| 1 I CELEBRATE myself; |
| And what I assume you shall assume; |
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For every atom belonging to me, as good belongs to
you. |
| 2 I loafe and invite my Soul; |
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I lean and loafe at my ease, observing a spear of sum-
mer grass. |
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3
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. |
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4
The atmosphere is not a perfume—it has no taste of
the distillation—it is odorless; |
| It is for my mouth forever—I am in love with it; |
|
I will go to the bank by the wood, and become undis-
guised and naked; |
| I am mad for it to be in contact with me. |
| 5 The smoke of my own breath; |
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Echoes, ripples, buzz'd whispers, love-root, silk-thread,
crotch and vine; |
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My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my
heart, the passing of blood and air through my lungs; |
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The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the
shore, and dark-color'd sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn; |
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The sound of the belch'd words of my voice, words
loos'd to the eddies of the wind; |
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A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around
of arms; |
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The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple
boughs wag; |
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The delight alone, or in the rush of the streets, or
along the fields and hill-sides; |
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The feeling of health, the full noon trill, the song of
me rising from bed and meeting the sun. |
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6
Have you reckon'd a thousand acres much? have you
reckon'd the earth much? |
| Have you practis'd so long to learn to read? |
|
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of
poems? |
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7
Stop this day and night with me, and you shall pos-
sess the origin of all poems; |
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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; |
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You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take
things from me: |
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You shall listen to all sides, and filter them from your-
self. |
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8
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. |
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9
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. |
| 10 Urge, and urge, and urge; |
| Always the procreant urge of the world. |
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11
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. |
|
12
To elaborate is no avail—learn'd and unlearn'd feel
that it is so. |
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13
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. |
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14
Clear and sweet is my Soul, and clear and sweet is
all that is not my Soul. |
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15
Lack one lacks both, and the unseen is proved by
the seen, |
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Till that becomes unseen, and receives proof in its
turn. |
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16
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. |
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17
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. |
| 18 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, with stealthy tread, |
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Leaving me baskets cover'd with white towels, swell-
ing 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 a cent, |
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Exactly the contents of one, and exactly the contents
of two, and which is ahead? |
| 19 Trippers and askers surround me; |
|
People I meet—the effect upon me of my early life, or
the ward and city I live in, or the nation, |
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The latest dates, discoveries, inventions, societies,
authors old and new, |
| My dinner, dress, associates, looks, compliments, dues, |
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The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman
I love, |
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The sickness of one of my folks, or of myself, or ill-
doing, or loss or lack of money, or depressions or exaltations; |
|
Battles, the horrors of fratricidal war, the fever of
doubtful news, the fitful events; |
|
These come to me days and nights, and go from me
again, |
| But they are not the Me myself. |
|
20
Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I
am; |
|
Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle,
unitary; |
|
Looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpa-
ble certain rest, |
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Looking with side-curved head, curious what will come
next; |
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Both in and out of the game, and watching and won-
dering at it. |
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21
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. |
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22
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. |
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23
Loafe with me on the grass—loose the stop from
your throat; |
|
Not words, not music or rhyme I want—not custom or
lecture, not even the best; |
| Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice. |
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24
I mind how once we lay, such a transparent sum-
mer morning; |
|
How you settled your head athwart my hips, and gently
turn'd over upon me, |
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And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged
your tongue to my bare-stript heart, |
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And reach'd till you felt my beard, and reach'd till you
held my feet. |
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25
Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and
knowledge that pass all the argument of the earth; |
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And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my
own; |
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And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of
