By Walt Whitman (1819 - 1892)

After an Interval

(November 22, 1875, Midnight—Saturn and Mars in Conjunction)

AFTER an interval, reading, here in the midnight, With the great stars looking on—all the stars of Orion looking, And the silent Pleiades—and the duo looking of Saturn and ruddy Mars; Pondering, reading my own songs, after a long interval, (sorrow and death familiar now) Ere closing the book, what pride! what joy! to find them Standing so well the test of death and night, And the duo of Saturn and Mars!

A Sight in Camp in the Day-Break Gray and Dim

A SIGHT in camp in the daybreak gray and dim, As from my tent I emerge so early sleepless, As slow I walk in the cool fresh air the path near by the hospital tent, Three forms I see on stretchers lying, brought out there untended lying, Over each the blanket spread, ample brownish woolen blanket, Gray and heavy blanket, folding, covering all.   Curious I halt and silent stand, Then with light fingers I from the face of the nearest, the first, just lift the blanket; Who are you, elderly man so gaunt and grim, with well-grayed hair, and flesh all sunken about the eyes? Who are you, my dear comrade?   Then to the second I stepped—and who are you, my child and darling? Who are you, sweet boy with cheeks yet blooming?   Then to the third—a face nor child nor old, very calm, as of beautiful yellow-white ivory; Young man, I think I know you—I think this face is the face of the Christ himself, Dead and divine and brother of all, and here again he lies.

Beginners

HOW they are provided for upon the earth (appearing at intervals), How dear and dreadful they are to the earth, How they inure to themselves as much as to any, what a paradox appears their age, How people respond to them, yet know them not, How there is something relentless in their fate all times, How all times mischoose the objects of their adulation and reward, And how the same inexorable price must still be paid for the same great purchase.

Bivouac on a Mountain Side

I SEE before me now a travelling army halting, Below a fertile valley spread, with barns and the orchards of summer, Behind, the terraced sides of a mountain, abrupt, in places rising high, Broken, with rocks, with clinging cedars, with tall shapes dingily seen, The numerous camp-fires scattered near and far, some away up on the mountain, The shadowy forms of men and horses, looming, large-sized, flickering, And over all the sky—the sky! far, far out of reach, studded, breaking out, the eternal stars.

Cavalry Crossing a Ford

A LINE in long array where they wind betwixt green islands, They take a serpentine course, their arms flash in the sun,—hark to the musical clank, Behold the silvery river, in it the splashing horses loitering stop to drink, Behold the brown-faced men, each group, each person, a picture, the negligent rest on the saddles, Some emerge on the opposite bank, others are just entering the ford—while, Scarlet and blue and snowy white, The guidon flags flutter gayly in the wind.

Darest Thou Now O Soul

DAREST thou now, O soul, Walk out with me toward the unknown region, Where neither ground is for the feet nor any path to follow?   No map there, nor guide, Nor voice sounding, nor touch of human hand, Nor face with blooming flesh, nor lips, nor eyes, are in that land.   I know it not, O soul! Nor dost thou, all is a blank before us,— All waits undreamed of in that region, that inaccessible land.   Till when the tie is loosened, All but the ties eternal, Time and Space, Nor darkness, gravitation, sense, nor any bounds boundings us.   Then we burst forth, we float, In Time and Space, O soul! prepared for them, Equal, equipped at last, (O joy! O fruit of all!) them to fulfil, O soul!

From “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry”

AH, what can ever be more stately and admirable to me than mast-hemmed Manhattan? River and sunset and scallop-edged waves of flood-tide? The sea-gulls oscillating their bodies, the hay-boat in the twilight, and the belated lighter?   Flow on, river! flow with the flood-tide, and ebb with the ebb-tide! Frolic on, crested and scallop-edged waves! Gorgeous clouds of the sunset! drench with your splendor me, or the men and women generations after me! Cross from shore to shore, countless crowds of passengers! Stand up, tall masts of Mannahatta! Stand up, beautiful hills of Brooklyn! Throb, baffled and curious brain! throw out questions and answers! Suspend here and everywhere, eternal float of solution! Gaze, loving and thirsting eyes, in the house or street or public assembly! Sound out, voices of young men! loudly and musically call me by my nighest name! Live, old life! play the part that looks back on the actor or actress! Play the old role, the role that is great or small according as one makes it! Consider, you who peruse me, whether I may not in unknown ways be looking upon you; Be firm, rail over the river, to support those who lean idly, yet haste with the hasting current; Fly on, sea-birds! fly sideways, or wheel in large circles high in the air; Receive the summer sky, you water, and faithfully hold it till all downcast eyes have time to take it from you! Diverge, fine spokes of light, from the shape of my head, or any one’s head, in the sunlit water! Come on, ships from the lower bay! pass up or down, white-sailed schooners, sloops, lighters! Flaunt away, flags of all nations! be duly lowered at sunset! Burn high your fires, foundry chimneys! cast black shadows at nightfall! cast red and yellow light over the tops of the houses! Appearances, now or henceforth, indicate what you are, You necessary film, continue to envelop the soul, About my body for me, and your body for you, be hung our divinest aromas, Thrive, cities—bring your freight, bring your shows, ample and sufficient rivers, Expand, being than which none else is perhaps more spiritual, Keep your places, objects than which none else is more lasting.

