Klikk for å sende inn dikt til DayPoems, kommentere DayPoems eller et dikt innen, kommentere andre poesi-nettsteder, oppdatere koblinger, eller bare ta kontakt. DayPoems Forum. Prosjekt Gutenberg. en stor samling av bøker som tekst, produsert som et frivillig foretak som startet i 1990. Dette er kilden til den første poesien som er plassert på DayPoems. Tina Blues Beginners Guide to Prosody. akkurat hva tittelen sier, og vel verdt å lese. Epicanthic Fold. Hvis en fyr et sted i Asia lager en blogg og ingen leser det, eksisterer det virkelig popomo. miniatyr, minimalistiske inspirerte skulpturer laget av industriell cereamics, et kunstprosjekt ved Lewis og Clark College i Portland, Oregon. pink. popomo. Flere prosjekter fra Portland Oarena. Furby, Eliza, MrFriss og MissFriss. Lagre punkt 0.8.1. en Portland, Oregon, utstilling, august 13-september. 5, 2004, på Disjecta. Sang av meg selv Ved Walt Whitman feirer jeg meg selv og synger meg selv, og det jeg antar, skal du anta, for hvert atom som tilhører meg som godt tilhører deg. Jeg loafe og invitere min sjel, jeg lene og tåle med min letthet å observere et spyd av sommergress. Tungen min, hvert atom av blodet mitt, formd fra denne jorden, denne luften, født her av foreldre som er født her fra foreldre det samme, og deres foreldre det samme, begynner jeg nå tretti og syv år i perfekt helse, og håper å slutte ikke til døden. Creeds og skoler i abeyance, Retiring tilbake en stund nok til hva de er, men aldri glemt, jeg havner for godt eller dårlig, jeg tillater å snakke med hver fare, Natur uten sjekk med original energi. Hus og rom er fulle av parfymer, hyllene er overfylte med parfymer, jeg puster duftene selv og kjenner det og liker det. Destillasjonen vil også forgift meg, men jeg skal ikke slippe det. Atmosfæren er ikke parfyme, den har ingen smak av destillasjonen, den er luktfri. Det er for min munn for alltid, jeg er forelsket i det, jeg vil gå til banken ved skogen og bli ufattelig og naken, jeg er gal for det å være i kontakt med meg. Røyken av mitt eget åndedrag, Ekkoer, krusninger, buzzd hvisker, kjærlighetsrot, silketråd, grøft og vintre. Ånden min og inspirasjon, hjertets slag, blod og luft gjennom lungene mine, Sniffen av grønne blader og tørre blader, og av kysten og mørkoldehavet, og av høi i låven. Lyden av de røde ordene i stemmen min loosd til vindens eddier, Noen få lette kyss, noen få omfavner , en nå rundt armene, skuespillet og skyggen på trærne som de smarte grenene venter, glede alene eller i rush av gatene, eller langs feltene og bakkene, følelsen av helse, Noon trill, sangen av meg stiger fra sengen og møter solen. Har du regnet tusen hektar mye har du regnet jorden mye Har du praktisert så lenge å lære å lese Har du følt deg så stolt av å få til meningen med diktene Stopp denne dagen og natten med meg, og du skal eie opprinnelsen til alle diktene Du skal eie jordens og solens god (det er millioner av soler igjen). Du skal ikke lenger ta ting på andre eller tredje hånd, og heller ikke se gjennom de døde øyne eller matte på spøkene i bøker, Du skal heller ikke se gjennom øynene mine eller ta ting fra meg, du skal høre på alle sider og filtrere dem fra deg selv. Jeg har hørt hva snakkerne snakket om, begynnelsen og slutten, men jeg snakker ikke om begynnelsen eller slutten. Det var aldri mer opprinnelse enn det er nå, ikke lenger ungdom eller alder enn det er nå, og vil aldri bli mer fullkommenhet enn det er nå, heller ikke mer himmel eller helvete enn det er nå. Oppfordre og oppfordre og oppfordre, Alltid fremrykkende trang til verden. Ut av dimmen motsatt er lik forskyvning, alltid substans og økning, alltid sex, Alltid en strikke av identitet, alltid skille, alltid en livssammensetning. Å utarbeide er ingen nytte, learnd og unlearnd føler at det er slik. Sikkert som de mest sikre på, plumb i oppreistene, godt entretied, braced i bjelkene, Stout som en hest, kjærlig, hovmodig, elektrisk, jeg og dette mysteriet her står vi. Klart og søt er min sjel, og klart og søt er alt som ikke er min sjel. Manglende mangler begge, og det usynlige er bevist av det sett, til det blir usett og mottar bevis i sin tur. Å vise det beste og dele det fra den verste alderen, aldre, Å vite det perfekte treningsøktet og likeverdige ting, mens de diskuterer, er jeg stille og går og bader og beundrer meg selv. Velkommen er hvert organ og attribut av meg, og av enhver som er hjertelig og ren, ikke en tomme eller en partikkel av en tomme er svimmel, og ingen skal være mindre kjent enn resten. Jeg er fornøyd - Jeg ser, danser, ler, synger Som den kramme og kjærlige sengevennen sover ved min side gjennom natten, og trekker seg ut på dagen med en stygge slitebane. Leaving me kurver coverd med hvite håndklær hevelse hus med deres masse, skal jeg utsette min aksept og realisering og skrike i mine øyne, at de vender seg fra å stirre etter og nedover veien, og straks kryptere og vise meg til en cent, Nøyaktig verdien av en og nøyaktig verdien av to , og som er foran Trippere og spørgere omgiver meg, Folk jeg møter, effekten på meg av mitt tidlige liv eller menigheten og byen jeg bor i, eller nasjonen. De nyeste datoene, funn, oppfinnelser, samfunn, forfattere, gamle og nye Min middag, kjole, kollegaer, utseende, komplimenter, dues, Den ekte eller fancied likegyldigheten til noen mann eller kvinne jeg elsker, Sjel av en av mine folk eller meg selv, eller vondt eller tap eller mangel på penger, eller depressioner eller opphøyelser, kamper, fratricidalkrigets grus, feber av tvilsomme nyheter, de passerfulde hendelsene Disse kommer til meg dager og netter og går fra meg igjen, men de er ikke meg selv. Bortsett fra å trekke og hauling står det jeg er, Står moret, selvtilfreds, medfølende, tomgang, enhetlig, Sett ned, står oppreist eller bøyer en arm på en ubehagelig viss hvile. Ser med sidekrummet hode nysgjerrig på hva som kommer etterpå, Både inn og ut av spillet og ser og lurer på det. Bakover ser jeg på mine egne dager hvor jeg svettet gjennom tåke med lingvister og utfordrere, jeg har ingen mockings eller argumenter, jeg vitner og venter. Jeg tror på deg, min sjel, den andre jeg er, må ikke være avhengig av deg, og du må ikke bli avskåret til den andre. Loafe med meg på gresset, løs stoppet fra halsen, ikke ord, ikke musikk eller rim jeg vil ha, ikke egendefinert eller forelesning, ikke engang det beste, bare lull jeg liker, hummen av din valved stemme. Jeg husker hvor en gang vi lå en slik gjennomsiktig sommermorgon, hvordan du slo hodet ditt motvirker hoftene mine og forsiktig turnd over på meg, og skilt t-skjorten fra mitt brystben og dyttet tungen til mitt blotte strikt hjerte og nåde til du følte mitt skjegg, og nå fram til du holdt føttene mine. Oppsto raskt og spred rundt meg fred og kunnskap som passerer hele jordens argument, og jeg vet at Guds hånd er mitt eget løfte, og jeg vet at Guds ånd er min egen bror og at alle mennene som er født, er også mine brødre og kvinnene mine søstre og elskere, og at et kelson av skaperverket er kjærlighet, og uendelig er bladene stive eller hengende i markene og brune maur i de små brønnene under dem, Og mossy scabs av ormen gjerde, heapd steiner, eldre, mullein og poke-weed. Et barn sa Hva er gresset som henter det til meg med fulle hender Hvordan kan jeg svare på barnet Jeg vet ikke hva det er mer enn han. Jeg antar at det må være flagget av min disposisjon, ut av håpfulle grønne ting vevd. Eller jeg antar at det er lommetørkle fra Herren, en duftende gave og minnesmerke droppet designert, med eiers navn et sted i hjørnene, som vi kanskje ser og bemerker, og si hvem eller jeg antar at gresset selv er et barn, den produserte babe av vegetasjonen. Eller jeg antar at det er en ensartet hieroglyfisk, og det betyr at det sprer seg i brede soner og smale soner. Voksende blant svarte folk som blant hvite, Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Kongressleder, Mansjett, jeg gir dem det samme, jeg mottar dem det samme. Og nå ser det ut til meg det vakre, uutviklede håret av graver. Tendelig vil jeg bruke deg krøllete gress. Det kan være du opptrer fra unges bryster. Det kan være hvis jeg hadde kjent dem jeg ville ha elsket dem. Det kan være at du er fra gamle mennesker eller fra avkom tatt