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Leaves of Grass (1891-92)
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SONGS OF PARTING.
AS THE TIME DRAWS NIGH.
AS the time draws nigh glooming a cloud, |
A dread beyond of I know not what darkens me. |
I shall traverse the States awhile, but I cannot tell whither or how
long,
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Perhaps soon some day or night while I am singing my voice will
suddenly cease.
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O book, O chants! must all then amount to but this? |
Must we barely arrive at this beginning of us?—and yet it is
enough, O soul;
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O soul, we have positively appear'd—that is enough. |
YEARS OF THE MODERN.
YEARS of the modern! years of the unperform'd! |
Your horizon rises, I see it parting away for more august dramas, |
I see not America only, not only Liberty's nation but other nations
preparing,
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I see tremendous entrances and exits, new combinations, the soli-
darity of races,
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I see that force advancing with irresistible power on the world's
stage,
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(Have the old forces, the old wars, played their parts? are the
acts suitable to them closed?)
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I see Freedom, completely arm'd and victorious and very haughty,
with Law on one side and Peace on the other,
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A stupendous trio all issuing forth against the idea of caste; |
What historic denouements are these we so rapidly approach? |
I see men marching and countermarching by swift millions, |
I see the frontiers and boundaries of the old aristocracies broken, |
I see the landmarks of European kings removed, |
I see this day the People beginning their landmarks, (all others
give way;)
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Never were such sharp questions ask'd as this day, |
Never was average man, his soul, more energetic, more like a God, |
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Lo, how he urges and urges, leaving the masses no rest! |
His daring foot is on land and sea everywhere, he colonizes the
Pacific, the archipelagoes,
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With the steamship, the electric telegraph, the newspaper, the
wholesale engines of war,
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With these and the world-spreading factories he interlinks all
geography, all lands;
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What whispers are these O lands, running ahead of you, passing
under the seas?
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Are all nations communing? is there going to be but one heart to
the globe?
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Is humanity forming en-masse? for lo, tyrants tremble, crowns
grow dim,
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The earth, restive, confronts a new era, perhaps a general divine war, |
No one knows what will happen next, such portents fill the days
and nights;
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Years prophetical! the space ahead as I walk, as I vainly try to
pierce it, is full of phantoms,
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Unborn deeds, things soon to be, project their shapes around me, |
This incredible rush and heat, this strange ecstatic fever of dreams
O years!
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Your dreams O years, how they penetrate through me! (I know
not whether I sleep or wake;)
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The perform'd America and Europe grow dim, retiring in shadow
behind me,
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The unperform'd, more gigantic than ever, advance, advance upon
me.
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ASHES OF SOLDIERS.
ASHES of soldiers South or North, |
As I muse retrospective murmuring a chant in thought, |
The war resumes, again to my sense your shapes, |
And again the advance of the armies. |
Noiseless as mists and vapors, |
From their graves in the trenches ascending, |
From cemeteries all through Virginia and Tennessee, |
From every point of the compass out of the countless graves, |
In wafted clouds, in myriads large, or squads of twos or threes or
single ones they come,
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And silently gather round me. |
Now sound no note O trumpeters, |
Not at the head of my cavalry parading on spirited horses, |
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With sabres drawn and glistening, and carbines by their thighs, (ah
my brave horsemen!
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My handsome tan-faced horsemen! what life, what joy and pride, |
With all the perils were yours.) |
Nor you drummers, neither at reveillé at dawn, |
Nor the long roll alarming the camp, nor even the muffled beat
for a burial,
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Nothing from you this time O drummers bearing my warlike drums. |
But aside from these and the marts of wealth and the crowded
promenade,
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Admitting around me comrades close unseen by the rest and
voiceless,
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The slain elate and alive again, the dust and debris alive, |
I chant this chant of my silent soul in the name of all dead
soldiers.
