corpus.txt

the raven
once upon a midnight dreary, while i pondered, weak and weary,
over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore--
while i nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
as of some one gently rapping--rapping at my chamber door
tis some visitor, i muttered, tapping at my chamber door--
only this and nothing more
ah, distinctly i remember, it was in the bleak december,
and each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor
eagerly i wished the morrow--vainly i had sought to borrow
from my books surcease of sorrow--sorrow for the lost lenore--
for the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name lenore--
nameless here for evermore
and the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
thrilled me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before
so that now, to still the beating of my heart, i stood repeating
tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door--
some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door--
this it is and nothing more
presently my soul grew stronger hesitating then no longer,
sir, said i, or madam, truly your forgiveness i implore
but the fact is i was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
and so faintly you came tapping--tapping at my chamber door,
that i scarce was sure i heard you--here i opened wide the door--
darkness there and nothing more
deep into that darkness peering, long i stood there wondering,
fearing,
doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before
but the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
and the only word there spoken was the whispered word, lenore
this i whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, lenore
merely this and nothing more
back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
soon i heard again a tapping, somewhat louder than before
surely, said i, surely that is something at my window lattice
let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore--
let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore--
tis the wind and nothing more
open here i flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
in there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore
not the least obeisance made he not an instant stopped or stayed he
but, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door--
perched upon a bust of pallas just above my chamber door--
perched, and sat, and nothing more
then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
by the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou, i said, art sure no
craven,
ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore--
tell me what thy lordly name is on the nights plutonian shore
quoth the raven, nevermore
much i marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
though its answer little meaning--little relevancy bore
for we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door--
bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
with such name as nevermore
but the raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only
that one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour
nothing further then he uttered--not a feather then he fluttered--
till i scarcely more than muttered, other friends have flown before--
on the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before
then the bird said, nevermore
startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
doubtless, said i, what it utters is its only stock and store,
caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore--
till the dirges of his hope the melancholy burden bore
of never--nevermore
but the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
straight i wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and
door
then, upon the velvet sinking, i betook myself to linking
fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore--
what this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
meant in croaking nevermore
this i sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
to the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosoms core
this and more i sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
on the cushions velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated oer,
but whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating oer,
she shall press, ah, nevermore
then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor
wretch, i cried, thy god hath lent thee--by these angels he hath
sent thee
respite--respite aad nepenth from thy memories of lenore
quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenth, and forget this lost lenore
quoth the raven, nevermore
prophet said i, thing of evil--prophet still, if bird or devil--
whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted--
on this home by horror haunted--tell me truly, i implore--
is there--is there balm in gilead?--tell me--tell me, i implore
quoth the raven, nevermore
prophet said i, thing of evil--prophet still, if bird or devil
by that heaven that bends above us--by that god we both adore--
tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant aidenn,
it shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name lenore--
clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name lenore
quoth the raven, nevermore
be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend i shrieked,
upstarting--
get thee back into the tempest and the nights plutonian shore
leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken
leave my loneliness unbroken--quit the bust above my door
take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door
quoth the raven, nevermore
and the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
on the pallid bust of pallas just above my chamber door
and his eyes have all the seeming of a demons that is dreaming,
and the lamp-light oer him streaming throws his shadow on the floor
and my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
shall be lifted--nevermore
published, 
  
