Read Leaves of Grass: First and Death-Bed Editions Page 37


  Who knows, for all the distance, but I am as good as looking at

  you now, for all you cannot see me?

  -8-

  Ah, what can ever be more stately and admirable to me than

  mast-hemm’d Manhattan?

  River and sunset and scallop-edg’d waves of flood-tide?

  The sea-gulls oscillating their bodies, the hay-boat in the twilight,

  and the belated lighter?

  What gods can exceed these that clasp me by the hand, and with

  voices I love call me promptly and loudly by my nighest

  name as I approach?

  What is more subtle than this which ties me to the woman or

  man that looks in my face?

  Which fuses me into you now, and pours my meaning into you?

  We understand then do we not?

  What I promis’d without mentioning it, have you not accepted?

  What the study could not teach—what the preaching could not

  accomplish is accomplish‘d, is it not?

  -9-

  Flow on, river! flow with the flood-tide, and ebb with the

  ebb-tide!

  Frolic on, crested and scallop-edg’d waves!

  Gorgeous clouds of the sunset! drench with your splendor me, or

  the men and women generations after me!

  Cross from shore to shore, countless crowds of passengers!

  Stand up, tall masts of Mannahatta! stand up, beautiful hills of

  Brooklyn!

  Throb, baffled and curious brain! throw out questions and

  answers!

  Suspend here and everywhere, eternal float of solution!

  Gaze, loving and thirsting eyes, in the house or street or public

  assembly!

  Sound out, voices of young men! loudly and musically call me by

  my nighest name!

  Live, old life! play the part that looks back on the actor or actress!

  Play the old role, the role that is great or small according as one

  makes it!

  Consider, you who peruse me, whether I may not in unknown

  ways be looking upon you;

  Be firm, rail over the river, to support those who lean idly, yet

  haste with the hasting current;

  Fly on, sea-birds! fly sideways, or wheel in large circles high in

  the air;

  Receive the summer sky, you water, and faithfully hold it till all

  downcast eyes have time to take it from you!

  Diverge, fine spokes of light, from the shape of my head, or any

  one’s head, in the sunlit water!

  Come on, ships from the lower bay! pass up or down, white-sail’d

  schooners, sloops, lighters!

  Flaunt away, flags of all nations! be duly lower’d at sunset!

  Burn high your fires, foundry chimneys! cast black shadows at

  nightfall! cast red and yellow light over the tops of the houses!

  Appearances, now or henceforth, indicate what you are,

  You necessary film, continue to envelop the soul,

  About my body for me, and your body for you, be hung out

  divinest aromas,

  Thrive, cities—bring your freight, bring your shows, ample and

  sufficient rivers,

  Expand, being than which none else is perhaps more spiritual,

  Keep your places, objects than which none else is more lasting.

  You have waited, you always wait, you dumb, beautiful

  ministers,36

  We receive you with free sense at last, and are insatiate

  henceforward,

  Not you any more shall be able to foil us, or withhold yourselves

  from us,

  We use you, and do not cast you aside—we plant you

  permanently within us,

  We fathom you not—we love you—there is perfection in you

  also,

  You furnish your parts toward eternity,

  Great or small, you furnish your parts toward the soul.

  SONG OF THE ANSWERER

  —1—

  Now list to my morning’s romanza, I tell the signs of the

  Answerer,

  To the cities and farms I sing as they spread in the sunshine

  before me.

  A young man comes to me bearing a message from his brother,

  How shall the young man know the whether and when of his

  brother?

  Tell him to send me the signs.

  And I stand before the young man face to face, and take his right

  hand in my left hand and his left hand in my right hand,

  And I answer for his brother and for men, and I answer for him

  that answers for all, and send these signs.

  Him all wait for, him all yield up to, his word is decisive and final,

  Him they accept, in him lave, in him perceive themselves as

  amid light,

  Him they immerse and he immerses them.

  Beautiful women, the haughtiest nations, laws, the landscape,

  people, animals,

  The profound earth and its attributes and the unquiet ocean, (so

  tell I my morning’s romanza,)

  All enjoyments and properties and money, and whatever money

  will buy,

  The best farms, others toiling and planting and he unavoidably

  reaps,

  The noblest and costliest cities, others grading and building and

  he domiciles there,

  Nothing for any one but what is for him, near and far are for him,

  the ships in the offing,

  The perpetual shows and marches on land are for him if they are

  for anybody.

  He puts things in their attitudes,

  He puts to-day out of himself with plasticity and love,

  He places his own times, reminiscences, parents, brothers and

  sisters, associations, employment, politics, so that the rest

  never shame them afterward, nor assume to command them.

  He is the Answerer,

  What can be answer’d he answers, and what cannot be answer’d

  he shows how it cannot be answer’d.

