, and mag-          nolia.

30   O Death!

O the beautiful touch of Death, soothing and benumb-          ing a few moments, for reasons;

O that of myself, discharging my excrementitious          body, to be burned, or rendered to powder, or          buried,

My real body doubtless left to me for other spheres,

My voided body, nothing more to me, returning to the          purifications, further offices, eternal uses of the          earth.

31   O to bathe in the swimming-bath, or in a good place          along shore!

To splash the water! to walk ankle-deep; to race          naked along the shore.

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32   O to realize space!

The plenteousness of all—that there are no bounds;

To emerge, and be of the sky—of the sun and moon,          and the flying clouds, as one with them.

33   O, while I live, to be the ruler of life—not a slave,

To meet life as a powerful conqueror,

No fumes—no ennui—no more complaints or scorn-          ful criticisms.

34   O me repellent and ugly!

O to these proud laws of the air, the water, and          the ground, proving my interior Soul impreg-          nable,

And nothing exterior shall ever take command of me.

35   O to attract by more than attraction!

How it is I know not—yet behold! the something          which obeys none of the rest,

It is offensive, never defensive—yet how magnetic          it draws.

36   O the joy of suffering!

To struggle against great odds! to meet enemies un-          daunted!

To be entirely alone with them! to find how much I          can stand!

To look strife, torture, prison, popular odium, death,          face to face!

To mount the scaffold! to advance to the muzzles of          guns with perfect nonchalance!

To be indeed a God!

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37   O the gleesome saunter over fields and hill-sides!

The leaves and flowers of the commonest weeds—the          moist fresh stillness of the woods,

The exquisite smell of the earth at day-break, and all          through the forenoon.

38   O love-branches! love-root! love-apples!

O chaste and electric torrents! O mad-sweet drops.

39   O the orator's joys!

To inflate the chest—to roll the thunder of the voice          out from the ribs and throat,

To make the people rage, weep, hate, desire, with          yourself,

To lead America—to quell America with a great          tongue.

40   O the joy of a manly self-hood!

Personality—to be servile to none—to defer to none          —not to any tyrant, known or unknown,

To walk with erect carriage, a step springy and          elastic,

To look with calm gaze, or with a flashing eye,

To speak with a full and sonorous voice, out of a          broad chest,

To confront with your personality all the other per-          sonalities of the earth.

41   O to have my life henceforth my poem of joys!

To dance, clap hands, exult, shout, skip, leap, roll on,          float on,

An athlete—full of rich words—full of joys.

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