snart ut av deres mødre runder, og her er du morenes runder. Dette gresset er veldig mørkt for å være fra de hvite hodene til gamle mødre, mørkere enn de fargeløse skjeggene til gamle menn, mørke for å komme fra under de svake røde takene i munnen. Jeg oppfatter så mange utter tunger, og jeg oppfatter at de ikke kommer fra munntakene for ingenting. Jeg skulle ønske jeg kunne oversette hintene om de døde unge menn og kvinner, og hintene om gamle menn og mødre, og avkomene tatt snart ut av sine runder. Hva synes du har blitt av de unge og gamle mennene Og hva tror du har blitt av kvinner og barn De er i live og vel et sted, Den minste spire viser at det egentlig ikke er død, og hvis det var det, førte det frem livet , og venter ikke på slutten for å arrestere det, og opphører det øyeblikket livet ser ut. Alt går videre og utover, ingenting kollapser, og å dø er forskjellig fra hva noen antok, og heldigere. Har noen hatt det heldig å bli født? Jeg skynder meg å informere ham eller henne om at det er like heldig å dø, og jeg vet det. Jeg passerer døden med døden og fødselen med den nyvaskede babyen, og holder meg ikke mellom min hatt og støvler, og ser på mange ting, ingen to og hver og en god, Jorden god og stjernene gode og deres hjelpemidler alle flink. Jeg er ikke en jord eller jordens tilskudd, jeg er kompis og følgesvenn av mennesker, alle like like utødelige og fathomless som meg selv (De vet ikke hvor udødelig, men jeg vet.) Alle slags for seg selv og sin egen for meg min mann og kvinne, For meg de som har vært gutter og som elsker kvinner, For meg er mannen som er stolt og føler hvordan det stikker for å bli svakt. For meg er det søte hjerte og den gamle jomfruen for meg mødre og mødre til mødre, for meg lepper som har smilte, øyne som har slått tårer, for meg barn og barnets begertere. Undrape du er ikke skyldig mot meg, heller ikke foreldet eller bortkastet, jeg ser gjennom klut og gingham om eller nei, og er rundt, vedholdende, oppkjøp, utrettelig og kan ikke rystes bort. Den lille sover i sin vugge, jeg løfter gazeen og ser lang tid, og stryker stille med flyr med hånden. Ungdommen og den røde ansiktspiken vender seg opp i den buskede bakken, jeg ser dem fra toppen. Selvmordet sprawls på det blodige gulvet i soverommet, jeg vitner liket med det dabbled håret, jeg merker hvor pistolen har falt. Blokken av bølgen, dekkene på vognene, sløyfen på løvsåler, snakk om strandpromenadene, Den tunge omnibusen, sjåføren med sin avhørende tommelfingring, klossen av skurhestene på granittgulvet, Snøhuggene, klinkende, ropte vitser, skinn av snøballer, Hurrahs for populære favoritter, raseri av rossd mobs, Klapp av curtaind kull, en syke mann inne i bære på sykehuset, Fødselsmøte, plutselig ed, slag og høst Den spente publikum, politimannen med stjernen hans, arbeider raskt med sin passasje til sentrum av publikum, De ugjennomtrengelige steinene som mottar og returnerer så mange ekkoer, Hva stønner av overmattede eller halvstjerne som faller i solstråle eller passer, Hva utrop av kvinner tatt plutselig som skynder seg hjem og føder barn, hvilken levende og begravd tale er alltid vibrerende her, hva hyler restraind av decorum, Kriminelle arrestasjoner, slights, utrolige tilbud, aksepterer, avslag med konvekse lepper, jeg husker dem eller showet eller resonansen av dem - - Jeg kommer og jeg går. De store dørene til landslåden står åpen og klare. Det tørkede gresset i høsttiden laster langsomt vognen. Det klare lyset spiller på det brune grått og grønt intertinged. Armfullene er pakket til den sagende klippe. Jeg er der, jeg hjelper, jeg kom strøket på toppen av lasten, jeg følte sine myke skudd, ett ben tilbaketrukket på den andre, hopper jeg fra kryssbjelkene og griper kløver og timothy, og ruller hodet over hælene og skjærer meg hår full av wisps. Alene langt i villmarken og fjellene jeg jakter, Vanner forbløffet over min egen lyshet og glede. På sen ettermiddag velger du et trygt sted å passere natten, Kindling en brann og broiling det friske killd-spillet, sovner på samlingen forlater med min hund og pistol ved min side. Den Yankee Clipper er under hennes sky-seil, hun kutter gnisten og scud, Mine øyne bosette landet, jeg bøyer seg til henne eller roper glatt fra dekk. Båtmannene og muslingene oppstod tidlig og stoppet for meg, jeg tuckd mine trossersender i støvlene mine og gikk og hadde det bra. Du burde vært med oss den dagen rundt kyllingekannen. Jeg så trapperens ekteskap i friluft i langt vest, bruden var en rød jente. Hennes far og hans venner satt i nærheten av korsbøyd og dumt å røyke, de hadde mokasiner til føttene og store tykke tepper hengende fra deres skuldre, på en bank loundet trapper, han var mest i skinn, hans frodige skjegg og krøller beskyttet nakken, han holdt sin brud ved hånden. Hun hadde lange øyenvipper, hodet hennes var nakent, hennes grove rettlåser stammer ned på henne voluptuous lemmer og nå til føttene. Runaway slaven kom til huset mitt og stoppet utenfor, jeg hørte hans bevegelser knirke trepigens kvist. Gjennom svinget halvdøren av kjøkkenet så jeg ham limpsy og svak, og gikk der han satt på en tømmer og førte ham inn og forsikret ham og førte vann og fylte et kar for hans svette kropp og brune føtter, og ga ham et rom som gikk inn fra meg selv og ga ham grovt rene klær og husker helt godt hans svingende øyne og hans klossskap husk å sette piaster på halsen og anklerne. Han sto meg en uke før han ble rekuperert og gikk nordover, jeg hadde ham satt ved bordet mitt, min brannlås lå i hjørnet. Tjueåtte unge menn bade ved kysten, tjueåtte unge menn og alle så vennlige tjueåtte år med kvinnelig liv og alt så ensom. Hun eier det fine huset ved oppgangen av banken, hun skjuler kjekk og rik på baksiden av vinduets persienner. Hvilken av de unge mennene liker hun den beste Ah, den mest hyggelige av dem er vakker for henne. Hvor er du ute, dame for jeg ser deg, Du spruter i vannet der, men vær fortsatt værende i rommet ditt. Danse og ler langs stranden kom den niogtiende søsteren. Resten så henne ikke, men hun så dem og elsket dem. De unge mennene skjærer med våt, det løp fra deres lange hår, små strømmer passerte over hele kroppen. En usynlig hånd passerte også over sine kropper, det stammet skjelvende fra sine templer og ribber. De unge mennene flyter på ryggen, de hvite bellene bøyer seg til solen, de spør ikke hvem som griper seg raskt til dem. De vet ikke hvem som puster og avtar med anheng og bøyebue. De tenker ikke hvem de syr med spray. Slaktergutten slår av sine drapeklær, eller skar kniven sin til stallet i markedet, jeg liker å nyte hans repartee og hans shuffle og break-down. Smedere med grimmede og hårete kister omgir ambolten, hver har sin slede, de er alle ute, det er en stor varme i brannen. Fra tråkkestrømsgrensen følger jeg deres bevegelser. Den lette glansen av deres waists spiller selv med sine massive armer. Overhånden hammerne svinger, overhånd så langsomt, overhånd så sikker, de skynder seg ikke, hver mann treffer i sin plass. Negroen holder fast tøylene på de fire hestene, blokken svinger under på bundet overkjeden. Negroen som driver stavgårdenes lange drap, stødig og høy står han på et ben på strengen, Hans blå skjorte avslører hans store nakke og bryst og løsner seg over hip-bandet hans. Hans blikk er rolig og kommandant, han kaster hatten av hatten sin fra pannen. Solen faller på hans sprø hår og bart, faller på den svarte av sin polerte og perfekte lemmer. Jeg ser den pittoreske giganten og elsker ham, og jeg stopper ikke der, jeg går også med laget. I meg livets kjærester hvor det beveger seg, bakover og fremover, Til nisjer til side og juniorbukking, ikke en person eller gjenstand savner, Absorberer alt for meg selv og for denne sangen. Okser som skrammer oket og kjeder eller stopper i den grønne skyggen, hva er det du uttrykker i dine øyne? Det synes mer enn alt jeg har lest i mitt liv. Min slitasje skremmer tredraken og hakkene på den fjerne og dagen lange vandringen, de stiger sammen, de sirkler langsomt rundt. Jeg tror på disse vingeformålene, og anerkjenner rød, gul, hvit, spiller i meg, og anser grønn og fiolett og den tuftede kronen med hensikt, og ikke ring skildpadden uverdig fordi hun ikke er noe annet, og i skogen