Leaves of Grass: First and Death-Bed Editions

by Walt Whitman

  the stanch California friendship, the sweet air, the graves one

  in passing meets solitary just aside the horse-path;

  Down in Texas the cotton-field, the negro-cabins, drivers driving

  mules or oxen before rude carts, cotton bales piled on banks

  and wharves;

  Encircling all, vast-darting up and wide, the American Soul, with

  equal hemispheres, one Love, one Dilation or Pride;

  In arriere the peace-talk with the Iroquois the aborigines, the

  calumet, the pipe of good-will, arbitration, and indorsement,

  The sachem blowing the smoke first toward the sun and then

  toward the earth,

  The drama of the scalp-dance enacted with painted faces and

  guttural exclamations,

  The setting out of the war-party, the long and stealthy march,

  The single file, the swinging hatchets, the surprise and slaughter

  of enemies;

  All the acts, scenes, ways, persons, attitudes of these States,

  reminiscences, institutions,

  All these States compact, every square mile of these States

  without excepting a particle;

  Me pleas’d, rambling in lanes and country fields, Paumanok’s

  fields,

  Observing the spiral flight of two little yellow butterflies shuffling

  between each other, ascending high in the air,

  The darting swallow, the destroyer of insects, the fall traveler

  southward but returning northward early in the spring,

  The country boy at the close of the day driving the herd of cows

  and shouting to them as they loiter to browse by the

  roadside,

  The city wharf, Boston, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Charleston, New

  Orleans, San Francisco,

  The departing ships when the sailors heave at the capstan;

  Evening—me in my room—the setting sun,

  The setting summer sun shining in my open window, showing the

  swarm of flies, suspended, balancing in the air in the centre of

  the room, darting athwart, up and down, casting swift shadows

  in specks on the opposite wall where the shine is;

  The athletic American matron speaking in public to crowds of

  listeners,

  Males, females, immigrants, combinations, the copiousness, the

  individuality of the States, each for itself—the money-makers,

  Factories, machinery, the mechanical forces, the windlass, lever,

  pulley, all certainties,

  The certainty of space, increase, freedom, futurity,

  In space the sporades, the scatter’d islands, the stars—on the firm

  earth, the lands, my lands,

  O lands! all so dear to me—what you are, (whatever it is,) I

  putting it at random in these songs, become a part of that,

  whatever it is,

  Southward there, I screaming, with wings slow flapping,

  with the myriads of gulls wintering along the coasts of

  Florida,

  Otherways there atwixt the banks of the Arkansaw, the Rio

  Grande, the Nueces, the Brazos, the Tombigbee, the Red

  River, the Saskatchawan or the Osage, I with the spring

  waters laughing and skipping and running,

  Northward, on the sands, on some shallow bay of Paumanok, I

  with parties of snowy herons wading in the wet to seek worms

  and aquatic plants,

  Retreating, triumphantly twittering, the king-bird, from piercing

  the crow with its bill, for amusement—and I triumphantly

  twittering,

  The migrating flock of wild geese alighting in autumn to refresh

  themselves, the body of the flock feed, the sentinels outside

  move around with erect heads watching, and are from time to

  time reliev’d by other sentinels—and I feeding and taking

  turns with the rest,

  In Kanadian forests the moose, large as an ox, corner’d by

  hunters, rising desperately on his hind feet, and plunging

  with his fore-feet, the hoofs as sharp as knives—and I,

  plunging at the hunters, corner’d and desperate,

  In the Mannahatta, streets, piers, shipping, store-houses, and the

  countless workmen working in the shops,

  And I too of the Mannahatta, singing thereof—and no less in

  myself than the whole of the Mannahatta in itself,

  Singing the song of These, my ever-united lands—my body no

  more inevitably united, part to part, and made out of a

  thousand diverse contributions one identity, any more than

  my lands are inevitably united and made ONE IDENTITY;

  Nativities, climates, the grass of the great pastoral Plains,

  Cities, labors, death, animals, products, war, good and evil—

  these me,

  These affording, in all their particulars, the old feuillage to me

  and to America, how can I do less than pass the clew of the

  union of them, to afford the like to you?

  Whoever you are! how can I but offer you divine leaves, that you

  also be eligible as I am?

  How can I but as here chanting, invite you for yourself to collect

  bouquets of the incomparable feuillage of these States?

  A SONG OF JOYS

  O to make the most jubilant song!

  Full of music—full of manhood, womanhood, infancy!

  Full of common employments—full of grain and trees.

  O for the voices of animals—O for the swiftness and balance of

  fishes!

  O for the dropping of raindrops in a song!

  O for the sunshine and motion of waves in a song!

  0 the joy of my spirit—it is uncaged—it darts like lightning!

  It is not enough to have this globe or a certain time,

  I will have thousands of globes and all time.

