Leaves of Grass Page #16

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

								

  In my portfolio placing Manito loose, Allah on a leaf, the crucifix
      engraved,
  With Odin and the hideous-faced Mexitli and every idol and image,
  Taking them all for what they are worth and not a cent more,
  Admitting they were alive and did the work of their days,
  (They bore mites as for unfledg'd birds who have now to rise and fly
      and sing for themselves,)
  Accepting the rough deific sketches to fill out better in myself,
      bestowing them freely on each man and woman I see,
  Discovering as much or more in a framer framing a house,
  Putting higher claims for him there with his roll'd-up sleeves
      driving the mallet and chisel,
  Not objecting to special revelations, considering a curl of smoke or
      a hair on the back of my hand just as curious as any revelation,
  Lads ahold of fire-engines and hook-and-ladder ropes no less to me
      than the gods of the antique wars,
  Minding their voices peal through the crash of destruction,
  Their brawny limbs passing safe over charr'd laths, their white
      foreheads whole and unhurt out of the flames;
  By the mechanic's wife with her babe at her nipple interceding for
      every person born,
  Three scythes at harvest whizzing in a row from three lusty angels
      with shirts bagg'd out at their waists,
  The snag-tooth'd hostler with red hair redeeming sins past and to come,
  Selling all he possesses, traveling on foot to fee lawyers for his
      brother and sit by him while he is tried for forgery;
  What was strewn in the amplest strewing the square rod about me, and
      not filling the square rod then,
  The bull and the bug never worshipp'd half enough,
  Dung and dirt more admirable than was dream'd,
  The supernatural of no account, myself waiting my time to be one of
      the supremes,
  The day getting ready for me when I shall do as much good as the
      best, and be as prodigious;
  By my life-lumps! becoming already a creator,
  Putting myself here and now to the ambush'd womb of the shadows.

      42
  A call in the midst of the crowd,
  My own voice, orotund sweeping and final.

  Come my children,
  Come my boys and girls, my women, household and intimates,
  Now the performer launches his nerve, he has pass'd his prelude on
      the reeds within.

  Easily written loose-finger'd chords--I feel the thrum of your
      climax and close.

  My head slues round on my neck,
  Music rolls, but not from the organ,
  Folks are around me, but they are no household of mine.

  Ever the hard unsunk ground,
  Ever the eaters and drinkers, ever the upward and downward sun, ever
      the air and the ceaseless tides,
  Ever myself and my neighbors, refreshing, wicked, real,
  Ever the old inexplicable query, ever that thorn'd thumb, that
      breath of itches and thirsts,
  Ever the vexer's hoot! hoot! till we find where the sly one hides
      and bring him forth,
  Ever love, ever the sobbing liquid of life,
  Ever the bandage under the chin, ever the trestles of death.

  Here and there with dimes on the eyes walking,
  To feed the greed of the belly the brains liberally spooning,
  Tickets buying, taking, selling, but in to the feast never once going,
  Many sweating, ploughing, thrashing, and then the chaff for payment
      receiving,
  A few idly owning, and they the wheat continually claiming.

  This is the city and I am one of the citizens,
  Whatever interests the rest interests me, politics, wars, markets,
      newspapers, schools,
  The mayor and councils, banks, tariffs, steamships, factories,
      stocks, stores, real estate and personal estate.

  The little plentiful manikins skipping around in collars and tail'd coats
  I am aware who they are, (they are positively not worms or fleas,)
  I acknowledge the duplicates of myself, the weakest and shallowest
      is deathless with me,
  What I do and say the same waits for them,
  Every thought that flounders in me the same flounders in them.

  I know perfectly well my own egotism,
  Know my omnivorous lines and must not write any less,
  And would fetch you whoever you are flush with myself.

  Not words of routine this song of mine,
  But abruptly to question, to leap beyond yet nearer bring;
  This printed and bound book--but the printer and the
      printing-office boy?
  The well-taken photographs--but your wife or friend close and solid
      in your arms?
  The black ship mail'd with iron, her mighty guns in her turrets--but
      the pluck of the captain and engineers?
  In the houses the dishes and fare and furniture--but the host and
      hostess, and the look out of their eyes?
  The sky up there--yet here or next door, or across the way?
  The saints and sages in history--but you yourself?
  Sermons, creeds, theology--but the fathomless human brain,
  And what is reason? and what is love? and what is life?

       43
  I do not despise you priests, all time, the world over,
  My faith is the greatest of faiths and the least of faiths,
  Enclosing worship ancient and modern and all between ancient and modern,
  Believing I shall come again upon the earth after five thousand years,
  Waiting responses from oracles, honoring the gods, saluting the sun,
  Making a fetich of the first rock or stump, powowing with sticks in
      the circle of obis,
  Helping the llama or brahmin as he trims the lamps of the idols,
  Dancing yet through the streets in a phallic procession, rapt and
      austere in the woods a gymnosophist,
  Drinking mead from the skull-cap, to Shastas and Vedas admirant,
      minding the Koran,
  Walking the teokallis, spotted with gore from the stone and knife,
      beating the serpent-skin drum,
  Accepting the Gospels, accepting him that was crucified, knowing
      assuredly that he is divine,
  To the mass kneeling or the puritan's prayer rising, or sitting
      patiently in a pew,
  Ranting and frothing in my insane crisis, or waiting dead-like till
      my spirit arouses me,
  Looking forth on pavement and land, or outside of pavement and land,
  Belonging to the winders of the circuit of circuits.

  One of that centripetal and centrifugal gang I turn and talk like
      man leaving charges before a journey.

  Down-hearted doubters dull and excluded,
  Frivolous, sullen, moping, angry, affected, dishearten'd, atheistical,
  I know every one of you, I know the sea of torment, doubt, despair
      and unbelief.

  How the flukes splash!
  How they contort rapid as lightning, with spasms and spouts of blood!

  Be at peace bloody flukes of doubters and sullen mopers,
  I take my place among you as much as among any,
  The past is the push of you, me, all, precisely the same,
  And what is yet untried and afterward is for you, me, all, precisely
      the same.

  I do not know what is untried and afterward,
  But I know it will in its turn prove sufficient, and cannot fail.

  Each who passes is consider'd, each who stops is consider'd, not
      single one can it fall.
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