aldri studerte gammen, men triller ganske bra for meg, og utseendet på buktens mare skyller silliness ut av meg. Den vilde gander fører sin flokk gjennom den kule natten, sier han, og hør det ned til meg som en invitasjon. Pert kan anta det meningsløst, men jeg lytter nær, Finn sin hensikt og plasser der opp mot den frodige himmelen . Den skarpe hoveden av norden, katten på husstammen, chickadeen, prærihunden, søppelens søppel som de trakk på spenen hennes, Kalkunhønenes brød og hun med halvparten Spredte vinger ser jeg i dem og meg selv den samme gamle loven. Pressen på foten min til jorden sprer hundre kjærester, de finner det beste jeg kan gjøre for å forholde seg til dem. Jeg er enamourd av å vokse ut dører, av menn som lever blant storfe eller smak av havet eller skogen, av bygningsmenn og styremedlemmer av skip og svingere av økser og mauls, og driverne av hester, kan jeg spise og sove med dem uke inn og uke ut. Det som er vanligst, billigste, nærmeste, enkleste, er Meg, jeg går inn for sjansene mine, bruker meg for store avkastninger, Adorning meg selv til å gi meg det første som vil ta meg, Ikke be himmelen for å komme ned til min gode vilje, Sprer det fritt for alltid. Den rene kontinentet synger i orgelloftet, Tømreren kleber seg på planken, hans forplane taler sin villeste stigende lisp. De giftede og ugifte barna rir hjem til deres Thanksgiving-middag. Piloten griper kongegangen, han legger seg ned med en sterk arm, kompiseren står braced i hvalbåt, lanse og harpoon er klare, duck-shooteren går av stille og forsiktige strekninger, diakonene er ordaind med crossd hands på alteret, spinning-girl retreats og fremskritt til bølgen av det store hjulet, bonden stopper ved stolpene mens han går på en første dagsløve og ser på havre og rug, den lunatic blir endelig båret til asyl en bekreftet sak (han vil aldri sove mer som han gjorde i barnesenget i hans møders sengsrom) Jaktprinteren med grått hode og jaktekjær virker i hans tilfelle. Han vender av sin tobakk mens øynene blurrer med manuskriptet. De malformede lemmer er bundet til kirurgenbordet, Det som fjernes, faller grusomt i en pail. Quadr oon jente selges på auksjonsstativet, drunkard nikker ved bar-komfyren, maskinisten ruller opp ermene, politimannen reiser sin takt, portmesteren merker som passerer, den unge mannen driver expressvognen, (Jeg elsker ham, selv om jeg ikke kjenner ham). Halv-raske stropper på sine lette støvler for å konkurrere i løpet. Den vestlige kalkunskytingen tegner gammel og ung, noen lene seg på riflene, noen sitter på logger, Ut fra folkemengden trapper markøren, tar sin stilling, styrker hans stykke. Gruppene av nykommende innvandrere dekker kaien eller elvebredden. Som ullspadene i sukkervirksomheten ser tilsynelateren dem fra hans sal, The bugle calls in Ball-rommet, herrene løper for sine partnere, danserne bøyer seg til hverandre. Ungdommen ligger våken i cedertaggaret og henger på det musikalske regnet. The Wolverine setter feller på bekken som hjelper å fylle Huron, The squaw wrapt i hennes gule hemmd klut tilbyr mokcasiner og perle-poser til salgs, The connoisseur jevnaldrende langs utstillingsgalleriet med halve lukkede øyne bøyd sideveis, ettersom dekkhendene forteller båten, blir planken kastet for landets passasjerer. Den unge søsteren holder ut skinnen mens den eldste søsteren slår den av i en ball , og stopper nå og da for knutene. Den ettårige kone gjenoppretter og er glad for å ha født sitt første barn for en uke siden. Den rene frisyre Yankee-jenta jobber med symaskinen eller fabrikken eller fabrikken, The paving - mannen lener seg på hans tohånds rammer, fører journalistene raskt flytte over notatboken, skiltemesteren skriver med blå og gull, Kanalgutten stoler på slepebanen, bokholderen teller på sitt skrivebord, skomakeren vokser sin tråd, dirigenten slår tid for bandet og alle utøvende kunstnere følger ham, barnet blir døpt, konverteren gjør sine første yrker, regattaen er spredt på bukta, løpene er begynt, (hvordan den hvite seilene glitrer) Kjøreturen som ser på kjøringen synger ut til dem som ville gå bort, The ped ler svetter med sin pakke på ryggen hans, (kjøperen henger om den oddte prosenten) Bruden unrumples hennes hvite kjole, minuttets håndsklokke beveger seg sakte. Opium-eateren rekker seg med stivt hode og bare åpne øyne, The prostituert drar sitt sjal, hennes kjeftbobber på hennes spissete og pimplede hals, Mengden ler på sin svindel ed, mennene og blinker til hverandre, (Elendig, jeg ler ikke av ed eller deg) Presidenten holder et skap rådet er omgitt av de store sekretærene, på piazzaen går tre matrons ståtlig og vennlig med tvillede armer, besetningen av fiskesmekkpakken gjentatte lag av kveite i brønnen, missourian krysser slettene som tømmer sine varer og hans storfe, as Fargesamleren går gjennom toget han legger merke til ved jingling av løs forandring. Gulvmannene legger gulvet, tennene tiner taket, murmesterene ringer etter mørtel. I en enkeltfil som hver hylser sin hod passerer videre arbeidernes årstider Forfølgelse av hverandre er den ubeskrivelige mengden samlet, den er den fjerde av syvende måneden, (hvilke saluter av kanon og håndvåpen) Årstider forfølger hverandre de tyngre plogene, slåmaskinen slår og vinterkornet faller i bakken Av på innsjøene som gjeddefiskeren ser og venter ved hullet i den frosne overflaten, Stubben står tykk rundt ryddet, plassen slår dypt med øksen, Flatboatmen går fort mot skumring i nærheten av bomulls - eller pekantrærne, Coon - søkere går gjennom områdene i den røde elven eller gjennom de drenerte av Tennessee, eller gjennom Arkansas-fjellene, lyser fakkelen i mørket som henger på Chattahooche eller Altamahaw. Patriarene setter på kveld med sønner og barnebarn og barnebarn rundt dem, i Adobies vegger, i lerrettelter, hvilejegere og trappere etter deres dager sport, Byen sover og landet sover, Den levende søvn for sin tid, de døde sover for sin tid, Den gamle mannen sover ved sin kone og den yngre g mannen sover ved sin kone og disse tendensene er innadvendt for meg, og jeg har en tendens til å være utadvendt for dem, og som det er å være av disse, er jeg eller min, og jeg avveier selv sangen av meg selv. Jeg er gammel og ung, av de dumme så mye som de vise, Uansett andre, noensinne hensyn til andre, mor og far, et barn og en mann, Stuffd med ting som er grovt og stuffd med ting som er bra, en av nasjonene til mange nasjoner, den minste den samme og den største det samme, en sørger som en nordlig, en planter som er nonchalant og gjestfri ned av Oconee, bor jeg, en yankee bundet min egen vei klar for handel, leddene mine, de ledigste leddene på jorden og de strengeste leddene på jorden, En Kentuckian som går i Elkhorns vale i min hjortskinn leggings, en Louisianer eller Georgian, En båtmann over innsjøer eller bukter eller langs kysten, en Hoosier, Badger , Buckeye Hjemme på kanadiske snøsko eller opp i busken, eller med fiskere fra Newfoundland, Hjemme i isbåtflåten, seile med resten og takke, Hjemme på åsene i Vermont eller i skogen av Maine, eller Texan ranch, Comrade of California, kamerat av gratis nord-vestlige , (kjærligheten deres store proporsjoner) Kammerater av raftsmen og kullmenn, kamerat av alle som rister i hendene og velkommen til å drikke og kjøtt, En lærer med den enkleste, en lærer av de tankefylte, En nybegynner som begynner å oppleve mange årtusener, Of Hver nyanse og kaste er jeg av alle ranger og religion, En bonde, mekaniker, kunstner, gentleman, sjømann, quaker, fanger, fancy-man, bølle, advokat, lege, prest. Jeg motstår noe bedre enn mitt eget mangfold, puste luften, men la meg nok etter meg, og er ikke fast og er på meg. (Moten og fiskeggene er i deres plass, De lyse solene jeg ser og de mørke solene jeg ikke kan se er i deres plass, Den palpable er på plass og det er ufattelig på plass.) Dette er virkelig tankene av alle menn i alle aldre og lander, de er ikke originale med meg, hvis de ikke er dine så mye som mine, er de ingenting eller nesten ingenting. Hvis de ikke er gåten og løsningen av gåten, er de ingenting, Hvis de ikke er like nært som de er fjernt, er de ingenting. Dette er gresset som vokser hvor landet er og vannet er, Dette er den vanlige luften som bader verden. Med