University of Virginia Library

1   I CELEBRATE myself;
And what I assume you shall assume;
For every atom belonging to me, as good belongs to      you.
2  I loafe and invite my Soul;
I lean and loafe at my ease, observing a spear of sum-     mer grass.
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.
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;
Echoes, ripples, buzz'd whispers, love-root, silk-thread,      crotch and vine;
My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my      heart, the passing of blood and air through my      lungs;
The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the      shore, and dark-color'd sea-rocks, and of hay in      the barn;
The sound of the belch'd words of my voice, words      loos'd to the eddies of the wind;
A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around      of arms;
The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple      boughs wag;
The delight alone, or in the rush of the streets, or      along the fields and hill-sides;
The feeling of health, the full noon trill, the song of      me rising from bed and meeting the sun.
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?
7  Stop this day and night with me, and you shall pos-     sess the origin of all poems;
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun —      (there are millions of suns left;)
You shall no longer take things at second or third      hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead,      nor feed on the spectres in books;
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take      things from me:
You shall listen to all sides, and filter them from your-     self.

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.
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.
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
13       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.
14  Clear and sweet is my Soul, and clear and sweet is      all that is not my Soul.
15  Lack one lacks both, and the unseen is proved by      the seen,
Till that becomes unseen, and receives proof in its      turn.
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.
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;
As the hugging and loving Bed-fellow sleeps at my      side through the night, and withdraws at the      peep of the day, with stealthy tread,
Leaving me baskets cover'd with white towels, 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,
Exactly the contents of one, and exactly the contents      of two, and which is ahead?

19   Trippers and askers su0rround me;
People I meet — the effect upon me of my early life, or      the ward and city I live in, or the nation,
The latest dates, discoveries, inventions, societies,      authors old and new,
My dinner, dress, associates, looks, compliments, dues,
The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman      I love,
The sickness of one of my folks, or of myself, or ill-     doing, or loss or lack of money, or depressions      or exaltations;
Battles, the horrors of fratricidal war, the fever of      doubtful news, the fitful events;
These come to me days and nights, and go from me      again,
But they are not the Me myself.
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,
Looking with side-curved head, curious what will come      next;
Both in and out of the game, and watching and won-     dering at it.
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.

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.
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.
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,
And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged      your tongue to my bare-stript heart,
And reach'd till you felt my beard, and reach'd till you      held my feet.
25  Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and      knowledge that pass all the argument of the      earth;
And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my      own;
And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of      my own;
And that all the men ever born are also my brothers,      and the women my sisters and lovers;
And that a kelson of the creation is love;
And limitless are leaves, stiff or drooping in the fields;
And brown ants in the little wells beneath them;
And mossy scabs of the worm-fence, and heap'd stones,      elder, mullen and pokeweed.

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.
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,
Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners,      that we may see and remark, and say, Whose?
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;
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.
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.
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!
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of      mouths for nothing.
35  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.
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;
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;
And to die is different from what any one supposed,      and luckier.

39   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.
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.)
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;
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.
43  Undrape! you are not guilty to me, nor stale, nor      discarded;
I see through the broadcloth and gingham, whether      or no;
And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and      cannot be shaken away.

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.
45  The youngster and the red-faced girl turn aside up      the bushy hill;
I peeringly view them from the top.
46  The suicide sprawls on the bloody floor of the      bedroom;
I witness the corpse with its dabbled hair — I note      where the pistol has fallen.
47  The blab of the pave, the tires of carts, sluff of      boot-soles, talk of the promenaders;
The heavy omnibus, the driver with his interrogating      thumb, the clank of the shod horses on the      granite floor;
The snow-sleighs, the clinking, shouted jokes, pelts of      snow-balls;
The hurrahs for popular favorites, the fury of rous'd      mobs;
The flap of the curtain'd litter, a sick man inside,      borne to the hospital;
The meeting of enemies, the sudden oath, the blows      and fall;
The excited crowd, the policeman with his star,      quickly working his passage to the centre of      the crowd;
The impassive stones that receive and return so many      echoes;
What groans of over-fed or half-starv'd who fall      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 restrain'd by decorum,
Arrests of criminals, slights, adulterous offers made,      acceptances, rejections with convex lips;
I mind them or the show or resonance of them — I      come, and I depart.

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-     tertinged;
The armfuls are packt to the sagging mow.
49  I am there — I help — I came stretcht 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.

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;
Falling asleep on the gather'd leaves, with my dog and      gun by my side.
51  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.
52  The boatman and clam-diggers arose early and stopt      for me;
I tuck'd my trowser-ends in my boots, and went and      had a good time:
You should have been with us that day round the      chowder-kettle.
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;
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;
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.
54  The runaway slave came to my house and stopt out-     side;
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 fill'd a tub for his sweated      body and bruis'd feet,
And gave him a room that enter'd from my own, and      gave him some coarse clean clothes,
And remember perfectly well his revolving eyes and      his awkwardness,
And remember putting plasters on the galls of his      neck and ankles;
He staid with me a week before he was recuperated      and pass'd north;
(I had him sit next me at table — my fire-lock lean'd      in the corner.)

55   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 lone-     some.
56  She owns the fine house by the rise of the bank;
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.
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.
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;
It descended tremblingly from their temples and      ribs.
62  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 pen-     dant and bending arch;
They do not think whom they souse with spray.

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.
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.

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.
67  I behold the picturesque giant, and love him — and I      do not stop there;
I go with the team also.
68   In me the caresser of life wherever moving — back-     ward as well as forward slueing;
To niches aside and junior bending.
69  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;
They rise together — they slowly circle around.
71  I believe in those wing'd purposes,
And acknowledge red, yellow, white, playing within      me,
And consider green and violet, and the tufted crown,      intentional,
And do not call the tortoise unworthy because she is      not something else;
And the jay in the woods never studied the gamut,      yet trills pretty well to me;
And the look of the bay mare shames silliness out of      me.

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      wintry sky.)
73  The sharp hoof'd moose of the north, the cat on the      house-sill, the chickadee, the prairie-dog,
The litter of the grunting sow as they tug at her teats,
The brood of the turkey      spread wings;
I see in them and myself the same old law.
74  The press of my foot to the earth springs a hundred      affections;
They scorn the best I can do to relate them.
75  I am enamour'd of growing outdoors,
Of men that live among cattle, or taste of the ocean      or woods,
Of the builders and steerers of ships, and the wielders      of axes and mauls, and the drivers of horses;
I can eat and sleep with them week in and week out.
76  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.