  A man is a summons and challenge,

  (It is vain to skulk—do you hear that mocking and laughter? do

  you hear the ironical echoes?)

  Books, friendships, philosophers, priests, action, pleasure, pride,

  beat up and down seeking to give satisfaction,

  He indicates the satisfaction, and indicates them that beat up and

  down also.

  Whichever the sex, whatever the season or place, he may go

  freshly and gently and safely by day or by night,

  He has the pass-key of hearts, to him the response of the prying of

  hands on the knobs.

  His welcome is universal, the flow of beauty is not more welcome

  or universal than he is,

  The person he favors by day or sleeps with at night is blessed.

  Every existence has its idiom, every thing has an idiom and

  tongue,

  He resolves all tongues into his own and bestows it upon men,

  and any man translates, and any man translates himself also,

  One part does not counteract another part, he is the joiner, he

  sees how they join.

  He says indifferently and alike How are you friend? to the

  President at his levee,

  And he says Good-day my brother, to Cudge that hoes in the

  sugar-field,

  And both understand him and know that his speech is right.

  He walks with perfect ease in the capitol,

  He walks among the Congress, and one Representative says to

  another, Here is our equal appearing and new.

  Then the mechanics take him for a mechanic,

  And the soldiers suppose him
to be a soldier, and the sailors that

  he has follow’d the sea,

  And the authors take him for an author, and the artists for an

  artist,

  And the laborers perceive he could labor with them and love them,

  No matter what the work is, that he is the one to follow it or has

  follow’d it,

  No matter what the nation, that he might find his brothers and

  sisters there.

  The English believe he comes of their English stock,

  A Jew to the Jew he seems, a Russ to the Russ, usual and near,

  removed from none.

  Whoever he looks at in the traveler’s coffee-house claims him,

  The Italian or Frenchman is sure, the German is sure, the

  Spaniard is sure, and the island Cuban is sure,

  The engineer, the deck-hand on the great lakes, or on the

  Mississippi or St. Lawrence or Sacramento, or Hudson or

  Paumanok sound, claims him.

  The gentleman of perfect blood acknowledges his perfect blood,

  The insulter, the prostitute, the angy person, the beggar, see

  themselves in the ways of him, he strangely transmutes

  them,

  They are not vile any more, they hardly know themselves they are

  so grown.

  —2—

  The indications and tally of time,

  Perfect sanity shows the master among philosophs,

  Time, always without break, indicates itself in parts,

  What always indicates the poet is the crowd of the pleasant

  company of singers, and their words,

  The words of the singers are the hours or minutes of the light or

  dark, but the words of the maker of poems are the general

  light and dark,

  The maker of poems settles justice, reality, immortality,

  His insight and power encircle things and the human race,

  He is the glory and extract thus far of things and of the human

  race.

  The singers do not beget, only the Poet begets,

  The singers are welcom‘d, understood, appear often enough, but

  rare has the day been, likewise the spot, of the birth of the

  maker of poems, the Answerer,

  (Not every century nor every five centuries has contain’d such a

  day, for all its names.)

  The singers of successive hours of centuries may have ostensible

  names, but the name of each of them is one of the singers,

  The name of each is, eye-singer, ear-singer, head-singer, sweet-

  singer, night-singer, parlor-singer, love-singer, weird-singer, or

  something else.

  All this time and at all times wait the words of true poems,

  The words of true poems do not merely please,

  The true poets are not followers of beauty but the august masters

  of beauty;

  The greatness of sons is the exuding of the greatness of mothers

  and fathers,

  The words of true poems are the tuft and final applause of

  science.

  Divine instinct, breadth of vision, the law of reason, health,

  rudeness of body, withdrawnness,

  Gayety, sun-tan, air-sweetness, such are some of the words of

  poems.

  The sailor and traveler underlie the maker of poems, the

  Answerer,

  The builder, geometer, chemist, anatomist, phrenologist, artist, all

  these underlie the maker of poems, the Answerer.

  The words of the true poems give you more than poems,

  They give you to form for yourself poems, religions, politics, war,

  peace, behavior, histories, essays, daily life, and every thing

  else,

  They balance ranks, colors, races, creeds, and the sexes,

  They do not seek beauty, they are sought,

  Forever touching them or close upon them follows beauty,

  longing, fain, love-sick.

  They prepare for death, yet are they not the finish, but rather the

  outset,

  They bring none to his or her terminus or to be content and

  full,

  Whom they take they take into space to behold the birth of stars,

  to learn one of the meanings,

  To launch off with absolute faith, to sweep through the ceaseless

  rings and never be quiet again.

  OUR OLD FEUILLAGEas

  Always our old feuillage!