musikk sterk jeg kommer, med mine kornetter og trommer, spiller jeg ikke marsjer for bare anerkjente seiere, jeg spiller marsjer for erobrede og drepte personer. Har du hørt at det var godt å få den dagen jeg også sier at det er bra å falle, er kampene tapt i samme ånd som de blir vunnet. Jeg slår og pund for de døde, jeg blåser gjennom mine embouchures min høyeste og gayest for dem. Vivas til de som har sviktet Og til de som krigsskip sank i sjøen og til dem selv som sank i sjøen og til alle generaler som mistet engasjementer, og alle overvinne helter Og de tallrike ukendte heltene likte de største heltene kjent Dette er måltidet like satt, dette er kjøttet for naturlig sult, det er for de ugudelige akkurat det samme som de rettferdige, jeg gjør avtaler med alle, jeg vil ikke ha en enkelt person svakt eller forlatt, Den bevare kvinne, sponger, tyv , innkalles herved, Den tunge slaven er invitert, venerealeen er invitert. Det skal ikke være noen forskjell mellom dem og resten. Dette er pressen av en bashful hånd, dette svømmer og lukt av hår, Dette berøringen av mine lepper til deg, dette mumlet av lengsel, Dette den fjerne dybden og høyden reflekterer mitt eget ansikt, dette den tankefulle flette meg selv og stikkontakten igjen. Gjetter du at jeg har noe intrikat formål Vel, jeg har, for fjerde måneds dusjer har, og glimmer på siden av en stein har. Tar du det jeg ville forbauser Er daglyset forbauset, begynner tidlig redstart twittering gjennom skogen Forundrer jeg mer enn dem Denne timen forteller jeg ting i selvtillit, jeg kan ikke fortelle alle, men jeg vil fortelle deg. Hvem går der hankering, brutto, mystisk, nakne Hvordan er det jeg trekker ut styrke fra biffen jeg spiser Hva er en mann uansett hva er jeg hva er du Alt jeg markerer som min egen, skal du kompensere det med din egen, Ellers var det tid mistet å lytte til meg. Jeg sniker ikke den snivel verden over, de månedene er støvsuger og bakken, men fløte og skitt. Whimpering og trucking fold med pulver for invalids, samsvar går til fjerde fjernet, jeg har på meg lue når jeg vil innendørs eller ut. Hvorfor skal jeg be hvorfor skal jeg ærliggjøre og være seriøs Å ha primet gjennom lagene, analysert til et hår, råd med leger og beregnet i nærheten, finner jeg ikke søtere fett enn pinner til mine egne ben. I alle mennesker ser jeg meg selv, ingen mer og ikke en byg-mais mindre, og det gode eller det onde jeg sier om meg selv, sier jeg om dem. Jeg vet at jeg er solid og lyd, For meg strømmer de konvergerende gjenstandene i universet kontinuerlig, alle er skrevet til meg, og jeg må få det som skrivingen betyr. Jeg vet at jeg er dødløs, jeg vet at denne bane min ikke kan bli feid av et snekkerkompass, jeg vet at jeg ikke skal passere som et barns carlacue kutt med en brent pinne om natten. Jeg vet at jeg er august, jeg har ikke problemer med ånden min til å regne seg selv eller bli forstått, jeg ser at de grunnleggende lovene aldri unnskylder, (jeg regner med at jeg ikke oppfører seg som en forbruker enn det nivået jeg plantet huset mitt etter.) Jeg eksisterer som jeg er, det er nok, hvis ingen andre i verden er oppmerksomme, setter jeg innhold, og hvis alle og alle er oppmerksomme, setter jeg innhold. En verden er klar over og langt den største for meg, og det er meg selv, og om jeg kommer til min egen i dag eller i ti tusen eller ti millioner år, kan jeg med glede ta det nå, eller med like glede jeg kan vente . Mitt fotfeste er tenond og mortisd i granitt, jeg ler på det du kaller oppløsning, og jeg vet tidens amplitude. Jeg er digteren til kroppen, og jeg er sjelenes dikt. Himmelenes fornøyelser er med meg, og helvete er med meg, Den første jeg grafter og øker på meg selv, sistnevnte oversetter jeg til ny tungemengde. Jeg er damens dikter som mannen, og jeg sier det er like flott å være en kvinne som å være en mann, og jeg sier at det ikke er noe større enn menneskenes mor. Jeg chant chant of dilation eller stolthet, Vi har hatt ducking og deprecating om nok, jeg viser at størrelsen er bare utvikling. Har du outstrip resten er du presidenten Det er en liten stund, de vil mer enn ankomme der hver og en, og fortsett videre. Jeg er den som går med øm og voksende natt, jeg ringer til jorden og havet halvt om natten. Trykk på lukkbar natt - trykk på nært magnetisk nærende natt Søndagens natt - natt av de store få stjernene Fortsatt nikkende natt - galnakt sommerdag. Smil O voluptuous kjølig pustete jorden Jordens slumrende og flytende trær Jordens avgitte solnedgang - fjellets jord misty-topt Jorden av den glitrende helgen av fullmåne, bare tynn med blå skinn og mørk flammende tidevannet av den elven Jorden av det skarpe grått av skyer lysere og tydeligere for min skyld Langsomt albuejord - rik, epleblomstrende jord Smil, for din elsker kommer. Fortapt, du har gitt meg kjærlighet - derfor gir jeg deg kjærlighet O usynlig lidenskapelig kjærlighet. Du sjø, jeg trekker meg selv til deg også - Jeg antar det du mener, jeg ser fra stranden dine skarpe fingre, jeg tror du nekter å gå tilbake uten å føle meg. Vi må ha en sving sammen, jeg klipper, skynder meg ut av synet av landet, pute meg mykt, stein meg i tøff døsighet, dash meg med amorøs våt, jeg kan tilbakebetale deg. Sea of stretchd ground-swells, Sea pustende brede og konvulsive pusten, Livets saltlake og unshovelld, men alltid klare graver, Storm og skurke av stormer, lunefull og nydelig hav, jeg er integrert med deg, jeg er også med deg en fase og alle faser. Partaker of influx and efflux I, extoller of hate and conciliation, Extoller of amies and those that sleep in each others arms. I am he attesting sympathy, (Shall I make my list of things in the house and skip the house that supports them) I am not the poet of goodness only, I do not decline to be the poet of wickedness also. 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-finders or rejecters gait, I moisten the roots of all that has grown. Did you fear some scrofula out of the unflagging pregnancy Did you guess the celestial laws are yet to be workd over and rectified I find one side a balance and the antipedal side a balance, Soft doctrine as steady help as stable doctrine, Thoughts and deeds of the present our rouse and early start. This minute that comes to me over the past decillions, There is no better than it and now. What behaved well in the past or behaves well to-day is not such wonder, The wonder is always and always how there can be a mean man or an infidel. Endless unfolding of words of ages And mine a word of the modern, the word En-Masse. A word of the faith that never balks, Here or henceforward it is all the same to me, I accept Time absolutely. It alone is without flaw, it alone rounds and completes all, That mystic baffling wonder alone completes all. I accept Reality and dare not question it, Materialism first and last imbuing. Hurrah for positive science long live exact demonstration 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 unknown seas. This is the geologist, this works with the scalper, and this is a mathematician. Gentlemen, to you the first honors always Your facts are useful, and yet they are not my dwelling, I but enter by them to an area of my dwelling. 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. Walt Whitman, a kosmos, of Manhattan the son, Turbulent, fleshy, sensual, eating, drinking and breeding, No sentimentalist, no stander above men and women or apart from them, No more modest than immodest. Unscrew the locks from the doors Unscrew the doors themselves from their jambs Whoever degrades another degrades me, And whatever is done or said returns at last to me. Through me the afflatus surging and surging, through me the current and index. 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. Through me many long dumb voices, Voices of the interminable generations of prisoners and slaves, Voices of the diseasd 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 father-stuff, And of the rights of them the others are down upon, Of the deformd, trivial, flat, foolish, despised, Fog in the air, beetles rolling balls of dung. Through me forbidden voices, Voices of sexes and lusts, voices veild and I remove the veil, Voices indecent by me clarified and transfigurd. 