From “The Song of Myself”

MYSELF 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 loaf and invite my soul, I lean and loaf at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.   My tongue, every atom of my blood, formed 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 awhile sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten, I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard, Nature without check with original energy.   LEAVES OF GRASS 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. I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven.   Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord, A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropped, Bearing the owner’s name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say Whose?   Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation.   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.   And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.   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, or from offspring taken soon out of their mothers’ laps, And here you are the mothers’ laps.   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.   O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues, And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing.   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.   What do you think has become of the young and old men? And what do you think has become of the women and children?   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 ceased the moment life appeared.   All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses, And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.   I know I am deathless, I know this orbit of mine cannot be swept by a carpenter’s compass, I know I shall not pass like a child’s carlacue cut with a burnt stick at night.   One world is away 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 cheerfulness I can wait.   My foothold is tenoned and mortised in granite, I laugh at what you call dissolution, And I know the amplitude of time.   HEROES 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 steamship, 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 chalked in large letters on a board, Be of good cheer, we will not desert you; How he followed with them and tacked with them three days and would not give it up, How he saved the drifting company at last, How the lank loose-gowned women looked when boated from the side of their prepared graves, How the silent old-faced infants, and the lifted sick, and the sharp-lipped unshaved men; All this I swallow, it tastes good, I like it well, it becomes mine, I am the man, I suffered, 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 mashed fireman with breast-bone 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 cleared 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, Painless after all I lie exhausted but not so unhappy, White and beautiful are the faces around me, the heads are bared of their firecaps, The kneeling crowd fades with the light of the torches.   Distant and dead resuscitate, They show as the dial or move as the hands of me, I am the clock myself.   I am an old artillerist, I tell of my fort’s bombardment, I am there again.   Again the long roll of the drummers, Again the attacking cannon, mortars, Again to my listening ears the cannon responsive.   I take part, I see and hear the whole, The cries, curses, roar, the plaudits for well-aimed shots, The ambulanza slowly passing trailing its red drip, Workmen searching after damages, making indispensable 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.   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.   Would you hear of an old-time sea-fight? Would you learn who won by the light of the moon and stars? List to the yarn, as my grandmother’s father the sailor told it to me.   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 lowered eve he came horribly raking us.   We closed with him, the yards entangled, the cannon touched, My captain lashed fast with his own hands.   We had received 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.   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 them a chance for themselves.   The transit to and from the magazine is now stopped by the sentinels, They see so many strange faces they do not know whom to trust.   Our frigate takes fire, The other asks if we demand quarter? If our colors are struck and the fighting done?   Now I laugh content for I hear the voice of my little captain, We have not struck, he composedly cries, we have just begun our part of the fighting.   Only three guns are in use, One is directed by the captain himself against the enemy’s mainmast, Two well served with grape and canister silence his musketry and clear his decks.   The tops alone second the fire of this little battery, especially the main-top, They hold out bravely during the whole of the action.   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.   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.   Toward twelve there in the beams of the moon they surrender to us.   INFINITY >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 travelled, and still I mount and mount.   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.   Long I was hugged close—long and long.   Immense have been the preparations for me, Faithful and friendly the arms that have helped me. 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.   Before I was born out of my mother generations guided me, My embryo has never been torpid, nothing could overlay it.   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 mouths and deposited it with care.   All forces have been steadily employed to complete and delight me, Now on this spot I stand with my robust soul.   Old age superbly rising! O welcome, in effable 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, And all I see multiplied as high as I can cipher edge but the rim of the farther systems.   Wider and wider they spread, expanding, always expanding, Outward and outward and forever outward. 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.   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, They are but parts, anything is but a part. See ever so far, there is limitless space outside of that, Count ever so much, there is limitless time around that.   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.