77   The pure contralto sings in the organ loft;
The carpenter dresses his plank — the tongue of his      foreplane whistles its wild ascending lisp;
The married and unmarried children ride home to      their Thanksgiving dinner;
The pilot seizes the king-pin — he heaves down with a      strong arm;
The mate stands braced in the whale-boat — lance and      harpoon are ready;
The duck-shooter walks by silent and cautious      stretches;
The deacons are ordain'd with cross'd hands at the      altar;
The spinning-girl retreats and advances to the hum of      the big wheel;
The farmer stops by the bars, as he walks on a First-     day loafe, and looks at the oats and rye;
The lunatic is carried at last to the asylum, a confirm'd      case,
(He will never sleep any more as he did in the cot in      his mother's bed-room;)
The jour printer with gray head and gaunt jaws works      at his case,
He turns his quid of tobacco, while his eyes blurr with      the manuscript;
The malform'd limbs are tied to the surgeon's table,
What is removed drops horribly in a pail;
The quadroon girl is sold at the stand — the drunkard.      nods by the bar-room stove;
The machinist rolls up his sleeves — the policeman      travels his beat — the gate-keeper marks who pass;
The young fellow drives the express-wagon — (I love      him, though I do not know him;)
The half-breed straps on his light boots to compete in      the race;
The western turkey-shooting draws old and young —      some lean on their rifles, some sit on logs,
Out from the crowd steps the marksman, takes his      position, levels his piece;
The groups of newly-come immigrants cover the      wharf or levee;
As the woolly-pates hoe in the sugar-field, the overseer      views them from his saddle;
The bugle calls in the ball-room, the gentlemen run for      their partners, the dancers bow to each other;
The youth lies awake in the cedar-roof'd garret, and      harks to the musical rain;
The Wolverine sets traps on the creek that helps fill the      Huron;
The squaw, wrapt in her yellow-hemm'd cloth, is      offering moccasins and bead-bags for sale;
The connoisseur peers along the exhibition-gallery with      half-shut eyes bent side-ways;
As the deck-hands make fast the steamboat, the plank      is thrown for the shore-going passengers;
The young sister holds out the skein, while the elder      sister winds it off in a ball, and stops now and      then for the knots;
The one-year wife is recovering and happy, having a      week ago borne her first child;
The clean-hair'd Yankee girl works with her sewing-     machine, or in the factory or mill;
The nine months' gone is in the parturition chamber,      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 bookkeeper      counts at his desk, the shoemaker waxes his      thread;
The conductor beats time for the band, and all the      performers follow him;
The child is baptized — the convert is making his first      professions;
The regatta is spread on the bay — the race is begun       — how the white sails sparkle!
The drover, watching his drove, sings out to them that      would stray;
The pedler sweats with his pack on his back, (the pur-     chaser higgling 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-     open'd lips;
The prostitute draggles her shawl, her bonnet bobs on      her tipsy and pimpled neck;
The crowd laugh at her blackguard oaths, the men      jeer and wink to each other;
(Miserable! I do not laugh at your oaths, nor jeer you;)
The President, holding a cabinet council, is surrounded      by the Great Secretaries;
On the piazza walk three matrons stately and friendly      with twined arms;
The crew of the fish-smack pack repeated layers of      halibut in the hold;
The Missourian crosses the plains, toting his wares and      his cattle;
As the fare-collector goes through the train, he gives      notice by the jingling of loose change;
The floor-men are laying the floor — the tinners are      tinning the roof — the masons are calling for      mortar;
In single file, each shouldering his hod, pass onward      the laborers;
Seasons pursuing each other, the indescribable crowd      is gather'd — it is the Fourth of Seventh-month       — (What salutes of cannon and small arms!)
Seasons pursuing each other, the plougher ploughs, the      mower mows, and the winter-grain falls in the      ground;
Off on the lakes the pike-fisher watches and waits by      the hole in the frozen surface;
The stumps stand thick round the clearing, the squatter      strikes deep with his axe;
Flatboatmen make fast, towards dusk, near the cotton-     wood or pekan-trees;
Coon-seekers go through the regions of the Red river,      or through those drain'd by the Tennessee, or      through those of the Arkansaw;
Torches shine in the dark that hangs on the Chatta-     hooche or Altamahaw;
Patriarchs sit at supper with sons and grandsons and      great-grandsons around them;
In walls of adobie, in canvas tents, rest hunters and      trappers after their day's sport;
The city sleeps, and the country sleeps;
The living sleep for their time, the dead sleep for their      time;
The old husband sleeps by his wife, and the young      husband sleeps by his wife;
And these 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.

78   I am of old and young, of the foolish as much as the      wise;
Regardless of others, ever regardful of others,
Maternal as well as paternal, a child as well as a man,
Stuff'd with the stuff that is coarse, and stuff'd with      the stuff that is fine;
One of the great nation, the nation of many nations,      the smallest the same, and the largest the same;
A southerner soon as a northerner — a planter non-     chalant and hospitable, down by the Oconee I      live;
A Yankee, bound my own way, ready for trade, my      joints the limberest joints on earth, and the      sternest joints on earth;
A Kentuckian, walking the vale of the Elkhorn in my      deer-skin leggings — a Louisianian or Georgian;
A boatman over lakes or bays, or along coasts — a      Hoosier, Badger, Buckeye;
At home on Kanadian snow-shoes, or up in the bush,      or with fishermen off Newfoundland;
At home in the fleet of ice-boats, sailing with the rest      and tacking;
At home on the hills of Vermont, or in the woods of      Maine, or the Texan ranch;
Comrade of Californians — comrade of free north-west-     erners, (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 thought-     fullest;
A novice beginning, yet experient of myriads of sea-     sons;
Of every hue and caste am I, of every rank and re-     ligion;
A farmer, mechanic, artist, gentleman, sailor, quaker;
A prisoner, fancy-man, rowdy, lawyer, physician,      priest.
79  I resist anything better than my own diversity;
I breathe the air, but leave plenty after me,
And am not stuck up, and am in my place.
80  (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.)

81   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 are not the riddle and the untying of the rid-     dle, they are nothing;
If they are not just as close as they are distant, they      are nothing.
82  This is the grass that grows wherever the land is,      and the water is;
This is the common air that bathes the globe.