  O the engineer’s joys! to go with a locomotive!

  To hear the hiss of steam, the merry shriek, the steam-whistle, the

  laughing locomotive!

  To push with resistless way and speed off in the distance.

  O the gleesome saunter over fields and hillsides!

  The leaves and flowers of the commonest weeds, the moist fresh

  stillness of the woods,

  The exquisite smell of the earth at daybreak, and all through the

  forenoon.

  O the horseman’s and horsewoman’s joys!

  The saddle, the gallop, the pressure upon the seat, the cool

  gurgling by the ears and hair.

  O the fireman’s joys!

  I hear the alarm at dead of night,

  I hear bells, shouts! I pass the crowd, I run!

  The sight of the flames maddens me with pleasure.

  O the joy of the strong-brawn’d fighter, towering in the arena in perfect condition, conscious of power, thirsting to meet his opponent.

  O the joy of that vast elemental sympathy which only the human soul is capable of generating and emitting in steady and limitless floods.

  O the mother’s joys!

  The watching, the endurance, the precious love, the anguish, the

  patiently yielded life.

  O the joy of increase, growth, recuperation,

  The joy of soothing and pacifying, the joy of concord and

  harmony.

  O to go back to the place where I was born,

  To hear the birds sing once more,

  To ramble about the house and barn and over the fields once

  more,

  And through the orchard and along the old lanes once more.

  O to have been brought up on bays, lagoons, creeks, or along the

  coast,

  To con
tinue and be employ’d there all my life,

  The briny and damp smell, the shore, the salt weeds exposed at

  low water,

  The work of fishermen, the work of the eel-fisher and clam

  fisher;

  I come with my clam-rake and spade, I come with my eel-spear,

  Is the tide out? I join the group of clam-diggers on the flats,

  I laugh and work with them, I joke at my work like a mettlesome

  young man;

  In winter I take my eel-basket and eel-spear and travel out on foot

  on the ice—I have a small axe to cut holes in the ice,

  Behold me well-clothed going gayly or returning in the afternoon,

  my brood of tough boys accompanying me,

  My brood of grown and part-grown boys, who love to be with no

  one else so well as they love to be with me,

  By day to work with me, and by night to sleep with me.

  Another time in warm weather out in a boat, to lift the lobster-pots

  where they are sunk with heavy stones, (I know the buoys,)

  O the sweetness of the Fifth-month morning upon the water as I

  row just before sunrise toward the buoys,

  I pull the wicker pots up slantingly, the dark green lobsters are

  desperate with their claws as I take them out, I insert wooden

  pegs in the joints of their pincers,

  I go to all the places one after another, and then row back to the

  shore,

  There in a huge kettle of boiling water the lobsters shall be boil’d

  till their color becomes scarlet.

  Another time mackerel-taking,

  Voracious, mad for the hook, near the surface, they seem to fill

  the water for miles;

  Another time fishing for rock-fish in Chesapeake bay, I one of the

  brown-faced crew;

  Another time trailing for blue-fish off Paumanok, I stand with

  braced body,

  My left foot is on the gunwale, my right arm throws far out the

  coils of slender rope,

  In sight around me the quick veering and darting of fifty skiffs, my

  companions.

  O boating on the rivers,

  The voyage down the St. Lawrence, the superb scenery, the

  steamers,

  The ships sailing, the Thousand Islands, the occasional timber-

  raft and the raftsmen with long-reaching sweep-oars,

  The little huts on the rafts, and the stream of smoke when they

  cook supper at evening.

  (O something pernicious and dread!

  Something far away from a puny and pious life!

  Something unproved! something in a trance!

  Something escaped from the anchorage and driving free.)

  O to work in mines, or forging iron,

  Foundry casting, the foundry itself, the rude high roof, the ample

  and shadow’d space,

  The furnace, the hot liquid pour’d out and running.

  O to resume the joys of the soldier!

  To feel the presence of a brave commanding officer—to feel his

  sympathy!

  To behold his calmness—to be warm’d in the rays of his smile!

  To go to battle—to hear the bugles play and the drums beat!

  To hear the crash of artillery—to see the glittering of the bayonets

  and musket-barrels in the sun!

  To see men fall and die and not complain!

  To taste the savage taste of blood—to be so devilish!

  To gloat so over the wounds and deaths of the enemy.

  O the whaleman’s joys! O I cruise my old cruise again!

  I feel the ship’s motion under me, I feel the Atlantic breezes

  fanning me,

  I hear the cry again sent down from the mast head,

  There—she blows!

