WALT WHITMAN [The selections from Whitman are reprinted from the copyrighted 1891 edition of his poems, with the permission of his literary executors, Messrs. H. L. Traubel and T. B. Harned, and of his publisher, Mitchell Kennerley] FROM SONG OF MYSELF I I celebrate myself, and sing myself, And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you. I loafe and invite my soul; I lean and loafe at my ease, observing a spear of summer grass. My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air, Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same, I, now thirty-seven years old, in perfect health begin, Hoping to cease not till death. Creeds and schools in abeyance, Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are but never forgotten, I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard, 21 I am the poet of the Body and I am the poet of the Soul. 5 IO The pleasures of heaven are with me and the pains of hell are with me; 15 The first I graft and increase upon myself, the latter I translate into a new tongue. 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. I chant the chant of dilation or pride, We have had ducking and deprecating about enough, I show that size is only development. Have you outstript the rest? are you the President? 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; 20 25 I call to the earth and sea half-held by the night. Press close, bare-bosom'd night-press close, magnetic nourishing night. Night of south winds-night of the large few stars! Still, nodding night-mad naked summer night! Earth of the slumbering and liquid trees! Earth of departed sunset-earth of the mountains misty-topt! 30 Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon just tinged with blue! Earth of the limpid gray of clouds brighter and clearer for my sake! 35 Smile, for your lover comes. Prodigal, you have given me love-therefore I to you give love! 32 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. They do not sweat and whine about their condition, 40 They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins, Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of owning things, 45 Not one kneels to another nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago, Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth. 33 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 an 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 three days and would not give it up, How he saved the drifting company at last, 50 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 sharplipp'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. Agonies are one of my changes of garments; I do not ask the wounded person how he feels, I myself become the wounded person, My hurts turn livid upon me as I lean on a cane and observe. I am the mash'd fireman with breast-bone broken, 55 60 Heat and smoke I inspired, I heard the yelling shouts of my comrades, 65 They have clear'd the beams away, they tenderly lift me forth. I lie in the night air in my red shirt, the pervading hush is for my sake; 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. 45 Old age superbly rising! O welcome, ineffable grace of dying days! Every condition promulges not only itself, it promulges what grows after and out of itself, And the dark hush promulges as much as any. I open my scuttle at night and see the far-sprinkled systems; of the farther systems. 70 And all I see, multiplied as high as I can cipher, edge but the rim 75 Wider and wider they spread, expanding, always expanding, My sun has his sun and round him obediently wheels, And greater sets follow, making specks of the greatest inside them. 80 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 surely go as much farther, and then farther and farther. A few quadrillions of eras, a few octillions of cubic leagues, do not hazard the span or make it impatient; 85 They are but parts, any thing is but a part. See ever so far, there is limitless space outside of that; My rendezvous is appointed, it is certain; The Lord will be there and wait till I come, on perfect terms; 90 46 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 every thing 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. The old face of the mother of many children; Whist! I am fully content. Lull'd and late is the smoke of the First-day morning, It hangs low over the rows of trees by the fences, It hangs thin by the sassafras and wild-cherry and cat- I saw the rich ladies in full dress at the soiree; I heard what the singers were singing so long, Heard who sprang in crimson youth from the white froth and the water-blus. 5 Behold a woman! She looks out from her quaker cap, her face is clearer and more beautiful than the sky. She sits in an armchair under the shaded porch of the The sun just shines on her old white head. Her ample gown is of cream-hued linen; Her grandsons raised the flax, and her grand-daughters spun it with the distaff and the wheel. The melodious character of the earth, The finish beyond which philosophy cannot go and does not wish to go, The justified mother of men. 1855. OUT OF THE CRADLE ENDLESSLY ROCKING Out of the cradle endlessly rocking, Out of the mocking-bird's throat, the musical shuttle, Out of the Ninth-month midnight, Over the sterile sands and the fields beyond, where the child, leaving his bed, wander'd alone, bareheaded, barefoot, Down from the shower'd halo, Up from the mystic play of shadows twining and twisting as if they were alive, Out from the patches of briers and blackberries, From the memories of the bird that chanted to me, From your memories, sad brother, from the fitful risings and fallings I heard, From under that yellow half-moon late-risen and swollen as if with tears, From those beginning notes of yearning and love there in the mist, From the thousand responses of my heart never to cease, From the myriad thence-arous'd words, From the word stronger and more delicious than any, From such as now they start, the scene revisiting, As a flock, twittering, rising, or overhead passing, A man, yet by these tears a little boy again, Throwing myself on the sand, confronting the waves, 10 15 IC 15 |