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Faces so pale with wondrous eyes, very dear, gather closer yet, |
Draw close, but speak not. |
Phantoms of countless lost, |
Invisible to the rest henceforth become my companions, |
Follow me ever—desert me not while I live. |
Sweet are the blooming cheeks of the living—sweet are the musi-
cal voices sounding,
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But sweet, ah sweet, are the dead with their silent eyes. |
Dearest comrades, all is over and long gone, |
But love is not over—and what love, O comrades! |
Perfume from battle-fields rising, up from the foetor arising. |
Perfume therefore my chant, O love, immortal love, |
Give me to bathe the memories of all dead soldiers, |
Shroud them, embalm them, cover them all over with tender pride. |
Perfume all—make all wholesome, |
Make these ashes to nourish and blossom, |
O love, solve all, fructify all with the last chemistry. |
Give me exhaustless, make me a fountain, |
That I exhale love from me wherever I go like a moist perennial
dew,
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For the ashes of all dead soldiers South or North. |
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THOUGHTS.
1
How they pass and have pass'd through convuls'd pains, as through
parturitions,
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How America illustrates birth, muscular youth, the promise, the
sure fulfilment, the absolute success, despite of people—
illustrates evil as well as good,
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The vehement struggle so fierce for unity in one's-self; |
How many hold despairingly yet to the models departed, caste,
myths, obedience, compulsion, and to infidelity,
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How few see the arrived models, the athletes, the Western States,
or see freedom or spirituality, or hold any faith in results,
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(But I see the athletes, and I see the results of the war glorious
and inevitable, and they again leading to other results.)
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How the great cities appear—how the Democratic masses, turbu-
lent, wilful, as I love them,
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How the whirl, the contest, the wrestle of evil with good, the
sounding and resounding, keep on and on,
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How society waits unform'd, and is for a while between things
ended and things begun,
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How America is the continent of glories, and of the triumph of
freedom and of the Democracies, and of the fruits of so-
ciety, and of all that is begun,
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And how the States are complete in themselves—and how all
triumphs and glories are complete in themselves, to lead
onward,
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And how these of mine and of the States will in their turn be con-
vuls'd, and serve other parturitions and transitions,
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And how all people, sights, combinations, the democratic masses
too, serve—and how every fact, and war itself, with all its
horrors, serves,
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And how now or at any time each serves the exquisite transition
of death.
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2
Of seeds dropping into the ground, of births, |
Of the steady concentration of America, inland, upward, to im-
pregnable and swarming places,
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Of what Indiana, Kentucky, Arkansas, and the rest, are to be, |
Of what a few years will show there in Nebraska, Colorado,
Nevada, and the rest,
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(Or afar, mounting the Northern Pacific to Sitka or Aliaska,) |
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Of what the feuillage of America is the preparation for—and of
what all sights, North, South, East and West, are,
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Of this Union welded in blood, of the solemn price paid, of the
unnamed lost ever present in my mind;
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Of the temporary use of materials for identity's sake, |
Of the present, passing, departing—of the growth of completer
men than any yet,
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Of all sloping down there where the fresh free giver the mother,
the Mississippi flows,
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Of mighty inland cities yet unsurvey'd and unsuspected, |
Of the new and good names, of the modern developments, of
inalienable homesteads,
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Of a free and original life there, of simple diet and clean and
sweet blood,
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Of litheness, majestic faces, clear eyes, and perfect physique there, |
Of immense spiritual results future years far West, each side of the
Anahuacs,
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Of these songs, well understood there, (being made for that area,) |
Of the native scorn of grossness and gain there, |
(O it lurks in me night and day—what is gain after all to savage-
ness and freedom?)
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SONG AT SUNSET.
