Leaves of Grass Page #14

Leaves of Grass is a poetry collection by the American poet Walt Whitman (1819–1892). Although the first edition was published in 1855, Whitman spent most of his professional life writing and re-writing Leaves of Grass, revising it multiple times until his death. This resulted in vastly different editions over four decades—the first, a small book of twelve poems and the last, a compilation of over 400.

• Poetry

								

      feet and caution,
  Or we are entering by the suburbs some vast and ruin'd 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 bridegroom out of bed and stay with the bride myself,
  I tighten her all night to my thighs and lips.

  My voice is the wife's voice, the screech by the rail of the stairs,
  They fetch my man's body up dripping and drown'd.

  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 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,
  How the lank loose-gown'd women look'd when boated from the
      side of their prepared graves,
  How the silent old-faced infants and the lifted sick, and the
      sharp-lipp'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.

  The disdain and calmness of martyrs,
  The mother of old, condemn'd for a witch, burnt with dry wood, her
      children gazing on,
  The hounded slave that flags in the race, leans by the fence,
      blowing, cover'd 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, thinn'd 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 mash'd 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 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,
  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 fort's 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-aim'd 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.

       34
  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 form'd 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, receiv'd writing and
      seal, gave up their arms and march'd 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 o'clock and was over by eight.

  None obey'd 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 maim'd and mangled dug in the dirt, the new-comers saw them there,
  Some half-kill'd attempted to crawl away,
  These were despatch'd with bayonets or batter'd with the blunts of muskets,
  A youth not seventeen years old seiz'd his assassin till two more
      came to release him,
  The three were all torn and cover'd with the boy's blood.

  At eleven o'clock began the burning of the bodies;
  That is the tale of the murder of the four hundred and twelve young men.

       35
  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 grandmother's father the sailor told it to me.

  Our foe was no skulk 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 lower'd eve he came horribly raking us.

  We closed with him, the yards entangled, the cannon touch'd,
  My captain lash'd fast with his own hands.

  We had receiv'd 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 o'clock 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 enemy's main-mast,
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