my own; |
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And that all the men ever born are also my brothers,
and the women my sisters and lovers; |
| And that a kelson of the creation is love; |
| And limitless are leaves, stiff or drooping in the fields; |
| And brown ants in the little wells beneath them; |
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And mossy scabs of the worm-fence, and heap'd stones,
elder, mullen and pokeweed. |
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26
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. |
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27
I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of
hopeful green stuff woven. |
| 28 Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord, |
| A scented gift and remembrancer, designedly dropt, |
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Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners,
that we may see and remark, and say, Whose? |
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29
Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced
babe of the vegetation. |
| 30 Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic; |
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And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and
narrow zones. |
| Growing among black folks as among white; |
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Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them
the same, I receive them the same. |
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31
And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of
graves. |
| 32 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. |
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33
This grass is very dark to be from the white heads
of old mothers; |
| Darker than the colorless beards of old men; |
|
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of
mouths. |
| 34 O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues! |
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And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of
mouths for nothing. |
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35
I wish I could translate the hints about the dead
young men and women, |
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And the hints about old men and mothers, and the
offspring taken soon out of their laps. |
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36
What do you think has become of the young and
old men? |
|
And what do you think has become of the women and
children? |
| 37 They are alive and well somewhere; |
| The smallest sprout shows there is really no death; |
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And if ever there was, it led forward life, and does
not wait at the end to arrest it, |
| And ceas'd the moment life appear'd. |
| 38 All goes onward and outward—nothing collapses; |
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And to die is different from what any one supposed,
and luckier. |
| 39 Has any one supposed it lucky to be born? |
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I hasten to inform him or her, it is just as lucky to
die, and I know it. |
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40
I pass death with the dying, and birth with the new
wash'd babe, and am not contain'd between my- hat and boots; |
|
And peruse manifold objects, no two alike, and every
one good; |
|
The earth good, and the stars good, and their
adjuncts all good. |
| 41 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.) |
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42
Every kind for itself and its own—for me mine, male
and female; |
|
For me those that have been boys, and that love
women; |
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For me the man that is proud, and feels how it stings
to be slighted; |
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For me the sweetheart and the old maid—for me
mothers, and the mothers of mothers; |
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For me lips that have smiled, eyes that have shed
tears; |
| For me children, and the begetters of children. |
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43
Undrape! you are not guilty to me, nor stale, nor
discarded; |
|
I see through the broadcloth and gingham, whether
or no; |
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And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and
cannot be shaken away. |
| 44 The little one sleeps in its cradle; |
|
I lift the gauze, and look a long time, and silently
brush away flies with my hand. |
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45
The youngster and the red-faced girl turn aside up
the bushy hill; |
| I peeringly view them from the top. |
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46
The suicide sprawls on the bloody floor of the
bedroom; |
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I witness the corpse with its dabbled hair—I note
where the pistol has fallen. |
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47
The blab of the pave, the tires of carts, sluff of
boot-soles, talk of the promenaders; |
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The heavy omnibus, the driver with his interrogating
thumb, the clank of the shod horses on the granite floor; |
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The snow-sleighs, the clinking, shouted jokes, pelts of
snow-balls; |
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The hurrahs for popular favorites, the fury of rous'd
mobs; |
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The flap of the curtain'd litter, a sick man inside,
borne to the hospital; |
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The meeting of enemies, the sudden oath, the blows
and fall; |
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The excited crowd, the policeman with his star,
quickly working his passage to the centre of the crowd; |
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The impassive stones that receive and return so many
echoes; |
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What groans of over-fed or half-starv'd who fall
sun-struck, or in fits; |
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What exclamations of women taken suddenly, who
hurry home and give birth to babes; |
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What living and buried speech is always vibrating here
—what howls restrain'd by decorum, |
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Arrests of criminals, slights, adulterous offers made,
acceptances, rejections with convex lips; |
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I mind them or the show or resonance of them—I
come, and I depart. |