SPLENDOR of ended day floating and filling me, |
Hour prophetic, hour resuming the past, |
Inflating my throat, you divine average, |
You earth and life till the last ray gleams I sing. |
Open mouth of my soul uttering gladness, |
Eyes of my soul seeing perfection, |
Natural life of me faithfully praising things, |
Corroborating forever the triumph of things. |
Illustrious what we name space, sphere of unnumber'd spirits, |
Illustrious the mystery of motion in all beings, even the tiniest
insect,
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Illustrious the attribute of speech, the senses, the body, |
Illustrious the passing light—illustrious the pale reflection on the
new moon in the western sky,
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Illustrious whatever I see or hear or touch, to the last. |
In the satisfaction and aplomb of animals, |
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In the annual return of the seasons, |
In the hilarity of youth, |
In the strength and flush of manhood, |
In the grandeur and exquisiteness of old age, |
In the superb vistas of death. |
The heart, to jet the all-alike and innocent blood! |
To breathe the air, how delicious! |
To speak—to walk—to seize something by the hand! |
To prepare for sleep, for bed, to look on my rose-color'd flesh! |
To be conscious of my body, so satisfied, so large! |
To be this incredible God I am! |
To have gone forth among other Gods, these men and women I
love.
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Wonderful how I celebrate you and myself! |
How my thoughts play subtly at the spectacles around! |
How the clouds pass silently overhead! |
How the earth darts on and on! and how the sun, moon, stars,
dart on and on!
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How the water sports and sings! (surely it is alive!) |
How the trees rise and stand up, with strong trunks, with branches
and leaves!
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(Surely there is something more in each of the trees, some living
soul.)
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O amazement of things—even the least particle! |
O spirituality of things! |
O strain musical flowing through ages and continents, now reaching
me and America!
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I take your strong chords, intersperse them, and cheerfully pass
them forward.
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I too carol the sun, usher'd or at noon, or as now, setting, |
I too throb to the brain and beauty of the earth and of all the
growths of the earth,
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I too have felt the resistless call of myself. |
As I steam'd down the Mississippi, |
As I wander'd over the prairies, |
As I have lived, as I have look'd through my windows my eyes, |
As I went forth in the morning, as I beheld the light breaking in
the east,
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As I bathed on the beach of the Eastern Sea, and again on the
beach of the Western Sea,
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As I roam'd the streets of inland Chicago, whatever streets I have
roam'd,
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Or cities or silent woods, or even amid the sights of war, |
Wherever I have been I have charged myself with contentment
and triumph.
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I sing to the last the equalities modern or old, |
I sing the endless finalés of things, |
I say Nature continues, glory continues, |
I praise with electric voice, |
For I do not see one imperfection in the universe, |
And I do not see one cause or result lamentable at last in the
universe.
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O setting sun! though the time has come, |
I still warble under you, if none else does, unmitigated adoration. |
AS AT THY PORTALS ALSO DEATH.
AS at thy portals also death, |
Entering thy sovereign, dim, illimitable grounds, |
To memories of my mother, to the divine blending, maternity, |
To her, buried and gone, yet buried not, gone not from me, |
(I see again the calm benignant face fresh and beautiful still, |
I sit by the form in the coffin, |
I kiss and kiss convulsively again the sweet old lips, the cheeks,
the closed eyes in the coffin;)
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To her, the ideal woman, practical, spiritual, of all of earth, life,
love, to me the best,
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I grave a monumental line, before I go, amid these songs, |
And set a tombstone here. |
MY LEGACY.
THE business man the acquirer vast, |
After assiduous years surveying results, preparing for departure, |
Devises houses and lands to his children, bequeaths stocks, goods,
funds for a school or hospital,
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Leaves money to certain companions to buy tokens, souvenirs of
gems and gold.
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But I, my life surveying, closing, |
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With nothing to show to devise from its idle years, |
Nor houses nor lands, nor tokens of gems or gold for my friends, |
Yet certain remembrances of the war for you, and after you, |
And little souvenirs of camps and soldiers, with my love, |
I bind together and bequeath in this bundle of songs. |
PENSIVE ON HER DEAD GAZING.