Give Me the Splendid Silent Sun

GIVE me the splendid silent sun with all his beams full-dazzling, Give me juicy autumnal fruit ripe and red from the orchard, Give me a field where the unmowed grass grows, Give me an arbor, give me the trellised grape, Give me fresh corn and wheat, give me serene-moving animals teaching content, Give me nights perfectly quiet as on high plateaus west of the Mississippi, and I looking up at the stars, Give me odorous at sunrise a garden of beautiful flowers where I can walk undisturbed, Give me for marriage a sweet-breathed woman of whom I should never tire, Give me a perfect child, give me, away aside from the noise of the world, a rural domestic life, Give me to warble spontaneous songs recluse by myself, for my own ears only, Give me solitude, give me Nature, give me again O Nature your primal sanities!   These demanding to have them, (tired with ceaseless excitement, and racked by the war-strife) These to procure incessantly asking, rising in cries from my heart, While yet incessantly asking still I adhere to my city, Day upon day and year upon year, O city, walking your streets, Where you hold me enchained a certain time refusing to give me up, Yet giving to make me glutted, enriched of soul, you give me forever faces; (O I see what I sought to escape, confronting, reversing my cries, I see my own soul trampling down what it asked for.)   Keep your splendid silent sun, Keep your woods, O Nature, and the quiet places by the woods, Keep your fields of clover and timothy, and your corn-fields and orchards, Keep the blossoming buckwheat fields where the Ninth-month bees hum; Give me faces and streets—give me these phantoms incessant and endless along the trottoirs! Give me interminable eyes—give me women—give me comrades and lovers by the thousand! Let me see new ones every day—let me hold new ones by the hand every day! Give me such shows—give me the streets of Manhattan! Give me Broadway, with the soldiers marching—give me the sound of the trumpets and drums! (The soldiers in companies or regiments—some starting away flushed and reckless, Some, their time up, returning with thinned ranks, young, yet very old, worn, marching, noticing nothing;) Give me the shores and wharves heavy-fringed with black ships! O such for me! O an intense life, full to repletion and varied! The life of the theatre, bar-room, huge hotel, for me! The saloon of the steamer! The crowded excursion for me! The torchlight procession! The dense brigade bound for the war, with high-piled military wagons following; People, endless, streaming, with strong voices, passions, pageants, Manhattan streets with their powerful throbs, with beating drums as now, The endless and noisy chorus, the rustle and clank of muskets (even the sight of the wounded), Manhattan crowds, with their turbulent musical chorus! Manhattan faces and eyes forever for me.

Mannahatta

I WAS asking for something specific and perfect for my city, Whereupon lo! upsprang the aboriginal name.   Now I see what there is in a name, a word, liquid, sane, unruly, musical, self-sufficient, I see that the word of my city is that word from of old, Because I see that word nested in nests of water-bays, superb, Rich, hemmed thick all around with sail ships and steam ships, an island sixteen miles long, solid-founded, Numberless crowded streets, high growths of iron, slender, strong, light, splendidly uprising toward clear skies, Tides swift and ample, well-loved by me, towards sundown, The flowing sea-currents, the little islands, larger adjoining islands, the heights, the villas, The countless masts, the white shore-steamers, the lighters, the ferry-boats, the black sea-steamers well-modelled, The down-town streets, the jobbers’ houses of business, the houses of business of the ship-merchants and money brokers, the river-streets, Immigrants arriving, fifteen or twenty thousand in a week, The carts hauling goods, the manly race of drivers of horses, the brown-faced sailors, The summer air, the bright sun shining, and the sailing clouds aloft, The winter snows, the sleigh-bells, the broken ice in the river, passing along up or down with the flood-tide or ebb-tide, The mechanics of the city, the masters, well-formed, beautiful-faced, looking you straight in the eyes, Trottoirs thronged, vehicles, Broadway, the women, the shops and shows, A million people—manners free and superb—open voices—hospitality—the most courageous and friendly young men, City of hurried and sparkling waters! city of spires and masts! City nested in bays! my city!

O Captain! My Captain!