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. I believe in the flesh and the appetites, Seeing, hearing, feeling, are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle. Divine am I inside and out, and I make holy whatever I touch or am touchd from, The scent of these arm-pits aroma finer than prayer, This head more than churches, bibles, and all the creeds. If I worship one thing more than another it shall be the spread of my own body, or any part of it, Translucent mould of me it shall be you Shaded ledges and rests it shall be you Firm masculine colter it shall be you Whatever goes to the tilth of me it shall be you You my rich blood your milky stream pale strippings of my life Breast that presses against other breasts it shall be you My brain it shall be your occult convolutions Root of washd sweet-flag timorous pond-snipe nest of guarded duplicate eggs it shall be you Mixd tussled hay of head, beard, brawn, it shall be you Trickling sap of maple, fibre of manly wheat, it shall be you 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, loving lounger in my winding paths, it shall be you Hands I have taken, face I have kissd, mortal I have ever touchd, i t shall be you. I dote on myself, there is that lot of me and all so luscious, Each moment and whatever happens thrills me with joy, 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. 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. To behold the day-break The little light fades the immense and diaphanous shadows, The air tastes good to my palate. Hefts of the moving world at innocent gambols silently rising freshly exuding, Scooting obliquely high and low. Something I cannot see puts upward libidinous prongs, Seas of bright juice suffuse heaven. The earth by the sky staid with, the daily close of their junction, The heavd challenge from the east that moment over my head, The mocking taunt, See then whether you shall be master Dazzling and tremendous how quick the sun-rise would kill me, If I could not now and always send sun-rise out of me. We also ascend dazzling and tremendous as the sun, We found our own O my soul in the calm and cool of the daybreak. My voice goes after what my eyes cannot reach, With the twirl of my tongue I encompass worlds and volumes of worlds. 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 dont you let it out then Come now I will not be tantalized, you conceive too much of articulation, 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 all things, Happiness, (which whoever hears me let him or her set out in search of this day.) 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 toward you. Writing and talk do not prove me, I carry the plenum of proof and every thing else in my face, With the hush of my lips I wholly confound the skeptic. Now I will do nothing but listen, To accrue what I hear into this song, to let sounds contribute toward it. 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 heaveeyo 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 colord lights, The steam-whistle, the solid roll of the train of approaching cars, The slow march playd at the head of the association marching two and two, (They go to guard some corpse, the flag-tops are draped with black muslin.) I h ear the violoncello, (tis the young mans hearts complaint,) I hear the keyd cornet, it glides quickly in through my ears, It shakes mad-sweet pangs through my belly and breast. I hear the chorus, it is a grand opera, Ah this indeed is music--this suits me. A tenor large and fresh as the creation fills me, The orbic flex of his mouth is pouring and filling me full. I hear the traind soprano (what work with hers is this) The orchestra whirls me wider than Uranus flies, It wrenches such ardors from me I did not know I possessd them, It sails me, I dab with bare feet, they are lickd by the indolent waves, I am cut by bitter and angry hail, I lose my breath, Steepd amid honeyd morphine, my windpipe throttled in fakes of death, At length let up again to feel the puzzle of puzzles, And that we call Being. 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 developd the quahaug in its callous shell were enough. 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. I merely stir, press, feel with my fingers, and am happy, To touch my person to some one elses is about as much as I can stand. 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. 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. 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. You villain touch what are you doing my breath is tight in its throat, Unclench your floodgates, you are too much for me. Blind loving wrestling touch, sheathd hooded sharp-toothd touch Did it make you ache so, leaving me Parting trackd by arriving, perpetual payment of perpetual loan, Rich showering rain, and recompense richer afterward. Sprouts take and accumulate, stand by the curb prolific and vital, Landscapes projected masculine, full-sized and golden. 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) Logic and sermons never convince, The damp of the night drives deeper into my soul. (Only what proves itself to every man and woman is so, Only what nobody denies is so.) 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 one and all shall delight us, and we them. 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-doeuvre 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 depressd head surpasses any statue, And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels. I find I incorporate gneiss, coal, long-threaded moss, fruits, grains, esculent roots, And am stuccod with quadrupeds and birds all over, And have distanced what is behind me for good reasons, But call any thing back again when I desire it. In vain the speeding or shyness, In vain the plutonic rocks send their old heat against my approach, In vain the mastodon retreats beneath its own powderd 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-billd auk sails far north to Labrador, I follow quickly, I ascend to the nest in the fissure of the cliff. I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and self-containd, I stand and look at them long and long. 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 unhappy over the whole earth. So they show their relations to me and I accept them, They bring me tokens of myself, they evince them plainly in their possession. 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 remembrancers, Picking out here one that I love, and now go with him on brotherly terms. 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 full of sparkling wickedness, ears finely cut, flexibly moving. His nostrils dilate as my heels embrace him, His well-built limbs tremble with pleasure as we race around and return. I but use you a minute, 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. Space and Time now I see it is true, what I guessd at, What I guessd when I loafd on the grass, What I guessd while I lay alone in my bed, And again as I walkd the beach under the paling stars of the morning. My ties and ballasts leave me, my elbows rest in sea-gaps, I skirt sierras, my palms cover continents, I am afoot with my vision. By the citys quadrangular houses--in log huts, camping with lumber-men, Along the ruts of the turnpike, along the dry gulch and rivulet bed, Weeding my onion-patch or hosing rows of carrots and parsnips, crossing savannas, trailing in forests, Prospecting, gold-digging, girdling the trees of a new purchase, Scorchd ankle-deep by the hot sand, hauling my boat down the shallow river, Where the panther walks to and fro on a limb overhead, 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 tall Over the growing sugar, over the yellow-flowerd cotton plant, over the rice in its low moist field, Over the sharp-peakd farm house, with its scallopd scum and slender shoots from the gutters, Over the western persimmon, over the long-leavd corn, o ver 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, holding 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 goldbug drops through the dark, 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-slab, where cobwebs fall in festoons from the rafters