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Leaves of Grass (1881-82)
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OUT OF THE CRADLE ENDLESSLY ROCKING.
OUT of the cradle endlessly rocking, |
Out of the mocking-bird's throat, the musical shuttle, |
Out of the Ninth-month midnight, |
Over the sterile sands and the fields beyond, where the child
leaving his bed wander'd alone, bareheaded, barefoot,
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Down from the shower'd halo, |
Up from the mystic play of shadows twining and twisting as if
they were alive,
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Out from the patches of briers and blackberries, |
From the memories of the bird that chanted to me, |
From your memories sad brother, from the fitful risings and fall-
ings I heard,
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From under that yellow half-moon late-risen and swollen as if with
tears,
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From those beginning notes of yearning and love there in the mist, |
From the thousand responses of my heart never to cease, |
From the myriad thence-arous'd words, |
From the word stronger and more delicious than any, |
From such as now they start the scene revisiting, |
As a flock, twittering, rising, or overhead passing, |
Borne hither, ere all eludes me, hurriedly, |
A man, yet by these tears a little boy again, |
Throwing myself on the sand, confronting the waves, |
I, chanter of pains and joys, uniter of here and hereafter, |
Taking all hints to use them, but swiftly leaping beyond them, |
When the lilac-scent was in the air and Fifth-month grass was
growing,
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Up this seashore in some briers, |
Two feather'd guests from Alabama, two together, |
And their nest, and four light-green eggs spotted with brown, |
And every day the he-bird to and fro near at hand, |
And every day the she-bird crouch'd on her nest, silent, with
bright eyes,
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And every day I, a curious boy, never too close, never disturbing
them,
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Cautiously peering, absorbing, translating. |
Pour down your warmth, great sun! |
While we bask, we two together. |
Winds blowsouth, or winds blow north, |
Day come white, or night come black, |
Home, or rivers and mountains from home, |
Singing all time, minding no time, |
While we two keep together. |
May-be kill'd, unknown to her mate, |
One forenoon the she-bird crouch'd not on the nest, |
Nor return'd that afternoon, nor the next, |
And thenceforward all summer in the sound of the sea, |
And at night under the full of the moon in calmer weather, |
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Over the hoarse surging of the sea, |
Or flitting from brier to brier by day, |
I saw, I heard at intervals the remaining one, the he-bird, |
The solitary guest from Alabama. |
Blow up sea-winds along Paumanok's shore; |
I wait and I wait till you blow my mate to me. |
Yes, when the stars glisten'd, |
All night long on the prong of a moss-scallop'd stake, |
Down almost amid the slapping waves, |
Sat the lone singer wonderful causing tears. |
He pour'd forth the meanings which I of all men know. |
The rest might not, but I have treasur'd every note, |
For more than once dimly down to the beach gliding, |
Silent, avoiding the moonbeams, blending myself with the shadows, |
Recalling now the obscure shapes, the echoes, the sounds and
sights after their sorts,
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The white arms out in the breakers tirelessly tossing, |
I, with bare feet, a child, the wind wafting my hair, |
Listen'd to keep, to sing, now translating the notes, |
Following you my brother. |
Close on its wave soothes the wave behind, |
And again another behind embracing and lapping, every one close, |
But my love soothes not me, not me. |
Low hangs the moon, it rose late, |
It is lagging—O I think it is heavy with love, with love. |
O madly the sea pushes upon the land, |
O night! do I not see my love fluttering out among the breakers? |
What is that little black thing I see there in the white? |
Loud I call to you, my love! |
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High and clear I shoot my voice over the waves, |
Surely you must know who is here, is here, |
You must know who I am, my love. |
What is that dusky spot in your brown yellow? |
O it is the shape, the shape of my mate! |
O moon do not keep her from me any longer. |
Whichever way I turn, O I think you could give me my mate
back again if you only would,
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For I am almost sure I see her dimly whichever way I look. |
Perhaps the one I want so much will rise, will rise with some
of you.