O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;     But O heart! heart! heart!       O the bleeding drops of red,         Where on the deck my Captain lies,           Fallen cold and dead.   O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills, For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths—for you the shores acrowding, For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;     Here Captain! dear father!       This arm beneath your head!         It is some dream that on the deck           You’ve fallen cold and dead.   My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will, The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done, From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;     Exult O shores, and ring O bells!       But I, with mournful tread,         Walk the deck my Captain lies,           Fallen cold and dead.

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 wandered alone, bareheaded, barefoot, Down from the showered 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-aroused 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, Borne hither, ere all eludes me, hurriedly, A man, yet by these tears a little boy again, Throwing myself on the sand, confronting the waves, I, chanter of pains and joys, uniter of here and hereafter, Taking all hints to use them, but swiftly leaping beyond them, A reminiscence sing.   Once Paumanok, When the lilac-scent was in the air and Fifth-month grass was growing, Up this seashore in some briers, Two feathered guests from Alabama, two together, And their nest, and four light-green eggs spotted with brown, And every day the he-bird to and fro near at hand, And every day the she-bird crouched on her nest, silent, with bright eyes, And every day I, a curious boy, never too close, never disturbing them, Cautiously peering, absorbing, translating.   Shine! shine! shine! Pour down your warmth, great sun! While we bask, we two together.   Two together! Winds blow south, or winds blow north, Day come white, or night come black, Home, or rivers and mountains from home, Singing all time, minding no time, While we two keep together.   Till of a sudden, Maybe killed, unknown to her mate, One forenoon the she-bird crouched not on the nest, Nor returned that afternoon, nor the next, Nor ever appeared again. And thenceforward all summer in the sound of the sea, And at night under the full of the moon in calmer weather, Over the hoarse surging of the sea, Or flitting from brier to brier by day, I saw, I heard at intervals the remaining one, the he-bird, The solitary guest from Alabama.   Blow! blow! blow! Blow up sea-winds along Paumanok’s shore; I wait and I wait till you blow my mate to me.   Yes, when the stars glistened, All night long on the prong of a moss-scalloped stake, Down almost amid the slapping waves, Sat the lone singer wonderful causing tears.   He called on his mate, He poured forth the meanings which I of all men know.   Yes, my brother, I know,— The rest might not, but I have treasured every note, For more than once dimly down to the beach gliding, Silent, avoiding the moonbeams, blending myself with the shadows, Recalling now the obscure shapes, the echoes, the sounds and sights after their sorts, The white arms out in the breakers tirelessly tossing, I, with bare feet, a child, the wind wafting my hair, Listened long and long.   Listened to keep, to sing, now translating the notes, Following you, my brother.   Soothe! soothe! soothe! Close on its wave soothes the wave behind, And again another behind embracing and lapping, every one close, But my love soothes not me, not me.   Low hangs the moon, it rose late, It is lagging—O I think it is heavy with love, with love.   O madly the sea pushes upon the land, With love, with love.   O night! do I not see my love fluttering out among the breakers? What is that little black thing I see there in the white?   Loud! loud! loud! Loud I call to you, my love!   High and clear I shoot my voice over the waves, Surely you must know who is here, is here, You must know who I am, my love.   Low-hanging moon! What is that dusky spot in your brown yellow? O it is the shape, the shape of my mate! O moon, do not keep her from me any longer.   Land! land! O land! Whichever way I turn, O, I think you could give me my mate back again if you only would, For I am almost sure I see her dimly whichever way I look.   O rising stars! Perhaps the one I want so much will rise, will rise with some of you.   O throat! O trembling throat! Sound clearer through the atmosphere! Pierce the woods, the earth, Somewhere listening to catch you must be the one I want.   Shake out carols! Solitary here, the night’s carols! Carols of lonesome love! death’ carols! Carols under that lagging, yellow, waning moon! O under that moon where she droops almost down into the sea! O reckless despairing carols!   But soft! sink low! Soft! let me just murmur, And do you wait a moment, you husky-noised sea, For somewhere I believe I heard my mate responding to me, So faint, I must be still, be still to listen, But not altogether still, for then she might not come immediately to me.   Hither, my love! Here I am! here! With this just-sustained note I announce myself to you, This gentle call is for you my love, for you.   Do not be decoyed elsewhere: That is the whistle of the wind, it is not my voice, That is the fluttering, the fluttering of the spray, Those are the shadows of leaves.   O darkness! O in vain! O I am very sick and sorrowful.   O brown halo in the sky near the moon, drooping upon the sea! O troubled reflection in the sea! O throat! O throbbing heart! And I singing uselessly, uselessly all the night.   O past! O happy life! O songs of joy! In the air, in the woods, over fields, Loved! loved! loved! loved! loved! But my mate no more, no more with me! We two together no more.   The aria sinking, All else continuing, the stars shining, The winds blowing, the notes of the bird continuous echoing, With angry moans the fierce old mother incessantly moaning, On the sands of Paumanok’s shore gray and rustling, The yellow half-moon enlarged, sagging down, drooping, the face of the sea almost touching, The boy ecstatic, with his bare feet the waves, with his hair the atmosphere dallying, The love in the heart long pent, now loose, now at last tumultuously bursting, The aria’s meaning, the ears, the soul, swiftly depositing, The strange tears down the cheeks coursing, The colloquy there, the trio, each uttering, The undertone, the savage old mother incessantly crying, To the boy’s soul’s questions sullenly timing, some drown’d secret hissing, To the outsetting bard.   Demon or bird! (said the boy’s soul) Is it indeed toward you mate you sing? or is it really to me? For I, that was a child, my tongue’s use sleeping, now I have heard you, Now in a moment I know what I am for, I awake, And already a thousand singers, a thousand songs, clearer, louder and more sorrowful than yours, A thousand warbling echoes have started to life within me, never to die.   O you singers solitary, singing by yourself, projecting me, O solitary me listening, never more shall I cease perpetuating you, Never more shall I escape, never more the reverberations, Never more the cries of unsatisfied love be absent from me, Never again leave me to be the peaceful child I was before what there in the night, By the sea under the yellow and sagging moon, The messenger there aroused, the fire, the sweet hell within, The unknown want, the destiny of me.   O give me the clew! (it lurks in the night here somewhere) O if I am to have so much, let me have more!   A word then, (for I will conquer it) The word final, superior to all, Subtle, sent up—what is it?—I listen; Are you whispering it, and have been all the time, you sea-waves? Is that it from your liquid rims and wet sands?   Whereto answering, the sea, Delaying not, hurrying not, Whispered me through the night, and very plainly before daybreak, Lisped to me the low and delicious word death, And again death, death, death, death, Hissing melodious, neither like the bird nor like my aroused child’s heart, But edging near as privately for me, rustling at my feet, Creeping thence steadily up to my ears and laving me softly all over, Death, death, death, death, death.   Which I do not forget, But fuse the song of my dusky demon and brother, That he sang to me in the moonlight on Paumanok’s gray beach, With the thousand responsive songs at random, My own songs awaked from that hour, And with them the key, the word up from the waves, The word of the sweetest song and all songs, That strong and delicious word which, creeping to my feet, (Or like some old crone rocking the cradle, swathed in sweet garments, bending aside) The sea whispered me.

