SUNRISE 1 In my sleep I was fain of their fellowship, fain Of the live-oak, the marsh, and the main. The little green leaves would not let me alone in my sleep; Up-breathed from the marshes, a message of range and of sweep, Interwoven with waftures of wild sealiberties, drifting, Came through the lapped leaves sifting, sifting, Came to the gates of sleep. Then my thoughts, in the dark of the dungeon-keep Of the Castle of Captives hid in the City of Sleep, Upstarted, by twos and by threes assembling: 10 The gates of sleep fell a-trembling Like as the lips of a lady that forth falter yes, Shaken with happiness: The gates of sleep stood wide. I have waked, I have come, my beloved! I might not abide: I have come ere the dawn, O beloved, my live-oaks, to hide In your gospelling glooms,-to be As a lover in heaven, the marsh my marsh and the sea my sea. 1 "Sunrise," Mr. Lanier's latest completed pcem, was written while his sun of life seemed fairly at the setting, and the hand which first pencilled its lines had not strength to carry nourishment to the lips. "Sunrise," the culminating poem, the highest vision of Sidney Lanier, was dedicated through his latest request to that friend who indeed came into his life only near its close, yet was at first meeting recognized by the poet as "the father of his spirit," George Westfeldt. When words were very few and the poem was unread, even by any friend, the earnest bidding came: "Send him my 'Sunrise,' that he may know how entirely we are one in thought." (Poems, 1884.) But no: it is made: list! somewhere,— mystery, where? 100 In the leaves? in the air In my heart? is a motion made: 'T is a motion of dawn, like a flicker of shade on shade. In the leaves 't is palpable: low multitudinous stirring Upwinds through the woods; the little ones, softly conferring, Have settled my lord's to be looked for; so; they are still; But the air and my heart and the earth are a-thrill, And look where the wild duck sails round the bend of the river, And look where a passionate shiver Expectant is bending the blades Of the marsh-grass in serial shimmers and shades, And invisible wings, fast fleeting, fast fleeting, Are beating 110 The dark overhead as my heart beats,and steady and free Is the ebb-tide flowing from marsh to sea (Run home, little streams, With your lapfuls of stars and dreams), And a sailor unseen is hoisting a-peak, For list, down the inshore curve of the creek How merrily flutters the sail, And lo, in the East! Will the East unveil? The East is unveiled, the East hath confessed 120 A flush: 't is dead; 't is alive: 't is dead, ere the West Was aware of it: nay, 't is abiding, 't is unwithdrawn: Have a care, sweet Heaven! 'T is Dawn. WALT WHITMAN (1819-1892) THERE WAS A CHILD WENT FORTH 1 There was a child went forth every day; And the first object he look'd upon, that object he became ; And that object became part of him for the day, or a certain part of the day, or for many years, or stretching cycles of years. The early lilacs became part of this child, And grass, and white and red morning-glories, and white and red clover, and the song of the phoebe-bird, And the Third-month lambs, and the sow's pink-faint litter, and the mare's foal, and the cow's calf, And the noisy brood of the barn-yard, or by the mire of the pond-side, And the fish suspending themselves so curiously below there-and the beautiful curious liquid, And the water-plants with their graceful flat heads-all became part of him. The field-sprouts of Fourth-month and Fifth-month became part of him; Winter-grain sprouts, and those of the light-yellow corn, and the esculent roots of the garden, And the apple-trees cover'd with blossoms, and the fruit afterward, and woodberries, and the commonest weeds by the road; And the old drunkard staggering home from the out-house of the tavern, whence he had lately risen, And the school-mistress that pass'd on her way to the school, And the friendly boys that pass'd-and the quarrelsome boys, And the tidy and fresh-cheek'd girls-and the barefoot negro boy and girl, And all the changes of city and country, wherever he went. His own parents, He that had father'd him, and she that had conceiv'd him in her womb, and birth'd him, They gave this child more of themselves than that; They gave him afterward every day-they became part of him. The mother at home, quietly placing the dishes on the supper-table; 20 The mother with mild words-clean her cap and gown, a wholesome odor falling off her person and clothes as she walks by; The father, strong, self-sufficient, manly, mean, anger'd, unjust; The blow, the quick loud word, the tight bargain, the crafty lure, The family usages, the language, the company, the furniture-the yearning and swelling heart, Affection that will not be gainsay'd-the sense of what is real-the thought if, after all, it should prove unreal, The doubts of day-time and the doubts of night-time-the curious whether and how, Whether that which appears so is so, or is it all flashes and specks? Men and women crowding fast in the streets-if they are not flashes and specks, what are they? 1 This is a record of his recollections from childhood country life on Long Island. 30 The streets themselves, and the façades of houses, and goods in the windows, The schooner near by, sleepily dropping down the tide the little boat slack-tow'd astern, The hurrying tumbling waves, quick-broken crests, slapping, The strata of color'd clouds, the long bar of maroon-tint, away solitary by itselfthe spread of purity it lies motionless in, The horizon's edge, the flying sea-crow, the fragrance of salt marsh and shore mud; These became part of that child who went forth every day, and who now goes, and will always go forth every day. First published in 1855. In edition of 1856 under title of "Poem of the Child That Went Forth and Always Goes Forth, Forever and Forever." FROM WALT WHITMAN 1 1 celebrate myself;1 And what I assume you shall assume; For every atom belonging to me, as good belongs to you. I loafe and invite my Soul; I lean and loafe at my ease, observing a spear of summer grass. Houses and rooms are full of perfumes-the shelves are crowded with perfumes; I breathe the fragrance myself, and know it and like it; The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it. The atmosphere is not a perfume-it has no taste of the distillation-it is odorless; It is for my mouth forever-I am in love with it; I will go to the bank by the wood, and become undisguised and naked; I am mad for it to be in contact with me. The smoke of my own breath; 2 Echoes, ripples, buzz'd whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and vine; My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing of blood and air through my lungs; The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore, and dark-color'd sea rocks, and of hay in the barn; The sound of the belch'd words of my voice, words loos'd to the eddies of the wind; A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms; The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag; 20 The delight alone, or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields and hill-sides; The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising from bed and meeting the sun. Have you reckon'd a thousand acres much? have you reckon'd the earth much? Have you practis'd so long to learn to read? Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems? 1 "I meant 'Leaves of Grass,' as published, to be the Poem of average Identity (of yours, whoever you are, now reading these lines) All serves, helps-but in the center of all, absorbing all, giving, for your purpose, the only meaning and vitality to all, master or mistress of all, under the law, stands Yourself. To sing the Song of that law of average Identity, and of Yourself, consistently with the divine law of the universal, is a main purpose of these 'Leaves'." (See Whitman's Preface to the 1876 edition of "Leaves of Grass.") |