83   With music strong I come — with my cornets and      my drums,
I play not marches for accepted victors only — I play      great marches for conquer'd and slain persons.
84   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.
85  I beat and pound for the dead;
I blow through my embouchures my loudest and gay-     est for them.
86  Vivas to those who have fail'd!
And to those whose war-vessels sank in the sea!
And to those themselves who sank in the sea!
And to all generals that lost engagements! and all      overcome heroes!
And the numberless unknown heroes, equal to the      greatest heroes known.

87   This is the meal pleasantly set — this is the meat 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 invited;
The heavy-lipp'd slave is invited — the venerealee is      invited:
There shall be no difference between them and the rest.
88  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 mur-     mur 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.
89  Do you guess I have some intricate purpose?
Well, I have — for the Fourth-month showers have,      and the mica on the side of a rock has.
90   Do you take it I would astonish?
Does the daylight astonish? Does the early redstart,      twittering through the woods?
Do I astonish more than they?
91  This hour I tell things in confidence;
I might not tell everybody, but I will tell you.

92   Who goes there? hankering, gross, mystical, nude;
How is it I extract strength from the beef I eat?
93  What is a man, anyhow? What am I? What are you?
94  All I mark as my own, you shall offset it with your      own;
Else it were time lost listening to me.
95  I do not snivel that snivel the world over,
That months are vacuums, and the ground but wal-     low and filth;
That life is a suck and a sell, and nothing remains at      the end but threadbare crape, and tears.
96  Whimpering and truckling fold with powders for      invalids — conformity goes to the fourth-remov'd;
I wear my hat as I please, indoors or out.
97  Why should I pray? Why should I venerate and
  be ceremonious?
98  Having pried through the strata, analyzed to a hair,      counsell'd with doctors, and calculated close,
I find no sweeter fat then sticks to my own bones.
99   In all people I see myself — none more, and not one      a barley-corn less;
And the good or bad I say of myself, I say of them.
100  And I know I am solid and sound;
To me the converging objects of the universe perpetu-     ally flow;
All are written to me, and I must get what the writing      means.
101  I know I am deathless;
I know this orbit of mine cannot be swept by the car-     penter's compass;
I know I shall not pass like a child's carlacue cut with      a burnt stick at night.
102  I know I am august;
I do not trouble my spirit to vindicate itself or be      understood;
I see that the elementary laws never apologize;
(I reckon I behave no prouder than the level I plant      my house by, after all.)
103  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.
104  One world is aware, and by far the largest to me,      and that is myself;
And whether I come to my own to-day, or in ten      thousand or ten million years,
I can cheerfully take it now, or with equal cheerful-     ness I can wait.
105  My foothold is tenon'd and mortis'd in granite;
I laugh at what you call dissolution;
And I know the amplitude of time.

106   I am the poet of the Body;
And I am the poet of the Soul.
107  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.
108  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;
And I say there is nothing greater than the mother of      men.
109  I chant the chant of dilation or pride;
We have had ducking and deprecating about enough;
I show that size is only development.
110  Have you outstript the rest? Are you the Presi-     dent?
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.
112  Press close, bare-bosom'd night! Press close, mag-     netic, nourishing night!
Night of south winds! night of the large few stars!
Still, nodding night! mad, naked, summer night.
113  Smile, O voluptuous, cool-breath'd earth!
Earth of the slumbering and liquid trees;
Earth of departed sunset! earth of the mountains,      misty-topt!
Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon, just      tinged with blue!
Earth of shine and dark, mottling the tide of the      river!
Earth of the limpid gray of clouds, brighter and      clearer for my sake!
Farblossom'd      earth!
Smile, for your lover comes!
114  Prodigal, you have given me love! Therefore I to      you give love!
O unspeakable, passionate love!

115   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.
116  Sea of stretch'd ground-swells!
Sea breathing broad and convulsive breaths!
Sea of the brine of life! sea of unshovell'd yet 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.
117  Partaker of influx and efflux I — extoller of hate and      conciliation;
Extoller of amies, and those that sleep in each others'      arms.
118  I am he attesting sympathy;
(Shall I make my list of things in the house, and skip      the house that supports them?)
119   I am not the poet of goodness only — I do not de-     cline to be the poet of wickedness also.
120  Washes and razors for foofoos — for me freckles and      a bristling beard.
121  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.
122  Did you fear some scrofula out of the unflagging      pregnancy?
Did you guess the celestial laws are yet to be work'd      over and rectified?
123  I find one side a balance, and the antipodal side a      balance;
Soft doctrine as steady help as stable doctrine;
Thoughts and deeds of the present, our rouse and      early start.
124  This minute that comes to me over the past decil-     lions,
There is no better than it and now.
125  What behaved well in the past, or behaves well      to-day, is not such a wonder;
The wonder is, always and always, how there can be      a mean man or an infidel.

126   Endless unfolding of words of ages!
And mine a word of the modern — the word En-     masse.
127  A word of the faith that never balks;
Here or henceforward, it is all the same to me —      I accept time, absolutely.
128   It alone is without flaw — it rounds and completes all;
That mystic, baffling wonder I love, alone completes all.
129  I accept reality, and dare not question it;
Materialism first and last imbuing.
130  Hurrah for positive science! long live exact demon-     stration!
Fetch stonecrop, mixt 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 un-     known seas;
This is the geologist — this works with the scalpel —      and this is a mathematician.
131  Gentlemen! to you the first honors always:
Your facts are useful and real — and yet they are not      my dwelling;
(I but enter by them to an area of my dwelling.)
132  Less the reminders of properties told, my words;
And more the reminders, they, of life untold, and of      freedom and extrication,
And make short account of neuters and geldings, and      favor men and women fully equipt,
And beat the gong of revolt, and stop with fugitives,      and them that plot and conspire.