PENSIVE on her dead gazing I heard the Mother of All, |
Desperate on the torn bodies, on the forms covering the battle-
fields gazing,
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(As the last gun ceased, but the scent of the powder-smoke
linger'd,)
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As she call'd to her earth with mournful voice while she stalk'd, |
Absorb them well O my earth, she cried, I charge you lose not
my sons, lose not an atom,
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And you streams absorb them well, taking their dear blood, |
And you local spots, and you airs that swim above lightly
impalpable,
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And all you essences of soil and growth, and you my rivers' depths, |
And you mountain sides, and the woods where my dear children's
blood trickling redden'd,
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And you trees down in your roots to bequeath to all future trees, |
My dead absorb or South or North—my young men's bodies
absorb, and their precious precious blood,
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Which holding in trust for me faithfully back again give me many
a year hence,
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In unseen essence and odor of surface and grass, centuries hence, |
In blowing airs from the fields back again give me my darlings,
give my immortal heroes,
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Exhale me them centuries hence, breathe me their breath, let not
an atom be lost,
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O years and graves! O air and soil! O my dead, an aroma sweet! |
Exhale them perennial sweet death, years, centuries hence. |
CAMPS OF GREEN.
NOT alone those camps of white, old comrades of the wars, |
When as order'd forward, after a long march, |
Footsore and weary, soon as the light lessens we halt for the night, |
Some of us so fatigued carrying the gun and knapsack, dropping
asleep in our tracks,
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Others pitching the little tents, and the fires lit up begin to
sparkle,
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Outposts of pickets posted surrounding alert through the dark, |
And a word provided for countersign, careful for safety, |
Till to the call of the drummers at daybreak loudly beating the
drums,
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We rise up refresh'd, the night and sleep pass'd over, and resume
our journey,
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Lo, the camps of the tents of green, |
Which the days of peace keep filling, and the days of war keep
filling,
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With a mystic army, (is it too order'd forward? is it too only halt
ing awhile,
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Till night and sleep pass over?) |
Now in those camps of green, in their tents dotting the world, |
In the parents, children, husbands, wives, in them, in the old and
young,
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Sleeping under the sunlight, sleeping under the moonlight, content
and silent there at last,
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Behold the mighty bivouac-field and waiting-camp of all, |
Of the corps and generals all, and the President over the corps
and generals all,
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And of each of us O soldiers, and of each and all in the ranks we
fought,
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(There without hatred we all, all meet.) |
For presently O soldiers, we too camp in our place in the bivouac-
camps of green,
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But we need not provide for outposts, nor word for the counter-
sign,
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Nor drummer to beat the morning drum. |
THE SOBBING OF THE BELLS.
( Midnight, Sept. 19-20, 1881.)
THE sobbing of the bells, the sudden death-news everywhere, |
The slumberers rouse, the rapport of the People, |
(Full well they know that message in the darkness, |
Full well return, respond within their breasts, their brains, the sad
reverberations,)
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The passionate toll and clang—city to city, joining, sounding,
passing,
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Those heart-beats of a Nation in the night. |
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AS THEY DRAW TO A CLOSE.
Of what underlies the precedent songs—of my aims in them, |
Of the seed I have sought to plant in them, |
Of joy, sweet joy, through many a year, in them, |
(For them, for them have I lived, in them my work is done,) |
Of many an aspiration fond, of many a dream and plan; |
Through Space and Time fused in a chant, and the flowing eternal
identity,
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To Nature encompassing these, encompassing God—to the joy-
ous, electric all,
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To the sense of Death, and accepting exulting in Death in its
turn the same as life,
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The entrance of man to sing; |
To compact you, ye parted, diverse lives, |
To put rapport the mountains and rocks and streams, |
And the winds of the north, and the forests of oak and pine, |
JOY, SHIPMATE, JOY!
(Pleas'd to my soul at death I cry,) |
Our life is closed, our life begins, |
The long, long anchorage we leave, |
The ship is clear at last, she leaps! |
She swiftly courses from the shore, |
THE UNTOLD WANT.
THE untold want by life and land ne'er granted, |
Now voyager sail thou forth to seek and find. |
PORTALS.
WHAT are those of the known but to ascend and enter the
Unknown?
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And what are those of life but for Death? |
THESE CAROLS.
THESE carols sung to cheer my passage through the world I see, |
For completion I dedicate to the Invisible World. |
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NOW FINALÈ TO THE SHORE.