  Again I spring up the rigging to look with the rest—we descend,

  wild with excitement,

  I leap in the lower’d boat, we row toward our prey where he lies,

  We approach stealthy and silent, I see the mountainous mass,

  lethargic, basking,

  I see the harpooner standing up, I see the weapon dart from his

  vigorous arm;

  O swift again far out in the ocean the wounded whale, settling,

  running to windward, tows me,

  Again I see him rise to breathe, we row close again,

  I see a lance driven through his side, press’d deep, turn’d in the

  wound,

  Again we back off, I see him settle again, the life is leaving him fast,

  As he rises he spouts blood, I see him swim in circles narrower

  and narrower, swiftly cutting the water—I see him die,

  He gives one convulsive leap in the centre of the circle, and then

  falls flat and still in the bloody foam.

  O the old manhood of me, my noblest joy of all!

  My children and grand-children, my white hair and beard,

  My largeness, calmness, majesty, out of the long stretch of my life.

  O ripen’d joy of womanhood! O happiness at last!

  I am more than eighty years of age, I am the most venerable

  mother,

  How clear is my mind—how all people draw nigh to me!

  What attractions are these beyond any before? what bloom more

  than the bloom of youth?

  What beauty is this that descends upon me and rises out of me?

  O the orator’s joys!

  To inflate the chest, to roll the thunder of the voice out from the

  ribs and throat,

  To make the people rage, weep, hate, desire, with yourself,

  To lead America—to quell America with a great tongue.

  O the joy of my soul leaning pois’d on itself, receiving identity

  through materials and loving them, observing characters and

  absorbing them,

  My soul vibrated back to me from them, from sight, hearing,

  touch, reason, articulation, comparison, memory, and the like,

  The real life of my senses and flesh transcending my senses and

  flesh,

  My body done with materials, my sight done with my material

  eyes,

  Proved to me this day beyond cavil that it is not my material eyes

  which finally see,

  Nor my material body which finally loves, walks, laughs, shouts,

  embraces, procreates.

  O the farmer’s joys!

  Ohioan‘s, Illinoisian’s, Wisconsinese‘, Kanadian’s, Iowan‘s,

  Kansian’s, Missourian‘s, Oregonese’ joys!

  To rise at peep of day and pass forth nimbly to work,

  To plough land in the fall for winter-sown crops,

  To plough land in the spring for maize,

  To train orchards, to graft the trees, to gather apples in the fall.

  O to bathe in the swimming-bath, or in a good place along shore,

  To splash the water! to walk ankle-deep, or race naked along the

  shore.

  O to realize space!

  The plenteousness of all, that there are no bounds,

  To emerge and be of the sky, of the sun and moon and flying

  clouds, as one with them.

  O the joy of a manly self-hood!

  To be servile to none, to defer to none, not to any tyrant known or

  unknown,

  To walk with erect carriage, a step springy and elastic,

  To look with calm gaze or with a flashing eye,

  To speak with a full and sonorous voice out of a broad chest,

  To confront with your personality all the other personalities of the

  earth.

  Know‘st thou the excellent joys of youth?

  Joys of the dear companions and of the merry word and laughing

>   face?

  Joy of the glad light-beaming day, joy of the wide-breath’d

  games?

  Joy of sweet music, joy of the lighted ball-room and the

  dancers?

  Joy of the plenteous dinner, strong carouse and drinking?

  Yet O my soul supreme!

  Know‘st thou the joys of pensive thought?

  Joys of the free and lonesome heart, the tender, gloomy heart?

  Joys of the solitary walk, the spirit bow’d yet proud, the suffering

  and the struggle?

  The agonistic throes, the ecstasies, joys of the solemn musings day

  or night?

  Joys of the thought of Death, the great spheres Time and Space?

  Prophetic joys of better, loftier love’s ideals, the divine wife, the

  sweet, eternal, perfect comrade?

  Joys all thine own undying one, joys worthy thee O soul.

  O while I live to be the ruler of life, not a slave,

  To meet life as a powerful conqueror,

  No fumes, no ennui, no more complaints or scornful criticisms,

  To these proud laws of the air, the water and the ground, proving

  my interior soul impregnable,

  And nothing exterior shall ever take command of me.

  For not life’s joys alone I sing, repeating—the joy of death!

  The beautiful touch of Death, soothing and benumbing a few

  moments, for reasons,

  Myself discharging my excrementitious body to be burn‘d, or

  render’d to powder, or buried,

  My real body doubtless left to me for other spheres,

  My voided body nothing more to me, returning to the

  purifications, further offices, eternal uses of the earth.

  O to attract by more than attraction!

  How it is I know not—yet behold! the something which obeys

  none of the rest,

  It is offensive, never defensive—yet how magnetic it draws.

  O to struggle against great odds, to meet enemies undaunted!

  To be entirely alone with them, to find how much one can stand!

  To look strife, torture, prison, popular odium, face to face!

  To mount the scaffold, to advance to the muzzles of guns with

  perfect nonchalance!

  To be indeed a God!