133   Walt Whitman am I, of mighty Manhattan the son,
Turbulent, fleshy and sensual, eating, drinking and      breeding;
No sentimentalist — no stander above men and women,      or apart from them;
No more modest than immodest.
134   Unscrew the locks from the doors!
Unscrew the doors themselves from their jambs!
135  Whoever degrades another degrades me;
And whatever is done or said returns at last to me.
136  Through me the afflatus surging and surging —      through me the current and index.
137  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.
138  Through me many long dumb voices;
Voices of the interminable generations of slaves;
Voices of prostitutes, and of deform'd persons;
Voices of the diseas'd and despairing, and of thieves      and dwarfs;
Voices of cycles of preparation and accretion,
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.
139  Through me forbidden voices;
Voices of sexes and lusts — voices veil'd, and I remove      the veil;
Voices indecent, by me clarified and transfigur'd.
140  I do not press my fingers 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.
141  I believe in the flesh and the appetites;
Seeing, hearing, feeling, are miracles, and each part      and tag of me is a miracle.
142   Divine am I inside and out, and I make holy what-     ever I touch or am touch'd from;
The scent of these arm-pits, aroma finer than prayer;
This head more than churches, bibles, and all the      creeds.
143  If I worship one thing more than another, it shall      be the spread of my own body, or any part of it.
144  Translucent mould of me, it shall be you!
Shaded ledges and rests, it shall be you!
Firm masculine colter, it shall be you.
145  Whatever goes to the tilth of me, it shall be you!
You my rich blood! Your milky stream, pale strip-     pings of my life.
146  Breast that presses against other breasts, it shall be      you!
My brain, it shall be your occult convolutions.
147  Root of wash't sweet-flag! timorous pond-snipe!      nest of guarded duplicate eggs! it shall be you!
Mix't tussled hay of head, beard, brawn, it shall be      you!
Trickling sap of maple! fibre of manly wheat! it shall      be you!
148  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! lov-     ing lounger in my winding paths! it shall be      you!
Hands I have taken — face I have kiss'd — mortal I      have ever touch'd! it shall be you.
149   I dote on myself — there is that lot of me, and all so      luscious;
Each moment, and whatever happens, thrills me with      joy.
150  O I am wonderful!
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.
151  That I walk up my stoop! I pause to consider if it      really be;
A morning-glory at my window satisfies me more than      the metaphysics of books.
152  To behold the day-break!
The little light fades the immense and diaphanous      shadows;
The air tastes good to my palate.
153  Hefts of the moving world, at innocent gambols      silently rising, freshly exuding,
Scooting obliquely high and low.
154  Something I cannot see puts upward libidinous      prongs;
Seas of bright juice suffuse heaven.
155  The earth by the sky staid with — the daily close of      their junction;
The heav'd challenge from the east that moment over      my head;
The mocking taunt, See then whether you shall be      master!

156   Dazzling and tremendous, how quick the sun-rise      would kill me,
If I could not now and always send sun-rise out of      me.
157  We also ascend, dazzling and tremendous as the      sun;
We found our own, O my Soul, in the calm and cool      of the day-break.
158  My voice goes after what my eyes cannot reach;
With the twirl of my tongue I encompass worlds, and      volumes of worlds.
159  Speech is the twin of my vision — it is unequal to      measure itself;
It provokes me forever;
It says sarcastically, Walt, you contain enough — why      don't you let it out then?
160  Come now, I will not be tantalized — you conceive      too much of articulation.
161  Do you not know, O speech, how the buds beneath      you 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.
162  My final merit I refuse you — I refuse putting from      me what I really am;
Encompass worlds, but never try to encompass me;
I crowd your sleekest and best by simply looking to-     ward you.
163   Writing and talk do not prove me;
I carry the plenum of proof, and everything else, in      my face;
With the hush of my lips I wholly confound the skep-     tic.

164   I think I will do nothing now but listen,
To accrue what I hear into myself — to let sounds con-     tribute toward me.
165  I hear bravuras of birds, bustle of growing wheat,      gossip of flames, clack of sticks cooking my      meals;
I hear the sound I love, the sound of the human      voice;
I hear all sounds running together, combined, fused      or following;
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      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 pallid 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 color'd lights;
The steam-whistle — the solid roll of the train of ap-     proaching cars;
The slow-march play'd at the head of the association,      marching two and two;
(They go to guard some corpse — the flag-tops are      draped with black muslin.)
166   I hear the violoncello, ('tis the young man's heart's      complaint;)
I hear the key'd cornet — it glides quickly in through      my ears;
It shakes mad-sweet pangs through my belly and      breast.
167  I hear the chorus — it is a grand opera;
Ah, this indeed is music! This suits me.
168  A tenor large and fresh as the creation fills me;
The orbic flex of his mouth is pouring and filling me      full.
169  I hear the train'd soprano — (what work, with hers,      is this?)
The orchestra wrenches such ardors from me, I did      not know I possess'd them;
It sails me — I dab with bare feet — they are lick'd by      the indolent waves;
I am exposed, cut by bitter and angry hail — I lose my      breath,
Steep'd amid honey'd morphine, my windpipe throt-     tled in fakes of death;
At length let up again to feel the puzzle of puzzles,
And that we call BEING.

170   To be, in any form — what is that?
(Round and round we go, all of us, and ever come      back thither;)
If nothing lay more develop't, the quahaug in its cal-     lous shell were enough.
171  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.
172  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.

173   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 sunlight      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 a      while,
Then all uniting to stand on a headland and worry      me.
174  The sentries desert every other part of me;
They have left me helpless to a red marauder;
They all come to the headland, to witness and assist      against me.
175   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 headland — my own hands      carried me there.
176  You villain touch! what are you doing? My breath      is tight in its throat;
Unclench your floodgates! you are too much for me.

177   Blind, loving, wrestling touch! sheath'd, hooded,      sharp-tooth'd touch!
Did it make you ache so, leaving me?
178  Parting, track't by arriving — perpetual payment of      perpetual loan;
Rich, showering rain, and recompense richer after-     ward.
179  Sprouts take and accumulate — stand by the curb      prolific and vital;
Landscapes, projected, masculine, full-sized, and      golden.

180   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?)
181  Logic and sermons never convince;
The damp of the night drives deeper into my soul.
182  Only what proves itself to every man and woman      is so;
Only what nobody denies is so.
183   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.

184   I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-     work of the stars,
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'oeuvre 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 depres't head surpasses      any statue,
And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions      of infidels,
And I could come every afternoon of my life to look      at the farmer's girl boiling her iron ten-kettle      and baking short-cake.
185  I find I incorporate gneiss, coal, long-threaded moss,      fruits, grains, esculent roots,
And am stuccoed with quadrupeds and birds all over,
And have distanced what is behind me for good      reasons,
And call anything close again, when I desire it.
186  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 pow-     der'd bones;
In vain objects stand leagues off, and assume manifold      shapes;
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-bill'd auk sails far north to Labrador;
I follow quickly, I ascend to the nest in the fissure of      the cliff.

