I think he loved the spring: not that he cared for flowers-most men He was but seventy-five: I did not think to lay him yet We 've lived together fifty years: it seems but one long day, I mind (for I can tell thee now) how hard it was to know ΙΟ 15 20 Then she was still. They sat awhile; at last she spoke again: "The Lord incline thee to the right!" And "Thou shalt have him, Jane!" 25 My father said. I cried. Indeed, 't was not the least of shocks, I thought of this ten years ago, when daughter Ruth we lost: 30 Ah, dear! the cross was ours: her life's a happy one, at least. Perhaps she 'll wear a plainer dress when she 's as old as I- 35 How strange it seemed to sit with him upon the women's side! 46 I used to blush when he came near, but then I showed no sign; As home we rode, I saw no fields look half so green as ours; 45 I see, as plain as thee sits there, the wedding-dinner spread: 50 It is not right to wish for death; the Lord disposes best. 55 Eusebius never cared to farm-'t was not his call, in truth: 60 But Ruth is still a Friend at heart: she keeps the simple tongue, 65 I once heard Jesse Kersey say a spirit clothed with grace, Thee mustn't be too hard on Ruth: she 's anxious I should go, 70 WALT WHITMAN [The selections from Whitman are reprinted from the copyrighted 1891 edition of his poems, with the permission of his literary executors, Messrs. H. L. Traubel and T. B. Harned, and of his publisher, Mitchell Kennerley] FROM SONG OF MYSELF I celebrate myself, and sing myself, And what I assume you shall assume, I For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you. I loafe and invite my soul; I lean and loafe at my ease, observing a spear of summer grass. My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air, the same, I, now thirty-seven years old, in perfect health begin, Hoping to cease not till death. Creeds and schools in abeyance, Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are but never forgotten, 21 I am the poet of the Body and I am the poet of the Soul. The pleasures of heaven are with me and the pains of hell are with me; The first I graft and increase upon myself, the latter I translate into a new tongue. I am the poet of the woman the same as the man, And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man, And I say there is nothing greater than the mother of men. I chant the chant of dilation or pride, We have had ducking and deprecating about enough, I show that size is only development. Have you outstript the rest? are you the President? It is a trifle; they will more than arrive there every one, and still pass on. I am he that walks with the tender and growing night; 5 ΙΟ 15 20 25 I call to the earth and sea half-held by the night. Press close, bare-bosom'd night-press close, magnetic nourishing night! Night of south winds-night of the large few stars! Still, nodding night-mad naked summer night! Earth of departed sunset-earth of the mountains misty-topt! 30 Earth of the slumbering and liquid trees! Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon just tinged with blue! Earth of the limpid gray of clouds brighter and clearer for my sake! 35 Smile, for your lover comes. Prodigal, you have given me love-therefore I to you give love! 32 I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and self contain'd; I stand and look at them long and long. They do not sweat and whine about their condition, 40 They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins, Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of owning things, 45 Not one kneels to another nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago, Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth. 33 I understand the large hearts of heroes, The courage of present times and all times; How the skipper saw the crowded and rudderless wreck of the steam ship, and Death chasing it up and down the storm, How he knuckled tight and gave not back an inch, and was faithful of days and faithful of nights, And chalk'd in large letters on a board, Be of good cheer, we will not desert you; How he follow'd with them and tack'd with them three days and would not give it up, How he saved the drifting company at last, 50 How the lank loose-gown'd women look'd when boated from the side of their prepared graves, 55 How the silent old-faced infants and the lifted sick, and the sharplipp'd unshaved men. All this I swallow, it tastes good, I like it well, it becomes mine, I am the man, I suffer'd, I was there. . Agonies are one of my changes of garments; I do not ask the wounded person how he feels, I myself become the wounded person, My hurts turn livid upon me as I lean on a cane and observe. I am the mash'd fireman with breast-bone broken, Heat and smoke I inspired, I heard the yelling shouts of my comrades, They have clear'd the beams away, they tenderly lift me forth. I lie in the night air in my red shirt, the pervading hush is for my sake; White and beautiful are the faces around me, the heads are bared of their fire-caps; The kneeling crowd fades with the light of the torches. 45 Old age superbly rising! O welcome, ineffable grace of dying days! Every condition promulges not only itself, it promulges what grows after and out of itself, And the dark hush promulges as much as any. 60 65 70 I open my scuttle at night and see the far-sprinkled systems; of the farther systems. 75 Wider and wider they spread, expanding, always expanding, 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. 80 |