University of Virginia Library

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.