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1
Now list to my morning's romanza—I tell the signs
of the Answerer; |
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To the cities and farms I sing, as they spread in the
sunshine before me. |
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2
A young man comes to me bearing a message from
his brother; |
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How shall the young man know the whether and when
of his brother? |
| Tell him to send me the signs. |
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3
And I stand before the young man face to face, and
take his right hand in my left hand, and his left hand in my right hand, |
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And I answer for his brother, and for men, and I an-
swer for him that answers for all, and send these signs. |
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4
Him all wait for—him all yield up to—his word is
decisive and final, |
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Him they accept, in him lave, in him perceive them-
selves, as amid light, |
| Him they immerse, and he immerses them. |
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5
Beautiful women, the haughtiest nations, laws, the
landscape, people, animals, |
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The profound earth and its attributes, and the unquiet
ocean, (so tell I my morning's romanza;) |
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All enjoyments and properties, and money, and what-
ever money will buy, |
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The best farms—others toiling and planting, and he
unavoidably reaps, |
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The noblest and costliest cities—others grading and
building, and he domiciles there; |
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Nothing for any one, but what is for him—near and far
are for him, the ships in the offing, |
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The perpetual shows and marches on land, are for him,
if they are for any body. |
| 6 He puts things in their attitudes; |
| He puts to-day out of himself, with plasticity and love; |
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He places his own city, times, reminiscences, parents,
brothers and sisters, associations, employment, politics, so that the rest never shame them after- ward, nor assume to command them. |
| 7 He is the answerer; |
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What can be answer'd he answers—and what cannot be
answer'd, he shows how it cannot be answer'd. |
| 8 A man is a summons and challenge; |
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(It is vain to skulk—Do you hear that mocking and
laughter? Do you hear the ironical echoes?) |
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9
Books, friendships, philosophers, priests, action, plea-
sure, pride, beat up and down, seeking to give satisfaction; |
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He indicates the satisfaction, and indicates them that
beat up and down also. |
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10
Whichever the sex, whatever the season or place, he
may go freshly and gently and safely, by day or by night; |
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He has the pass-key of hearts—to Him the response of
the prying of hands on the knobs. |
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11
His welcome is universal—the flow of beauty is not
more welcome or universal than he is; |
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The person he favors by day, or sleeps with at night, is
blessed. |
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12
Every existence has its idiom—everything has an
idiom and tongue; |
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He resolves all tongues into his own, and bestows it
upon men, and any man translates, and any man translates himself also; |
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One part does not counteract another part—he is the
joiner—he sees how they join. |
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13
He says indifferently and alike, How are you, friend?
to the President at his levee, |
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And he says, Good-day, my brother! to Cudge that hoes
in the sugar-field, |
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And both understand him, and know that his speech is
right. |
| 14 He walks with perfect ease in the Capitol, |
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He walks among the Congress, and one Representative
says to another, Here is our equal, appearing and new . |
| 15 Then the mechanics take him for a mechanic, |
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And the soldiers suppose him to be a soldier, and the
sailors that he has follow'd the sea, |
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And the authors take him for an author, and the artists
for an artist, |
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And the laborers perceive he could labor with them and
love them; |
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No matter what the work is, that he is the one to fol-
low it, or has follow'd it, |
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No matter what the nation, that he might find his
brothers and sisters there, |
| 16 The English believe he comes of their English stock, |
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A Jew to the Jew he seems—a Russ to the Russ—usual
and near, removed from none. |
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17
Whoever he looks at in the traveler's coffee-house
claims him, |
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The Italian or Frenchman is sure, and the German is
sure, and the Spaniard is sure, and the island Cuban is sure; |
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The engineer, the deck-hand on the great lakes, or on
the Mississippi, or St. Lawrence, or Sacramento, or Hudson, or Paumanok Sound, claims him. |
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18
The gentleman of perfect blood acknowledges his
perfect blood; |
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The insulter, the prostitute, the angry person, the