Still Though the One I Sing

STILL though the one I sing, (One, yet of contradictions made) I dedicate to Nationality, I leave in him revolt, (O latent right of insurrection! O quenchless, indispensable fire!)

The Dalliance of the Eagles

SKIRTING the river road (my forenoon walk, my rest), Skyward in air a sudden muffled sound, the dalliance of the eagles, The rushing amorous contact high in space together, The clinching interlocking claws, a living, fierce, gyrating wheel, Four beating wings, two beaks, a swirling mass tight grappling, In tumbling turning clustering loops, straight downward falling, Till o’er the river poised, the twain yet one, a moment’s lull, A motionless still balance in the air, then parting, talons loosing, Upward again on slow-firm pinions slanting, their separate diverse flight, She hers, he his, pursuing.

To the Man-of-War-Bird

THOU who hast slept all night upon the storm, Walking renewed on thy prodigious pinions, (Burst the wild storm? above it thou ascendedst, And rested on the sky, thy slave that cradled thee) Now a blue point, far, far in heaven floating, As to the light emerging here on deck I watch thee, (Myself a speck, a point on the world’s floating vast.)   Far, far at sea, After the night’s fierce drifts have strewn the shore with wrecks, With re-appearing day as now so happy and serene, The rosy and elastic dawn, the flashing sun, The limpid spread of air cerulean, Thou also re-appearest.   Thou born to match the gale, (thou art all wings) To cope with heaven and earth and sea and hurricane, Thou ship of air that never furl’st thy sails, Days, even weeks untired and onward, through spaces, realms gyrating, At dusk that look’st on Senegal, at morn America, That sport’st amid the lightning-flash and thunder-cloud, In them, in thy experiences, hadst thou my soul, What joys! what joys were thine!

BACK | TOC | FORWARD