187   I think I could turn and live with animals, they are      so placid and self-contain'd;
I stand and look at them long and long.
188  They do not sweat and whine about their condition;
They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their      sins;
They do not make me sick discussing their duty to      God;
Not 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.
189  So they show their relations to me, and I accept      them;
They bring me tokens of myself — they evince them      plainly in their possession.
190   I wonder where they get those tokens:
Did I pass that way huge times ago, and negligently      drop 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 remem-     brancers;
Picking out here one that I love, and now go with him      on brotherly terms.
191  A gigantic beauty of a stallion, fresh and responsive      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.
192  His nostrils dilate, as my heels embrace him;
His well-built limbs tremble with pleasure, as we speed      around and return.
193  I but use you a moment, then I resign you, stallion;
Why do I need your paces, when I myself out-gallop      them?
Even, as I stand or sit, passing faster than you.

194   O swift wind! O space and time! now I see it is      true, what I guess'd at;
What I guess'd when I loaf'd on the grass;
What I guess'd while I lay alone in my bed,
And again as I walk'd the beach under the paling      stars of the morning.
195   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.
196  By the city's quadrangular houses — in log huts —      camping with lumbermen;
Along the ruts of the turnpike — along the dry gulch      and rivulet bed;
Weeding my onion-patch, or hoeing rows of carrots      and parsnips — crossing savannas — trailing in      forests;
Prospecting — gold-digging — girdling the trees of a      new purchase;
Scorch'd ankle-deep by the hot sand — hauling my boat      down the shallow river;
Where the panther walks to and fro on a limb over-     head — where the buck turns furiously at the      hunter;
Where the rattlesnake 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-shaped tail;
Over the growing sugar — over the yellow-flower'd cot-     ton plant — over the rice in its low moist field;
Over the sharp-peak'd farm house, with its scallop'd      scum and slender shoots from the gutters;
Over the western persimmon — over the long-leav'd      corn — over the delicate blue-flower 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, hold-     ing 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 Seventh-month 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;
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      webs fall in festoons from the rafters;
Where trip-hammers crash — where the press is whirl-     ing its cylinders;
Wherever the human heart beats with terrible throes      out of its ribs;
Where the pear-shaped balloon is floating aloft, float-     ing 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 calf, and never      forsakes it;
Where the steam-ship trails hind-ways its long pennant      of smoke;
Where the fin of the shark cuts like a black chip out      of the water;
Where the half-burn'd brig is riding on unknown cur-     rents,
Where shells grow to her slimy deck — where the dead      are corrupting below;
Where the dense-starr'd flag is borne at the head of the      regiments;
Approaching Manhattan, up by the long-stretching      island;
Under Niagara, the cataract falling like a veil over my      countenance;
Upon a doorblock of hard wood      outside;
Upon the race-course, or enjoying picnics or jigs, or a      good game of base-ball;
At he-festivals, with blackguard gibes, ironical license,      bull-dances, drinking, laughter;
At the cider-mill, tasting the sweets of the brown      mash, 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 gurgles,      cackles, screams, weeps;
Where the hayyard — where      the dry-stalks are scatter'd — 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 the 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;
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-neck'd partridges roost in a ring on the      ground with their heads out;
Where burial coaches enter the arch'd gates of a      cemetery;
Where winter wolves bark amid wastes of snow and      icicled trees;
Where the yellow-crown'd heron comes to the edge of      the marsh at night and feeds upon small crabs;
Where the splash of swimmers and divers cools 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, or under con-     ical firs;
Through the gymnasium — through the curtain'd saloon       — through the office or public hall;
Pleas'd with the native, and pleas'd with the foreign       — pleas'd with the new and old;
Pleas'd with women, the homely as well as the hand-     some;
Pleas'd with the quakeress as she puts off her bonnet      and talks melodiously;
Pleas'd with the tune of the choir of the white-washt      church;
Pleas'd with the earnest words of the sweating Meth-     odist preacher, or any preacher — imprest seri-     ously at the camp-meeting:
Looking in at the shop-windows of Broadway the      whole forenoon — flatting the flesh of my nose      on the thick plate-glass;
Wandering the same afternoon with my face turn'd up      to the clouds,
My right and left arms round the sides of two friends,      and I in the middle:
Coming home with the silent and dark-cheek'd bush-     boy — behind me he rides at the drape of the      day;
Far from the settlements, studying the print of ani-     mals' feet, or the moccasin print;
By the cot in the hospital, reaching lemonade to a      feverish patient;
Nigh the coffin'd corpse when all is still, examining      with a candle:
Voyaging to every port, to dicker and adventure;
Hurrying with the modern crowd, as eager and fickle      as any;
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 tail'd 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.
197  I visit the orchards of spheres, and look at the      product;
And look at quintillions ripen'd, and look at quintil-     lions green.
198  I fly the flight of the fluid and swallowing soul;
My course runs below the soundings of plummets.
199  I help myself to material and immaterial;
No guard can shut me off, nor law prevent me.
200   I anchor my ship for a little while only;
My messengers continually cruise away, or bring their      returns to me.
201  I go hunting polar furs and the seal — leaping      chasms with a pike-pointed staff — clinging to      topples of brittle and blue.
202  I ascend to the foretruck;
I take my place late at night in the crow's-nest;
We sail 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 directions;
The white-topt mountains show in the distance — 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 encampment —      we pass with still feet and caution;
Or we are entering by the suburbs some vast and      ruin'd city;
The blocks and fallen architecture more than all the      living cities of the globe.)
203  I am a free companion — I bivouac by invading      watchfires.
204  I turn the bridegroom out of bed, and stay with the      bride myself;
I tighten her all night to my thighs and lips.
205  My voice is the wife's voice, the screech by the rail      of the stairs;
They fetch my man's body up, dripping and drown'd.
206   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 chalk'd in large letters, on a board, Be of good      cheer, we will not desert you:
How he follow'd with them, and tack'd with them —      and would not give it up;
How he saved the drifting company at last:
How the lank loose-gown'd women look'd when      boated from the side of their prepared graves;
How the silent old-faced infants, and the lifted sick,      and the sharp-lipp'd unshaved men:
All this I swallow — it tastes good — I like it well — it      becomes mine;
I am the man — I suffer'd — I was there.
207  The disdain and calmness of martyrs;
The mother, condemn'd for a witch, burnt with dry      wood, her children gazing on;
The hounded slave that flags in the race, leans by the      fence, blowing, cover'd with sweat;
The twinges that sting like needles his legs and neck       — the murderous buckshot and the bullets;
All these I feel or am.
208  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, thinn'd      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, and beat me violently over the      head with whip-stocks.
209  Agonies are one of my changes of garments;
I do not ask the wounded person how he feels — I my-     self become the wounded person;
My hurts turns livid upon me as I lean on a cane and      observe.
210  I am the mash'd fireman with breastbone broken:
Tumbling walls buried me in their debris;
Heat and smoke I inspired — I heard the yelling shouts      of my comrades;
I heard the distant click of their picks and shovels;
They have clear'd the beams away — they tenderly lift      me forth.
211  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 unhappy;
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.
212  Distant and dead resuscitate;
They show as the dial or move as the hands of me —      I am the clock myself.
213  I am an old artillerist — I tell of my fort's bombard-     ment;
I am there again.
214  Again the long roll of the drummers;
Again the attacking cannon, mortars;
Again the cannon responsive.
215   I take part — I see and hear the whole;
The cries, curses, roar, the plaudits for well-aim'd      shots;
The ambulanza slowly passing, trailing its red drip ;
Workmen searching after damages, making indispen-     sable 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.
216  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.