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48
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 in-
ter tinged; |
| The armfuls are packt to the sagging mow. |
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49
I am there—I help—I came stretcht atop of the
load; |
| I felt its soft jolts—one leg reclined on the other; |
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I jump from the cross-beams and seize the clover and
timothy, |
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And roll head over heels, and tangle my hair full of
wisps. |
| 50 Alone, far in the wilds and mountains, I hunt, |
| Wandering, amazed at my own lightness and glee; |
|
In the late afternoon choosing a safe spot to pass the
night, |
| Kindling a fire and broiling the fresh kill'd game; |
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Falling asleep on the gather'd leaves, with my dog and
gun by my side. |
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51
The Yankee clipper is under her three sky-sails—
she cuts the sparkle and scud; |
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My eyes settle the land—I bend at her prow, or shout
joyously from the deck. |
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52
The boatman and clam-diggers arose early and stopt
for me; |
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I tuck'd my trowser-ends in my boots, and went and
had a good time: |
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You should have been with us that day round the
chowder-kettle. |
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53
I saw the marriage of the trapper in the open air in
the far-west—the bride was a red girl; |
|
Her father and his friends sat near, cross-legged and
dumbly smoking—they had moccasins to their feet, and large thick blankets hanging from their shoulders; |
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On a bank lounged the trapper—he was drest mostly
in skins—his luxuriant beard and curls pro- tected his neck—he held his bride by the hand; |
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She had long eye-lashes—her head was bare—her
coarse straight locks descended upon her volup- tuous limbs and reach'd to her feet. |
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54
The runaway slave came to my house and stopt out-
side; |
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I heard his motions crackling the twigs of the wood-
pile; |
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Through the swung half-door of the kitchen I saw him
limpsy and weak, |
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And went where he sat on a log, and led him in and
assured him, |
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And brought water, and fill'd a tub for his sweated
body and bruis'd feet, |
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And gave him a room that enter'd from my own, and
gave him some coarse clean clothes, |
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And remember perfectly well his revolving eyes and
his awkwardness, |
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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 recuperated
and pass'd north; |
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(I had him sit next me at table—my fire-lock lean'd
in the corner.) |
| 55 Twenty-eight young men bathe by the shore; |
| Twenty-eight young men, and all so friendly: |
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Twenty-eight years of womanly life, and all so lone-
some. |
| 56 She owns the fine house by the rise of the bank; |
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She hides, handsome and richly drest, aft the blinds
of the window. |
| 57 Which of the young men does she like the best? |
| Ah, the homeliest of them is beautiful to her. |
| 58 Where are you off to, lady?for I see you; |
|
You splash in the water there, yet stay stock still in
your room. |
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59
Dancing and laughing along the beach came the
twenty-ninth bather; |
|
The rest did not see her, but she saw them and loved
them. |
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60
The beards of the young men glisten'd with wet, it
ran from their long hair; |
| Little streams pass'd all over their bodies. |
| 61 An unseen hand also pass'd over their bodies; |
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It descended tremblingly from their temples and
ribs. |
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62
The young men float on their backs—their white
bellies bulge to the sun—they do not ask who seizes fast to them; |
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They do not know who puffs and declines with pen-
dant and bending arch; |
| They do not think whom they souse with spray. |
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63
The butcher-boy puts off his killing clothes, or
sharpens his knife at the stall in the market; |
|
I loiter, enjoying his repartee and his shuffle and
break-down. |
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64
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.) |
|
65
From the cinder-strew'd threshold I follow their
movements; |
|
The lithe sheer of their waists plays even with their
massive arms; |
|
Overhand the hammers swing—overhand so slow—
overhand so sure: |
| They do not hasten—each man hits in his place. |
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66
The negro holds firmly the reins of his four horses
—the block swags underneath on its tied-over chain; |
|
The negro that drives the 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. |
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67
I behold the picturesque giant, and love him—and I
do not stop there; |
| I go with the team also. |
|
69
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 and chain, or halt in the
leafy shade! what is that you express in your eyes? |
|
It seems to me more than all the print I have read in
my life. |
|
70
My tread scares the wood-drake and wood-duck, on
my distant and day-long ramble; |
| 71 I believe in those wing'd purposes, |
|
And acknowledge red, yellow, white, playing within
me, |
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And consider green and violet, and the tufted crown,
intentional, |
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And do not call the tortoise unworthy because she is
not something else; |
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And the jay in the woods never studied the gamut,
yet trills pretty well to me; |
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And the look of the bay mare shames silliness out of
me. |
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72
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
|