Where trip-hammers crash, where the press is whirling its cylinders, Wherever the human heart beats with terrible throes under its ribs, Where the pear-shaped balloon is floating aloft, (floating 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-burnd brig is riding on unknown currents, Where shells grow to her slimy deck, where the dead are corrupting below Where the dense-starrd 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 door-step, upon the horse-block 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-peel ings 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 hay-rick stands in the barn-yard, where the dry-stalks are scatterd, 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 limitless 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-neckd partridges roost in a ring on the ground with their heads out, Where bur ial coaches enter the archd gates of a cemetery, Where winter wolves bark amid wastes of snow and icicled trees, Where the yellow-crownd 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 conical firs, Through the gymnasium, through the curtaind saloon, through the office or public hall Pleasd with the native and pleasd with the foreign, pleasd with the new and old, Pleasd with the homely woman as well as the handsome, Pleasd with the quakeress as she puts off her bonnet and talks melodiously, Pleasd with the tune of the choir of the whitewashd church, Pleasd with the earnest words of the sweating Methodist preacher, impressd seriously at the camp-meeting Looking in at the shop-windows of Broadway the whole foreno on, flatting the flesh of my nose on the thick plate glass, Wandering the same afternoon with my face turnd up to the clouds, or down a lane or along the beach, My right and left arms round the sides of two friends, and I in the middle Coming home with the silent and dark-cheekd bush-boy, (behind me he rides at the drape of the day,) Far from the settlements studying the print of animals feet, or the moccasin print, By the cot in the hospital reaching lemonade to a feverish patient, Nigh the coffind 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 Judaea 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 diam eter of eighty thousand miles, Speeding with taild 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. I visit the orchards of spheres and look at the product, And look at quintillions ripend and look at quintillions green. I fly those flights of a fluid and swallowing soul, My course runs below the soundings of plummets. I help myself to material and immaterial, No guard can shut me off, no law prevent me. I anchor my ship for a little while only, My messengers continually cruise away or bring their returns to me. I go hunting polar furs and the seal, leaping chasms with a pike-pointed staff, clinging to topples of brittle and blue. I ascend to the foretruck, I take my place late at night in the crows-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 outposts of the encampment, we pass with still feet and caution, Or we are entering by the suburbs some vast and ruind city, The blocks and fallen architecture more than all the living cities of the globe. I am a free companion, I bivouac by invading watchfires, I turn the bridgroom out of bed and stay with the bride myself, I tighten her all night to my thighs and lips. My voice is the wifes voice, the screech by the rail of the stairs, They fetch my mans body up dripping and drownd. 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 chalkd in large letters on a board, Be of good cheer, we will not desert you How he followd with them and tackd with them three days and would not give it up, How he saved the drifting company at last, How the lank loose-gownd women lookd when boated from the side of their prepared graves, How the silent old-faced infants and the lifted sick, and the sharp-lippd unshaved men All this I swallow, it tastes good, I like it well, it becomes mine, I am the man, I sufferd, I was there. The disdain and calmness of martyrs, The mother of old, condemnd for a witch, burnt with dry wood, her children gazing on, The hounded slave that flags in the race, leans by the fence, blowing, coverd with sweat, The twinges that sting like needles his legs and neck, the murderous buckshot and the bullets, All these I feel or am. 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, thinnd 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. 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 mashd 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 cleard 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 fire-caps, 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 forts 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-aimd 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. 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 hundred and twelve young men. Retreating they had formd in a hollow square with their baggage for breastworks, Nine hundred lives out of the surrounding enemies, 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, receivd writing and seal, gave up their arms and marchd back prisoners of war. They were the glory of the race of rangers, Matchless with horse, rifle, song, supper, courtship, Large, turbulent, generous, handsome, proud, and affectionate, Bearded, sunburnt, drest in the free costume of hunters, Not a single one over thirty years of age. The second First-day morning they were brought out in squads and massacred, it was beautiful early summer, The work commenced about five oclock and was over by eight. None obeyd 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 maimd and mangled dug in the dirt, the new-comers saw them there, Some half-killd attempted to crawl away, These were despatchd with bayonets or batterd with the blunts of muskets, A youth not seventeen years old seizd his assassin till two more came to release him, The three were all torn and coverd with the boys blood. At eleven oclock began the burning of the bodies That is the tale of the murder of the four hundred and twelve young men. 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 grandmothers father the sailor told it to me. Our foe was no sulk 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 lowerd eve he came horribly raking us. We closed with him, the yards entangled, the cannon touchd, My captain lashd fast with his own hands. We had receivd 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 oclock 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 stopt 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 enemys main-mast, Two well servd 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 moments 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. Stretchd 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 conquerd, 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 servd in the cabin, The dead face of an old salt with long white hair and carefully curld whiskers, The flames spite of all that can be done flickering aloft and below, The husky voices of the two or three officers 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, A few large stars overhead, silent and mournful shining, 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 surgeons knife, the gn awing teeth of his saw, Wheeze, cluck, swash of falling blood, short wild scream, and long, dull, tapering groan, These so, these irretrievable. You laggards there on guard look to your arms In at the conquerd doors they crowd I am possessd Embody all presences outlawd or suffering, See myself in prison shaped like another man, And feel the dull unintermitted pain. For me the keepers of convicts shoulder their carbines and keep watch, It is I let out in the morning and barrd at night. Not a mutineer walks handcuffd to jail but I am handcuffd 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.) Not a youngster is taken for larceny but I go up too, and am tried and sentenced. Not a cholera patient lies at the last gasp but I also lie at the last gasp, My face is ash-colord, my sinews gnarl, away from me people retreat. Askers embody themselves in me and I am embodied in them, I project my hat, sit shame-faced, and beg. Enough enough enough Somehow I have been stunnd. Stand back Give me a little time beyond my cuffd head, slumbers, dreams, gaping, I discover myself on the verge of a usual mistake. 