beggar, see themselves in the ways of him—he strangely transmutes them, |
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They are not vile any more—they hardly know them-
selves, they are so grown. |
| 1 THE indications, and tally of time; |
| Perfect sanity shows the master among philosophs; |
| Time, always without flaw, indicates itself in parts; |
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What always indicates the poet, is the crowd of the
pleasant company of singers, and their words; |
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The words of the singers are the hours or minutes of
the light or dark—but the words of the maker of poems are the general light and dark; |
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The maker of poems settles justice, reality, immor-
tality, |
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His insight and power encircle things and the human
race, |
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He is the glory and extract thus far, of things, and of
the human race. |
| 2 The singers do not beget—only the POET begets; |
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The singers are welcom'd, understood, appear often
enough—but rare has the day been, likewise the spot, of the birth of the maker of poems, the Answerer, |
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(Not every century, or every five centuries, has con-
tain'd such a day, for all its names.) |
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3
The singers of successive hours of centuries may have
ostensible names, but the name of each of them is one of the singers, |
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The name of each is, eye-singer, ear-singer, head-
singer, sweet-singer, echo-singer, parlor-singer, love-singer, or something else. |
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4
All this time, and at all times, wait the words of true
poems; |
| The words of true poems do not merely please, |
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The true poets are not followers of beauty, but the
august masters of beauty; |
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The greatness of sons is the exuding of the greatness
of mothers and fathers, |
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The words of poems are the tuft and final applause of
science. |
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5
Divine instinct, breadth of vision, the law of reason,
health, rudeness of body, withdrawnness, |
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Gayety, sun-tan, air-sweetness—such are some of the
words of poems. |
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6
The sailor and traveler underlie the maker of poems,
the answerer; |
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The builder, geometer, chemist, anatomist, phrenolo-
gist, artist—all these underlie the maker of poems, the answerer. |
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7
The words of the true poems give you more than
poems, |
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They give you to form for yourself, poems, religions,
politics, war, peace, behavior, histories, essays, romances, and everything else, |
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They balance ranks, colors, races, creeds, and the
sexes, |
| They do not seek beauty—they are sought, |
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Forever touching them, or close upon them, follows
beauty, longing, fain, love-sick. |
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3
They prepare for death—yet are they not the finish,
but rather the outset, |
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They bring none to his or her terminus, or to be con-
tent and full; |
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Whom they take, they take into space, to behold the
birth of stars, to learn one of the meanings, |
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To launch off with absolute faith—to sweep through the
ceaseless rings, and never be quiet again. |
| 1 POETS to come! orators, singers, musicians to come! |
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Not to-day is to justify me, and answer what I am
for; |
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But you, a new brood, native, athletic, continental,
greater than before known, |
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Arouse! Arouse—for you must justify me—you must
answer. |
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2
I myself but write one or two indicative words for the
future, |
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I but advance a moment, only to wheel and hurry back
in the darkness. |
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3
I am a man who, sauntering along, without fully stop-
ping, turns a casual look upon you, and then averts his face, |
| Leaving it to you to prove and define it, |
| Expecting the main things from you. |
| I HEAR America singing, the varied carols I hear; |
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Those of mechanics—each one singing his, as it should
be, blithe and strong; |
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The carpenter singing his, as he measures his plank or
beam, |
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The mason singing his, as he makes ready for work, or
leaves off work; |
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The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat—
the deck-hand singing on the steamboat deck; |
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The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench—the
hatter singing as he stands; |
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The wood-cutter's song—the ploughboy's, on his way in
the morning, or at the noon intermission, or at sundown; |
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The delicious singing of the mother—or of the young
wife at work—or of the girl sewing or washing— Each singing what belongs to her, and to none else; |
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The day what belongs to the day—At night, the party
of young fellows, robust, friendly, |
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Singing, with open mouths, their strong melodious
songs. |