  Always Florida’s green peninsula—always the priceless delta of

  Louisiana—always the cotton-fields of Alabama and Texas,

  Always California’s golden hills and hollows, and the silver

  mountains of New Mexico—always soft-breath’d Cuba,

  Always the vast slope drain’d by the Southern sea, inseparable

  with the slopes drain’d by the Eastern and Western seas,

  The area the eighty-third year of these States, the three and a half

  millions of square miles,

  The eighteen thousand miles of sea-coast and bay-coast on the

  main, the thirty thousand miles of river navigation,

  The seven millions of distinct families and the same number of

  dwellings—always these, and more, branching forth into

  numberless branches,

  Always the free range and diversity—always the continent of

  Democracy;

  Always the prairies, pastures, forests, vast cities, travelers, Kanada,

  the snows;

  Always these compact lands tied at the hips with the belt stringing

  the huge oval lakes;

  Always the West with strong native persons, the increasing density

  there, the habitans, friendly, threatening, ironical, scorning

  invaders;

  All sights, South, North, East—all deeds, promiscuously done at

  all times,

  All characters, movements, growths, a few noticed, myriads

  unnoticed,

  Through Mannahatta’s streets I walking, these things gathering,

  On interior rivers by night in the glare of pine knots, steamboats

  wooding up,

  Sunlight by day on the valley of the Susquehanna, and on the

  valleys of the Potomac and Rappahannock and the valleys of

  the Roanoke and Delaware,

  In their northerly wilds beasts of prey haunting the Adirondacks

  the hills or lapping the Saginaw waters to drink,

  In a lonesome inlet a sheldrake lost from the flock sitting on the

  water rocking silently,

  In farmers’ barns oxen in the stable, their harvest labor done they

  rest standing, they are too tired,

  Afar on arctic ice the she-walrus lying drowsily while her cubs

  play around,

  The hawk sailing where men have not yet sail‘d, the farthest polar

  sea, ripply, crystalline, open, beyond the floes,

  White drift spooning ahead where the ship in the tempest

  dashes,

  On solid land what is done in cities as the bells strike midnight

  together,

  In primitive woods the sounds there also sounding, the howl of

  the wolf, the scream of the panther, and the hoarse bellow of

  the elk,

  In winter beneath the hard blue ice of Moosehead lake, in

  summer visible through the clear waters, the great trout

  swimming,

  In lower latitudes in warmer air in the Carolinas the large black

  buzzard floating slowly high beyond the tree tops,

  Below, the red cedar festoon’d with tylandria, the pines and

  cypresses growing out of the white sand that spreads far and

  flat,

  Rude boats des
cending the big Pedee, climbing plants, parasites

  with color’d flowers and berries enveloping huge trees,

  The waving drapery on the live-oak trailing long and low,

  noiselessly waved by the wind,

  The camp of Georgia wagoners just after dark, the supper-fires

  and the cooking and eating by whites and negroes,

  Thirty or forty great wagons, the mules, cattle, horses, feeding

  from troughs,

  The shadows, gleams, up under the leaves of the old sycamore

  trees, the flames with the black smoke from the pitch-pine

  curling and rising;

  Southern fishermen fishing, the sounds and inlets of North

  Carolina’s coast, the shad-fishery and the herring-fishery, the

  large sweep-seines, the windlasses on shore work’d by horses,

  the clearing, curing, and packing houses;

  Deep in the forest in piney woods turpentine dropping from the

  incisions in the trees, there are the turpentine works,

  There are the negroes at work in good health, the ground in all

  directions is cover’d with pine straw;

  In Tennessee and Kentucky slaves busy in the coalings, at the

  forge, by the furnace-blaze, or at the corn-shucking,

  In Virginia, the planter’s son returning after a long absence,

  joyfully welcom’d and kiss’d by the aged mulatto nurse,

  On rivers boatmen safely moor’d at nightfall in their boats under

  shelter of high banks,

  Some of the younger men dance to the sound of the banjo or

  fiddle, others sit on the gunwale smoking and talking;

  Late in the afternoon the mocking-bird, the American mimic,

  singing in the Great Dismal Swamp,

  There are the greenish waters, the resinous odor, the plenteous

  moss, the cypress-tree, and the juniper-tree;

  Northward, young men of Mannahatta, the target company from

  an excursion returning home at evening, the musket-muzzles

  all bear bunches of flowers presented by women;

  Children at play, or on his father’s lap a young boy fallen asleep,

  (how his lips move! how he smiles in his sleep!)

  The scout riding on horseback over the plains west of the

  Mississippi, he ascends a knoll and sweeps his eyes around;

  California life, the miner, bearded, dress’d in his rude costume,