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. 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. I troop forth replenishd with supreme power, one of an average unending procession, Inland and sea-coast we go, and pass all boundary lines, Our swift ordinances on their way over the whole earth, The blossoms we wear in our hats the growth of thousands of years. Eleves, I salute you come forward Continue your annotations, continue your questionings. The friendly and flowing savage, who is he Is he waiting for civilization, or past it and mastering it Is he some Southwesterner raisd out-doors is he Kanadian Is he from the Mississippi country Iowa, Oregon, California The mountains prairie-life, bush-life or sailor from the sea Wherever he goes men and women accept and desire him, They desire he should like them, touch them, speak to them, stay with them. Behavior lawless as snow-flakes, words simple as grass, uncombd head, laughter, and naivete, 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. Flaunt of the sunshine I need not your bask--lie over You light surfaces only, I force surfaces and depths also. Earth you seem to look for something at my hands, Say, old top-knot, what do you want 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. Behold, I do not give lectures or a little charity, When I give I give myself. You there, impotent, loose in the knees, Open your scarfd 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 any thing I have I bestow. I do not ask who you are, that is not important to me, You can do nothing and be nothing but what I will infold you. To cotton-field drudge or cleaner of privies I lean, On his right cheek I put the family kiss, And in my soul I swear I never will deny him. On women fit for conception I start bigger and nimbler babes. (This day I am jetting the stuff of far more arrogant republics.) 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. I seize the descending man and raise him with resistless will, O despairer, here is my neck, By God, you shall not go down hang your whole weight upon me. I dilate you with tremendous breath, I buoy you up, Every room of the house do I fill with an armd force, Lovers of me, bafflers of graves. 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. 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. 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 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 unfledgd 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 rolld-up sleeves driving the malle t 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 destruction, Their brawny limbs passing safe over charrd laths, their white foreheads whole and unhurt out of the flames By the mechanics 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 baggd out at their waists, The snag-toothd hostler with red hair redeeming sins past and to come, Selling all he possesses, traveling on foot to fee lawyers 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 worshippd half enough, Dung and dirt more admirable than was dreamd, Th e 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 ambushd womb of the shadows. A call in the midst of the crowd, My own voice, orotund sweeping and final. Come my children, Come my boys and girls, my women, household and intimates, Now the performer launches his nerve, he has passd his prelude on the reeds within. Easily written loose-fingerd chords--I feel the thrum of your climax and close. 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. 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 thornd thumb, that breath of itches and thirsts, Ever the vexers 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 trestles of death. 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. This is the city and I am one of the citizens, Whatever interests the rest interests me, politics, wars, markets, newspapers, schools, The mayor and councils, banks, tariffs, steamships, factories, stocks, stores, real estate and personal estate. The little plentiful manikins skipping around in collars and taild coats I am aware who they are, (they are positively not worms or fleas,) 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. I know perfectly well my own egotism, Know my omnivorous lines and must not write any less, And would fetch you whoever you are flush with myself. Not words of routine this song of 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 maild 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 I do not despise you priests, all time, the world over, 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, sal uting the sun, Making a fetich of the first rock or stump, powowing with sticks in the circle of obis, Helping the llama or brahmin as he trims the lamps of the idols, Dancing yet through the streets in a phallic procession, rapt and austere in the woods a gymnosophist, Drinking mead from the skull-cap, 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 crucified, knowing assuredly that he is divine, To the mass kneeling or the puritans 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. One of that centripetal and centrifugal gang I turn and talk like man leaving charges before a journey. Down-hearted doubters dull and excluded, Frivolous, sullen, moping, angry, affected, disheartend, atheistical, I know every one of you, I know the sea of torment, doubt, despair and unbelief. How the flukes splash How they contort rapid as lightning, with spasms and spouts of blood 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. I do not know what is untried and afterward, But I know it will in its turn prove sufficient, and cannot fail. Each who passes is considerd, each who stops is considerd, not single one can it fall. It cannot fall 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 peepd 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 tubercled by rum and the bad disorder, Nor the numberless slaughterd and wreckd, nor the brutish koboo calld the ordure of humanity, Nor the sacs merely floating with open mouths for food to slip in, Nor any thing in the earth, or down in the oldest graves of the earth, Nor any thing in the myriads of spheres, nor the myriads of myriads that inhabit them, Nor the present, nor the least wisp that is known. It is time to explain myself--let us stand up. What is known I strip away, I launch all men and women forward with me into the Unknown. The clock indicates the moment--but what does eternity indicate We have thus far exhausted trillions of winters and summers, There are trillions ahead, and trillions ahead of them. Births have brought us richness and variety, And other births will bring us richness and variety. I do not call one greater and one smaller, That which fills its period and place is equal to any. Were mankind murderous or jealous upon you, my brother, my sister I am sorry for you, they are not murderous or jealous upon me, All has been gentle with me, I keep no account with lamentation, (What have I to do with lamentation) I am an acme of things accomplishd, and I an encloser of things to be. 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 traveld, 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 huggd close--long and long. Immense have been the preparations for me, Faithful and friendly the arms that have helpd 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 employd to complete and delight me, Now on this spot I stand with my robust soul. O span of youth ever-pushd elasticity O manhood, balanced, florid and full. 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 underbrush, 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. 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, 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 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, any thing 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. I know I have the best of time and space, and was never measured and never will be measured. 