217   Now I tell what I knew in Texas in my early youth ;
(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;)
Tis the tale of the murder in cold blood of four hun-     dred and twelve young men.
218  Retreating, they had form'd in a hollow square, with      their baggage for breastworks ;
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, receiv'd      writing and seal, gave up their arms, and      march'd back prisoners of war.
219  They were the glory of the race of rangers ;
Matchless with horse, rifle, song, supper, courtship,
Large, turbulent, generous, brave, handsome, proud,      and affectionate,
Bearded, sunburnt, drest in the free costume of      hunters,
Not a single one over thirty years of age.
220  The second First-day morning they were brought      out in squads, and massacred — it was beautiful      early summer ;
The work commenced about five o'clock, and was over      by eight.
221  None obey'd 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 maim'd and mangled dug in the dirt — the new-     comers saw them there ;
Some, half-kill'd, attempted to crawl away ;
These were despatch'd with bayonets, or batter'd with      the blunts of muskets ;
A youth not seventeen years old seiz'd his assassin till      two more came to release him ;
The three were all torn, and cover'd with the boy's      blood.
222  At eleven o'clock began the burning of the bodies:
That is the tale of the murder of the four hundred      and twelve young men.

223   Would you hear of an old-fashion'd sea-fight?
Would you learn who won by the light of the moon      and stars?
List to the story as my grandmother's father, the      sailor, told it to me.
224   Our foe was no skulk in his ship, I tell you, (said he;)
His was the surly English pluck — and there is no      tougher or truer, and never was, and never will      be;
Along the lower'd eve he came, horribly raking us.
225  We closed with him — the yards entangled — the      cannon touch'd;
My captain lash'd fast with his own hands.
226  We had receiv'd some eighteen-pound shots under      the water;
On our lower-gun-deck two large pieces had burst at      the first fire, killing all around, and blowing up      overhead.
227  Fighting at sun-down, fighting at dark;
Ten o'clock at night, the full moon well up, our leaks      on the gain, and five feet of water reported;
The master-at-arms loosing the prisoners confined in      the after-hold, to give tem a chance for them-     selves.
228  The transit to and from the magazine is now      stopt by the sentinels,
They see so many strange faces, they do not know      whom to trust.
229  Our frigate takes fire ;
The other asks if we demand quarter?
If our colors are struck, and the fighting is done?
230  Now I laugh content, for I hear the voice of my      little captain, (says my grandmother's father ;)
We have not struck, he composedly cries, we have just      begun our part of the fighting.
231   Only three guns are in use ;
One is directed by the captain himself against the      enemy's main-mast ;
Two, well served with grape and canister, silence his      musketry and clear his decks.
232  The tops alone second the fire of this little battery,      especially the main-top ;
They hold out bravely during the whole of the action.
233  Not a moment's cease ;
The leaks gain fast on the pumps — the fire eats toward      the powder-magazine ;
One of the pumps has been shot away — it is generally      thought we are sinking.
234  Serene stands the little captain ;
He is not hurried — his voice is neither high nor low ;
His eyes give more light to us than our battle-     lanterns.
235  Toward twelve at night, there in the beams of the      moon, they surrender to us.

236   O now it is not my grandmother's father there in      the fight ;
I feel it is I myself.
237  Stretch'd and still lies the midnight ;
Two great hulls motionless on the breast of the      darkness ;
Our vessel riddled and slowly sinking — preparations      to pass to the one we have conquer'd ;
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 serv'd in the      cabin;
The dead face of an old salt with long white hair and      carefully curl'd whiskers;
The flames, spite of all that can be done, flickering      aloft and below;
The husky voices of the two or three officer yet fit      for duty; Formless stacks of bodies, and bodies by themselves —      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      charge to survivors,
The hiss of the surgeon's knife, the gnawing teeth of      his saw,
Wheeze, cluck, swash of falling blood, short wild      scream, and long, dull, tapering groan ;
These so — these irretrievable.

238   O Christ ! This is mastering me!
Through the conquer'd doors they crowd. I am      possess'd.
239  I embody all presences outlaw'd or suffering;
See myself in prison shaped like another man,
And feel the dull unintermitted pain.
240  For me the keepers of convicts shoulder their ear-     bines and keep watch;
It is I let out in the morning, and barr'd at night.
241  Not a mutineer walks handcuff'd to jail, but I am      handcuff'd 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.)
242   Not a youngster is taken for larceny, but I go up too,      and am tried and sentenced.
243  Not a cholera patient lies at the last gasp, but I also      lie at the last gasp;
My face is ash-color'd — my sinews gnarl — away from      me people retreat.
244  Askers embody themselves in me, and I am embo-     died in them;
I project my hat, sit shame-faced, and beg.

245   Enough! enough! enough!
Somehow I have been stunn'd. Stand back!
Give me a little time beyond my cuff'd head, slumbers,      dreams, gaping;
I discover myself on the verge of a usual mistake.
246  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.
247  I remember now;
I resume the overstaid fraction;
The grave of rock multiplies what has been confided      to it, or to any graves;
Corpses rise, gashes heal, fastenings roll from me.
248  I troop forth replenish't with supreme power, one of      an average unending procession;
Inland and sea-coast we go, and we pass all boundary      lines;
Our swift ordinances on their way over the whole      earth;
The blossoms we wear in our hats the growth of thous-     ands of years.
249  Eleves, I salute you! come forward!
Continue your annotations, continue your question-     ings.

250   The friendly and flowing savage, Who is he?
Is he waiting for civilization, or past it and master-     ing it?
251  Is he some south-westerner, rais'd out-doors? Is      he Kanadian?
Is he from the Mississippi country? Iowa, Oregon,      California? the mountains? prairie-life, bush-     life? or from the sea?
252  Wherever he goes, men and women accept and de-     sire him;
They desire he should like them, touch them, speak to      them, stay with them.
253  Behavior lawless as snow-flakes, words simple as      grass, uncomb'd head, laughter, and naiveté,
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.