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O throat! O trembling throat! |
Sound clearer through the atmosphere! |
Pierce the woods, the earth, |
Somewhere listening to catch you must be the one I want. |
Solitary here, the night's carols! |
Carols of lonesome love! death's carols! |
Carols under that lagging, yellow, waning moon! |
O under that moon where she droops almost down into the sea! |
O reckless despairing carols. |
Soft! let me just murmur, |
And do you wait a moment you husky-nois'd sea, |
For somewhere I believe I heard my mate responding to me, |
So faint, I must be still, be still to listen, |
But not altogether still, for then she might not come immediately
to me.
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With this just-sustain'd note I announce myself to you, |
This gentle call is for you my love, for you. |
Do not be decoy'd elsewhere, |
That is the whistle of the wind, it is not my voice, |
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That is the fluttering, the fluttering of the spray, |
Those are the shadows of leaves. |
O I am very sick and sorrowful. |
O brown halo in the sky near the moon, drooping upon the sea! |
O troubled reflection in the sea! |
O throat! O throbbing heart! |
And I singing uselessly, uselessly all the night. |
O past! O happy life! O songs of joy! |
In the air, in the woods, over fields, |
Loved! loved! loved! loved! loved! |
But my mate no more, no more with me! |
All else continuing, the stars shining, |
The winds blowing, the notes of the bird continuous echoing, |
With angry moans the fierce old mother incessantly moaning, |
On the sands of Paumanok's shore gray and rustling, |
The yellow half-moon enlarged, sagging down, drooping, the face
of the sea almost touching,
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The boy ecstatic, with his bare feet the waves, with his hair the
atmosphere dallying,
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The love in the heart long pent, now loose, now at last tumultu-
ously bursting,
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The aria's meaning, the ears, the soul, swiftly depositing, |
The strange tears down the cheeks coursing, |
The colloquy there, the trio, each uttering, |
The undertone, the savage old mother incessantly crying, |
To the boy's soul's questions sullenly timing, some drown'd secret
hissing,
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Demon or bird! (said the boy's soul,) |
Is it indeed toward your mate you sing? or is it really to me? |
For I, that was a child, my tongue's use sleeping, now I have
heard you,
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Now in a moment I know what I am for, I awake, |
And already a thousand singers, a thousand songs, clearer, louder
and more sorrowful than yours,
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A thousand warbling echoes have started to life within me, never
to die.
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O you singer solitary, singing by yourself, projecting me, |
O solitary me listening, never more shall I cease perpetuating
you,
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Never more shall I escape, never more the reverberations, |
Never more the cries of unsatisfied love be absent from me, |
Never again leave me to be the peaceful child I was before what
there in the night,
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By the sea under the yellow and sagging moon, |
The messenger there arous'd, the fire, the sweet hell within, |
The unknown want, the destiny of me. |
O give me the clew! (it lurks in the night here somewhere,) |
O if I am to have so much, let me have more! |
A word then, (for I will conquer it,) |
The word final, superior to all, |
Subtle, sent up—what is it?—I listen; |
Are you whispering it, and have been all the time, you sea-
waves?
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Is that it from your liquid rims and wet sands? |
Whereto answering, the sea, |
Delaying not, hurrying not, |
Whisper'd me through the night, and very plainly before day-
break,
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Lisp'd to me the low and delicious word death, |
And again death, death, death, death, |
Hissing melodious, neither like the bird nor like my arous'd child's
heart,
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But edging near as privately for me rustling at my feet, |
Creeping thence steadily up to my ears and laving me softly all
over,
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Death, death, death, death, death. |
But fuse the song of my dusky demon and brother, |
That he sang to me in the moonlight on Paumanok's gray beach, |
With the thousand responsive songs at random, |
My own songs awaked from that hour, |
And with them the key, the word up from the waves, |
The word of the sweetest song and all songs, |
That strong and delicious word which, creeping to my feet, |
(Or like some old crone rocking the cradle, swathed in sweet
garments, bending aside,)
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