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, 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 the public road. Not I, not any one else can travel that road for you, You must travel it for yourself. 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 everywhere on water and on land. 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. 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. This day before dawn I ascended a hill and lookd 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 filld and satisfied then And my spirit said No, we but level that lift to pass and continue beyond. You are also asking me questions and I hear you, I answer that I cannot answer, you must find out for yourself. 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-by kiss and open the gate for your egress hence. Long enough have you dreamd 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. 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. 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. 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 bulls 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-tannd to those that keep out of the sun. 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. 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 loosend.) I swear I will never again mention love or death inside 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. If you would understand me go to the heights or water-shore, The nearest gnat is an explanation, and a drop or motion of waves key, The maul, the oar, the hand-saw, second my words. No shutterd room or school can commune with me, But roughs and little children better than they. 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 fishermen and seamen and love them. The soldier campd or upon the march is mine, On the night ere the pending battle many seek me, and I do not fail them, On that solemn night (it may be their last) those that know me seek me. My face rubs to the hunters 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. 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 ones 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 wheeld universe, And I say to any man or woman, Let your soul stand cool and composed before a million universes. 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.) I hear and behold God in every object, yet understand God not in the least, Nor do I understand who there can be more wonderful than myself. 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 dropt in the street, and every one is signd by Gods name, And I leave them where they are, for I know that wheresoeer I go, Others will punctually come for ever and ever. And as to you Death, and you bitter hug of mortality, it is idle to try to alarm me. 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. And as to you Corpse I think you are good manure, 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 polishd breasts of melons. And as to you Life I reckon you are the leavings of many deaths, (No doubt I have died myself ten thousand times before.) 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 any thing how can I say any thing 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. I ascend from the moon, I ascend from the night, I perceive that the ghastly glimmer is noonday sunbeams reflected, And debouch to the steady and central from the offspring great or small. There is that in me--I do not know what it is--but I know it is in me. Wrenchd and sweaty--calm and cool then my body becomes, I sleep--I sleep long. I do not know it--it is without name--it is a word unsaid, It is not in any dictionary, utterance, symbol. Something it swings on more than the earth I swing on, To it the creation is the friend whose embracing awakes me. Perhaps I might tell more. Outlines I plead for my brothers and sisters. 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. The past and present wilt--I have filld them, emptied them. And proceed to fill my next fold of the future. Listener up there 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.) Do I contradict myself Very well then I contradict myself, (I am large, I contain multitudes.) I concentrate toward them that are nigh, I wait on the door-slab. Who has done his days work who will soonest be through with his supper Who wishes to walk with me Will you speak before I am gone will you prove already too late The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains of my gab and my loitering. I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable, I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world. The last scud of day holds back for me, It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadowd wilds, It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk. I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun, I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags. I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love, If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles. 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. Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged, Missing me one place search another, I stop somewhere waiting for you. DayPoems Poem No. 1900 Comment on DayPoems If you are like us, you have strong feelings about poetry, and about each poem you read. Let it all out Comment on this poem, any poem, DayPoems, other poetry places or the art of poetry at DayPoems Feedback . Wont you help support DayPoems Click here to learn more about how you can keep DayPoems on the Web. The DayPoems web site, daypoems, is copyright 2001-2005 by Timothy K. Bovee. Alle rettigheter reservert. The authors of poetry and other material appearing on DayPoems retain full rights to their work. Any requests for publication in other venues must be negotiated separately with the authors. The editor of DayPoems will gladly assist in putting interested parties in contact with the authors. Support DayPoems. Buy your books here Latest Chapbooks from Powells. Four CA Regional Agritourism Summits in February amp March The University of California Small Farm Program and UC Cooperative Extension advisors in four California regions are working with local partners to organize Regional Agritourism Summits for everyone involved in California agritourism. Toppmøtene vil være anledninger for bønder, ranchers, fylkeplanleggere, turisme samfunnet og andre involvert til å dele, lære og planlegge sammen. Regionale Agritourism Summits 2017 Agritourism operatører, turisme fagfolk, fylke, by og statlige ansatte og tjenestemenn, samfunnsorganisasjoner, landbruksorganisasjoner, tur arrangører og alle andre som er knyttet til California agritourism er invitert til å delta i samtalene. Toppmøter vil bli avholdt i Davis, Petaluma, Modesto og Riverside. Presentasjoner og diskusjonsemner vil inkludere fylkeskommunale markedsføringsplaner sosiale medier og arrangement organisere treningsøkter reiseruteutvikling ansvar finansiering ideer foragritourism utvikling og mer. Hvert toppmøte ble planlagt av et lokalt lag for å gjenspeile regionens behov, så hver vil være unik. Hvert toppmøte vil være en deltakende, hele dags økt med lunsj som tilbys. Deltakere inviteres til å markedsføre og organisere informasjon som skal vises og deles. For å registrere og lære mer, vennligst besøk ucanr. edusummits2017 eller kontakt UC Small Farm Program Agritourism Coordinator Penny Leff, 530-752-7779 eller paleffucdavis. edu. USDA kunngjør strømlinjeformet garantert lån og tilleggslåner kategori for småskala operatører USDA nylig annonsert tilgjengeligheten av en strømlinjeformet versjon av USDA garanterte lån, som er skreddersydd for mindre skala gårder og urbane produsenter. Programmet, kalt EZ Guarantee Loans, bruker en forenklet søknadsprosess for å hjelpe begynnelsen, små, underserved og familiebønder og ranchers søke om lån på inntil 100 000 fra USDA-godkjente långivere for å kjøpe jordbruksland eller finansiere landbruksvirksomhet. USDA presenterte også en ny kategori av långivere som vil bli med tradisjonelle långivere, for eksempel banker og kredittforeninger, ved å tilby USDA EZ-garantilån. . Les mer Kommende arrangementer
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