254   Flaunt of the sunshine, I need not your bask, — lie      over!
You light surface only — I force surfaces and depths      also.
255   Earth! you seem to look for something at my hands;
Say, old Top-knot! what do you want?
256  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 that pining I have — that pulse of my      nights and days.
257  Behold! I do not give lectures or a little charity;
What I give, I give out of myself.
258  You there, impotent, loose in the knees!
Open your scarf'd chops till I blow grit within you;
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 anything I have I bestow.
259  I do not ask who you are — that is not so important      to me;
You can do nothing, and be nothing, but what I will      infold you.
260  To cotton-field drudge or cleaner of privies I lean;
On his right cheek I put the family kiss,
And deep in my soul I swear, I never will deny him.
261  On women fit for conception I start bigger and nim-     bler babes;
This day I am jetting the stuff of far more arrogant      republics.
262  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.
263   I seize the descending man, and raise him with re-     sistless will.
264  O despairer, here is my neck;
By God! you shall not go down! Hang your whole      weight upon me.
265  I dilate you with tremendous breath — I buoy you      up;
Every room of the house do I fill with an arm'd force,
Lovers of me, bafflers of graves.
266  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.

267   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.
268  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?
269  Magnifying and applying come I,
Outbidding at the start the old cautious hucksters,
Taking myself the exact dimensions of Jehovah,
Lithographing Kronos, Zeus his son, and 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      days;
They bore mites, as for unfledg'd birds, who have now      to rise and fly and sing for themselves;
Accepting the rough deific sketches to fill out better      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 roll'd 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;
Lads ahold of fire-engines and hook-and-ladder ropes      no less to me than the Gods of the antique wars;
Minding their voices peal through the crash of de-     struction,
Their brawny limbs passing safe over charr'd 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 bagg'd out at their      waists;
The snag-tooth'd hostler with red hair redeeming sins      past and to come,
Selling all he possesses, traveling on foot to fee law-     yers 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 worship'd half enough;
Dung and dirt more admirable than was dream'd;
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 prodigious:
By my life-lumps! becoming already a creator;
Putting myself here and now to the ambush't womb      of the shadows.

270   A call in the midst of the crowd;
My own voice, orotund, sweeping, and final.
271  Come my children;
Come my boys and girls, my women, household, and      intimates;
Now the performer launches his nerve — he has pass'd      his prelude on the reeds within.
272  Easily written, loose-finger'd chords! I feel the      thrum of your climax and close.
273  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.
274  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 thorn'd      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;
Ever love — ever the sobbing liquid of life;
Ever the bandage under the chin — ever the tressels of      death.
275   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 continually      claiming.
276  This is the city, and I am one of the citizens;
Whatever interests the rest interests me — politics,      markets, newspapers, schools,
Benevolent societies, improvements, banks, tariffs,      steamships, factories, stocks, stores, real estate,      and personal estate.
277  The little plentiful mannikins, skipping around in      collars and tail'd coats,
I am aware who they are — (they are actually not worms      or fleas.)
278  I acknowledge the duplicates of myself — the weakest      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.
279  I know perfectly well my own egotism;
I know my omnivorous lines, and cannot write any less;
And would fetch you, whoever you are, flush with my-     self.
280  No words of routine are mine,
But abruptly to question, to leap beyond, yet nearer      bring:
This printed and bound book — but the printer, and the      printing-office boy?
The well-taken photographs — but your wife or friend      close and solid in your arms?
The black ship mail'd with iron, her mighty guns in      her turrets — but the pluck of the captain and      engineers?
In the houses, 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 yourself?
Sermons, creeds, theology — but the fathomless human      brain,
And what is reason? and what is love? and what is life?

281   I do not despise you, priests;
My faith is the greatest of faiths, and the least of      faiths,
Enclosing 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, powwowing      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 proces-     sion — rapt and austere in the woods, a gymno-     sophist,
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 cruci-     fied, knowing assuredly that he is divine,
To the mass kneeling, or the puritan's prayer rising,      or sitting patiently in a pew,
Ranting and frothing in my insane crisis, or waiting      dead-like till my spirit arouses me,
Looking forth on pavement and land, or outside of      pavement and land,
Belonging to the winders of the circuit of circuits.
282  One of that centripetal and centrifugal gang, I turn      and talk like a man leaving charges before a      journey.
283  Down-hearted doubters, dull and excluded,
Frivolous, sullen, moping, angry, affected, disheart-     en'd, atheistical;
I know every one of you — I know the sea of torment,      despair and unbelief.
284  How the flukes splash!
How they contort, rapid as lightning, with spasms,      and spouts of blood!
285  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,
And what is yet untried and afterward is for you, me,      all, precisely the same.
286  I do not know what is untried and afterward;
But I know it will in its turn prove sufficient, and can-     not fail.
287  Each who passes is consider'd — each who stops is      consider'd — not a single one can it fail.
288   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 peep'd 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, turbercled by rum and the      bad disorder,
Nor the numberless slaughter'd and wreck'd — nor the      brutish koboo call'd the ordure of humanity,
Nor the sacs merely floating with open mouths for      food to slip in,
Nor anything in the earth, or down in the oldest      graves of the earth,
Nor anything 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.

289  It is time to explain myself — Let us stand up.
290  What is known I strip away;
I launch all men and women forward with me into      THE UNKNOWN.
291  The clock indicates the moment — but what does      eternity indicate?
292  We have thus far exhausted trillions of winters and      summers;
There are trillions ahead, and trillions ahead of them.
293  Births have brought us richness and variety,
And other births will bring us richness and variety.
294   I do not call one greater and one smaller;
That which fills its period and place is equal to any.
295  Were mankind murderous or jealous upon you, my      brother, my sister?
I am sorry for you — they are not murderous or jeal-     ous upon me;
All has been gentle with me — I keep no account with      lamentation;
(What have I to do with lamentation?)
296  I am an acme of things accomplish'd, and I an      encloser of things to be.
297  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 travel'd, and still I mount and mount.
298  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 fetid      carbon.
299  Long I was hugg'd close — long and long.
300  Immense have been the preparations for me,
Faithful and friendly the arms that have help'd me.
301  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.
302   Before I was born out of my mother, generations      guided me;
My embryo has never been torpid — nothing could      overlay it.
303  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 months,      and deposited it with care.
304  All forces have been steadily employ'd to complete      and delight me;
Now on this spot I stand with my robust Soul.