Now land and life finalè and farewell, |
Now Voyager depart, (much, much for thee is yet in store,) |
Often enough hast thou adventur'd o'er the seas, |
Cautiously cruising, studying the charts, |
Duly again to port and hawser's tie returning; |
But now obey thy cherish'd secret wish, |
Embrace thy friends, leave all in order, |
To port and hawser's tie no more returning, |
Depart upon thy endless cruise old Sailor. |
SO LONG!
TO conclude, I announce what comes after me. |
I remember I said before my leaves sprang at all, |
I would raise my voice jocund and strong with reference to con-
summations.
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When America does what was promis'd, |
When through these States walk a hundred millions of superb
persons,
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When the rest part away for superb persons and contribute to them, |
When breeds of the most perfect mothers denote America, |
Then to me and mine our due fruition. |
I have press'd through in my own right, |
I have sung the body and the soul, war and peace have I sung,
and the songs of life and death,
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And the songs of birth, and shown that there are many births. |
I have offer'd my style to every one, I have journey'd with confi-
dent step;
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While my pleasure is yet at the full I whisper So long! |
And take the young woman's hand and the young man's hand for
the last time.
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I announce natural persons to arise, |
I announce justice triumphant, |
I announce uncompromising liberty and equality, |
I announce the justification of candor and the justification of
pride.
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I announce that the identity of these States is a single identity
only,
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I announce the Union more and more
compact, indissoluble, |
I announce splendors and majesties to make all the previous poli-
tics of the earth insignificant.
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I announce adhesiveness, I say it shall be limitless, unloosen'd, |
I say you shall yet find the friend you were looking for. |
I announce a man or woman coming, perhaps you are the one,
( So long! )
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I announce the great individual, fluid as Nature, chaste, affection-
ate, compassionate, fully arm'd.
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I announce a life that shall be copious, vehement, spiritual, bold, |
I announce an end that shall lightly and joyfully meet its transla-
tion.
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I announce myriads of youths, beautiful, gigantic, sweet-blooded, |
I announce a race of splendid and savage old men. |
O thicker and faster—( So long! )
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O crowding too close upon me, |
I foresee too much, it means more than I thought, |
It appears to me I am dying. |
Hasten throat and sound your last, |
Salute me—salute the days once more. Peal the old cry once
more.
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Screaming electric, the atmosphere using, |
At random glancing, each as I notice absorbing, |
Swiftly on, but a little while alighting, |
Curious envelop'd messages delivering, |
Sparkles hot, seed ethereal down in the dirt dropping, |
Myself unknowing, my commission obeying, to question it never
daring,
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To ages and ages yet the growth of the seed leaving, |
To troops out of the war arising, they the tasks I have set promul-
ging,
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To women certain whispers of myself bequeathing, their affection
me more clearly explaining,
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To young men my problems offering—no dallier I—I the mus
cle of their brains trying,
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So I pass, a little time vocal, visible, contrary, |
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Afterward a melodious echo, passionately bent for, (death making
me really undying,)
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The best of me then when no longer visible, for toward that I have
been incessantly preparing.
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What is there more, that I lag and pause and crouch extended
with unshut mouth?
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Is there a single final farewell? |
My songs cease, I abandon them, |
From behind the screen where I hid I advance personally solely
to you.
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Camerado, this is no book, |
Who touches this touches a man, |
(Is it night? are we here together alone?) |
It is I you hold and who holds you, |
I spring from the pages into your arms—decease calls me forth. |
O how your fingers drowse me, |
Your breath falls around me like dew, your pulse lulls the tympans
of my ears,
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I feel immerged from head to foot, |
Enough O deed impromptu and secret, |
Enough O gliding present—enough O summ'd-up past. |
Dear friend whoever you are take this kiss, |
I give it especially to you, do not forget me, |
I feel like one who has done work for the day to retire awhile, |
I receive now again of my many translations, from my avataras as-
cending, while others doubtless await me,
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An unknown sphere more real than I dream'd, more direct, darts
awakening rays about me, So long!
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Remember my words, I may again return, |
I love you, I depart from materials, |
I am as one disembodied, triumphant, dead. |
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