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. 10 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 itself— the 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.") Stop this day and night with me, and you shall possess the origin of all poems; You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me: 6 A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands; How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is, any more than he. I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven. Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord, A scented gift and remembrancer, designedly dropt, 30 Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say, Whose? Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation. Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic; And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones, 39 Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I receive them the same. And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves: Tenderly will I use you, curling grass; It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men; It may be if I had known them I would have loved them; It may be you are from old people, and from women, and from offspring taken soon out of their mothers' laps; And here you are the mothers' laps. This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers; Darker than the colorless beards of old men; Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths. OI perceive after all so many uttering tongues! And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing. I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women. And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their laps. What do you think has become of the young and old men? And what do you think has become of the women and children? They are alive and well somewhere; The smallest sprout shows there is really no death; And if ever there was, it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it, And ceas'd the moment life appear'd. All goes onward and outward-nothing collapses; And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier. 60 9 The big doors of the country barn stand open and ready; The dried grass of the harvest-time loads the slow-drawn wagon; I am there I help I came stretch'd atop of the load; I felt its soft jolts-one leg reclined on the other; I jump from the cross-beams, and seize the clover and timothy, 10 Alone, far in the wilds and mountains, I hunt, Wandering, amazed at my own lightness and glee; In the late afternoon choosing a safe spot to pass the night, Kindling a fire and broiling the fresh-kill'd game; Falling asleep on the gather'd leaves, with my dog and gun by my side. The Yankee clipper is under her sky-sails-she cuts the sparkle and scud; My eyes settle the land-I bend at her prow, or shout joyously from the deck. The boatmen and clam-diggers arose early and stopt for me; I tuck'd my trowser-ends in my boots, and went and had a good time: (You should have been with us that day round the chowder-kettle.) 70 I saw the marriage of the trapper in the open air in the far west-the bride was a red girl; 80 Her father and his friends sat near, cross-legged and dumbly smoking-they had moccasins to their feet, and large thick blankets hanging from their shoulders; On a bank lounged the trapper-he was drest mostly in skins-his luxuriant beard and curls protected his neck-he held his bride by the hand; She had long eyelashes-her head was bare-her coarse straight locks descended upon her voluptuous limbs and reach'd to her feet. The runaway slave came to my house and stopt outside; I heard his motions crackling the twigs of the woodpile; Through the swung half-door of the kitchen I saw him limpsy and weak, And went where he sat on a log, and led him in and assured him, And brought water, and fill'd a tub for his sweated body and bruis'd feet, And gave him a room that enter'd from my own, and gave him some coarse clean clothes, And remember perfectly well his revolving eyes and his awkwardness, 90 12 The butcher-boy puts off his killing clothes, or sharpens his knife at the stall in the market; I loiter, enjoying his repartee, and his shuffle and break-down. Blacksmiths with grimed and hairy chests environ the anvil; Each has his main-sledge-they are all out-(there is a great heat in the fire). From the cinder-strew'd threshold I follow their movements; The lithe sheer of their waists plays even with their massive arms; Over-hand the hammers swing-over-hand so slow-over-hand so sure: 100 13 The negro holds firmly the reins of his four horses-the block swags underneath on its tied-over chain; The negro that drives the dray of the stone-yard-steady and tall he stands, pois'd on one leg on the string-piece; His blue shirt exposes his ample neck and breast, and loosens over his hip-band; His glance is calm and commanding-he tosses the slouch of his hat away from his forehead; The sun falls on his crispy hair and moustache-falls on the black of his polish'd and perfect limbs. I behold the picturesque giant, and love him—and I do not stop there; In me the caresser of life wherever moving-backward as well as forward slueing; To niches aside and junior bending. 110 Oxen that rattle the yoke and chain, or halt in the leafy shade! what is that you express in your eyes? It seems to me more than all the print I have read in my life. My tread scares the wood-drake and wood-duck, on my distant and day-long ramble; They rise together-they slowly circle around. I believe in those wing'd purposes, And acknowledge red, yellow, white, playing within me, And consider green and violet, and the tufted crown, intentional; And do not call the tortoise unworthy because she is not something else; And the jay in the woods never studied the gamut, yet trills pretty well to me; And the look of the bay mare shames silliness out of me. 14 The wild gander leads his flock through the cool night; Ya-honk! he says, and sounds it down to me like an invitation; (The pert may suppose it meaningless, but I listen close; I find its purpose and place up there toward the wintry sky.) 120 The sharp-hoof'd moose of the north, the cat on the house-sill, the chickadee, the prairie-dog, The litter of the grunting sow as they tug at her teats, The brood of the turkey-hen, and she with her half-spread wings; I see in them and myself the same old law. The press of my feet to the earth springs a hundred affections; I am enamor'd of growing out-doors, Of men that live among cattle, or taste of the ocean or woods, 130 Of the builders and steerers of ships, and the wielders of axes and mauls, and the drivers of horses; I can eat and sleep with them week in and week out. What is commonest, cheapest, nearest, easiest, is Me; Me going in for my chance, spending for vast returns; Adorning myself to bestow myself on the first that will take me; |