305   O span of youth! Ever-push't elasticity!
O manhood, balanced, florid, and full.
306  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,
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.
307  Old age superbly rising! O welcome, ineffable grace      of dying days!
308  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.
309   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.
310  Wider and wider they spread, expanding, always      expanding,
Outward and outward, and forever outward.
311  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.
312  There is no stoppage, and never can be stoppage;
If I, you, and the worlds, and all beneath or upon      their surfaces, were this moment reduced back      to a pallid float, it would not avail in the long run;
We should surely bring up again where we now      stand,
And as surely go as much farther — and then farther      and farther.
313  A few quadrillions of eras, a few octillions of cubic      leagues, do not hazard the span, or make it      impatient;
They are but parts — anything is but a part.
314  See ever so far, there is limitless space outside of      that;
Count ever so much, there is limitless time around      that.
315  My rendezvous is appointed — it is certain;
The Lord will be there, and wait till I come, on perfect      terms;
(The great Camerado, the lover true for whom I pine,      will be there.)

316   I know I have the best of time and space, and was      never measured, and never will be measured.
317  I tramp a perpetual journey — (come listen all!)
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, or exchange;
But each man and each woman of you I lead upon a      knoll,
My left hand hooking you round the waist,
My right hand pointing to landscapes of continents,      and a plain public road.
318  Not I — not any one else, can travel that road for      you,
You must travel it for yourself.
319  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.
320  Shoulder your duds, dear son, and I will mine, and      let us hasten forth,
Wonderful cities and free nations we shall fetch as      we go.
321  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 service to      me;
For after we start, we never lie by again.
322   This day before dawn I ascended a hill, and look'd      at the crowded heaven,
And I said to my Spirit, When we become the enfolders      of those orbs, and the pleasure and knowledge of      everything in them, shall we be fill'd and satisfied      then?
And my Spirit said No, we but level that lift, to pass and      continue beyond.
323  You are also asking me questions, and I hear you;
I answer that I cannot answer — you must find out for      yourself.
324  Sit a while, dear son;
Here are biscuits to eat, and here is milk to drink;
But as soon as you sleep, and renew yourself in sweet      clothes, I kiss you with a good-bye kiss, and      open the gate for your egress hence.
325  Long enough have you dream'd 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.
326  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, and laughingly dash with your      hair.

327   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.
328   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 or      fear,
Fond of his sweetheart, relishing well his steak,
Unrequited love, or a slight, cutting him worse than      sharp steel 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 the beard, and faces pitted with      small-pox, over all latherers,
And those well tann'd to those that keep out of the sun.
329  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.
330  I do not say these things for a dollar, or to fill up      the time while I wait for a boat;
It is you talking just as much as myself — I act as the      tongue of you;
Tied in your mouth, in mine it begins to be loosen'd.
331  I swear I will never again mention love or death in-     side a house,
And I swear I will never translate myself at all, only      to him or her who privately stays with me in      the open air.
332  If you would understand me, go to the heights or      water-shore;
The nearest gnat is an explanation, and a drop or mo-     tion of waves a key;
The maul, the oar, the hand-saw, second my words.
333   No shutter'd room or school can commune with me,
But roughs and little children better than they.
334  The young mechanic is closest to me — he knows me      well;
The woodman, 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 fisher-     men and seamen, and love them.
335  The soldier camp'd, or upon the march, is mine;
On the night ere the pending battle, many seek me,      and I do not fail them;
On the solemn night (it may be their last,) those that      know me, seek me.
336  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.

337   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, drest in his shroud,
And I or you, pocketless of a dime, may purchase 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 wheel'd universe,
And I say to any man or woman, Let your soul stand      cool and composed before a million universes.
338  And I say 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.)
339  I hear and behold God in every object, yet under-     stand God not in the least,
Nor do I understand who there can be more wonder-     ful than myself.
340  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 drop't in the street — and every      one is sign'd by God's name,
And I leave them where they are, for I know that      wheresoe'er I go,
Others will punctually come forever and ever.

341   And as to you Death, and you bitter hug of mor-     tality, it is idle to try to alarm me.
342  To his work without flinching the accoucheur      comes;
I see the elder hand, pressing, receiving, supporting;
I recline by the sills of the exquisite flexible doors,
And mark the outlet, and mark the relief and escape.
343   And as to you, Corpse, I think you are good man-     nure — but that does not offend me;
I smell the white roses sweet-scented and growing,
I reach to the leafy lips — I reach to the polish't breasts      of melons.
344  And as to you Life, I reckon you are the leavings of      many deaths;
(No doubt I have died myself ten thousand times      before.)
345  I hear you whispering there, O stars of heaven;
O suns! O grass of graves! O perpetual transfers and      promotions!
If you do not say anything, how can I say anything.
346  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.
347  I ascend from the moon, I ascend from the night;
I perceive that the ghastly glimmer is noonday sun-     beams reflected;
And debouch to the steady and central from the off-     spring great or small.

348   There is that in me — I do not know what it is — but      I know it is in me.
349  Wrench't and sweaty — calm and cool then my body      becomes;
I sleep — I sleep long.
350  I do not know it — it is without name — it is a word      unsaid;
It is not in any dictionary, utterance, symbol.
351   Something it swings on more than the earth I swing      on;
To it the creation is the friend whose embracing awakes      me.
352  Perhaps I might tell more. Outlines! I plead for      my brothers and sisters.
353  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.
354  The past and present wilt — I have fill'd them, emp-     tied them,
And proceed to fill my next fold of the future.

355   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.
356  Do I contradict myself?
Very well, then, I contradict myself;
I am large — I contain multitudes.
357  I concentrate toward them that are nigh — I wait on      the door-slab.
358  Who has done his day's work? Who will soonest be      through with his supper?
Who wishes to walk with me?
359  Will you speak before I am gone? Will you prove      already too late?

360   The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me — he      complains of my gab and my loitering.
361   I too am not a bit tamed — I too am untranslatable;
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.
362  The last scud of day holds back for me;
It flings my likeness after the rest, and true as any, on      the shadow'd wilds;
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.
363  I depart as air — I shake my white Jocks at the run-     away sun;
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.
364  I bequeathe myself to the dirt, to grow from the      grass I love;
If you want me again, look for me under your boot-soles.
365  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.
366  Failing to fetch me at first, keep encouraged;
Missing me one place, search another;
I stop somewhere, waiting for you.