the bells,
hear the sledges with the bells--
silver bells
what a world of merriment their melody foretells
how they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
in their icy air of night
while the stars, that oversprinkle
all the heavens, seem to twinkle
with a crystalline delight
keeping time, time, time,
in a sort of runic rhyme,
to the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
from the bells, bells, bells, bells,
bells, bells, bells--
from the jingling and the tinkling of the bells
hear the mellow wedding bells,
golden bells
what a world of happiness their harmony foretells
through the balmy air of night
how they ring out their delight
from the molten golden-notes,
and all in tune,
what a liquid ditty floats
to the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
on the moon
oh, from out the sounding cells,
what a gush of euphony voluminously wells
how it swells
how it dwells
on the future how it tells
of the rapture that impels
to the swinging and the ringing
of the bells, bells, bells,
of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
bells, bells, bells--
to the rhyming and the chiming of the bells
hear the loud alarum bells--
brazen bells
what a tale of terror now their turbulency tells
in the startled ear of night
how they scream out their affright
too much horrified to speak,
they can only shriek, shriek,
out of tune,
in a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
in a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire
leaping higher, higher, higher,
with a desperate desire,
and a resolute endeavor
now--now to sit or never,
by the side of the pale-faced moon
oh, the bells, bells, bells
what a tale their terror tells
of despair
how they clang, and clash, and roar
what a horror they outpour
on the bosom of the palpitating air
yet the ear it fully knows,
by the twanging,
and the clanging,
how the danger ebbs and flows
yet the ear distinctly tells,
in the jangling,
and the wrangling,
how the danger sinks and swells,
by the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells--
of the bells--
of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
bells, bells, bells--
in the clamor and the clangor of the bells
hear the tolling of the bells--
iron bells
what a world of solemn thought their monody compels
in the silence of the night,
how we shiver with affright
at the melancholy menace of their tone
for every sound that floats
from the rust within their throats
is a groan
and the people--ah, the people--
they that dwell up in the steeple
all alone,
and who toiling, toiling, toiling,
in that muffled monotone,
feel a glory in so rolling
on the human heart a stone--
they are neither man nor woman--
they are neither brute nor human--
they are ghouls
and their king it is who tolls
and he rolls, rolls, rolls,
rolls
a pan from the bells
and his merry bosom swells
with the pan of the bells
and he dances, and he yells
keeping time, time, time,
in a sort of runic rhyme,
to the pan of the bells--
of the bells
keeping time, time, time,
in a sort of runic rhyme,
to the throbbing of the bells--
of the bells, bells, bells--
to the sobbing of the bells
keeping time, time, time,
as he knells, knells, knells,
in a happy runic rhyme,
to the rolling of the bells--
of the bells, bells, bells--
to the tolling of the bells,
of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
bells, bells, bells--
to the moaning and the groaning of the bells
  
ulalume
the skies they were ashen and sober
the leaves they were crisped and sere--
the leaves they were withering and sere
it was night in the lonesome october
of my most immemorial year
it was hard by the dim lake of auber,
in the misty mid region of weir--
it was down by the dank tarn of auber,
in the ghoul-haunted woodland of weir
here once, through an alley titanic
of cypress, i roamed with my soul--
of cypress, with psyche, my soul
these were days when my heart was volcanic
as the scoriac rivers that roll--
as the lavas that restlessly roll
their sulphurous currents down yaanek
in the ultimate climes of the pole--
that groan as they roll down mount yaanek
in the realms of the boreal pole
our talk had been serious and sober,
but our thoughts they were palsied and sere--
our memories were treacherous and sere--
for we knew not the month was october,
and we marked not the night of the year--
ah, night of all nights in the year
we noted not the dim lake of auber--
though once we had journeyed down here--
remembered not the dank tarn of auber,
nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of weir
and now as the night was senescent
and star-dials pointed to morn--
as the sun-dials hinted of morn--
at the end of our path a liquescent
and nebulous lustre was born,
out of which a miraculous crescent
arose with a duplicate horn--
astartes bediamonded crescent
distinct with its duplicate horn
and i said--she is warmer than dian
she rolls through an ether of sighs--
she revels in a region of sighs
she has seen that the tears are not dry on
these cheeks, where the worm never dies,
and has come past the stars of the lion
to point us the path to the skies--
to the lethean peace of the skies--
come up, in despite of the lion,
to shine on us with her bright eyes--
come up through the lair of the lion,
with love in her luminous eyes
but psyche, uplifting her finger,
said--sadly this star i mistrust--
her pallor i strangely mistrust--
oh, hasten--oh, let us not linger
oh, fly--let us fly--for we must
in terror she spoke, letting sink her
wings till they trailed in the dust--
in agony sobbed, letting sink her
plumes till they trailed in the dust--
till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust
i replied--this is nothing but dreaming
let us on by this tremulous light
let us bathe in this crystalline light
its sibyllic splendor is beaming
with hope and in beauty to-night--
see--it flickers up the sky through the night
ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,
and be sure it will lead us aright--
we safely may trust to a gleaming
that cannot but guide us aright,
since it flickers up to heaven through the night
thus i pacified psyche and kissed her,
and tempted her out of her gloom--
and conquered her scruples and gloom
and we passed to the end of a vista,
but were stopped by the door of a tomb--
by the door of a legended tomb
and i said--what is written, sweet sister,
on the door of this legended tomb?
she replied--ulalume--ulalume--
tis the vault of thy lost ulalume
then my heart it grew ashen and sober
as the leaves that were crisped and sere--
as the leaves that were withering and sere
and i cried--it was surely october
on this very night of last year
that i journeyed--i journeyed down here--
that i brought a dread burden down here
on this night of all nights in the year,
ah, what demon has tempted me here?
well i know, now, this dim lake of auber--
this misty mid region of weir--
well i know, now, this dank tarn of auber,--
this ghoul-haunted woodland of weir
  
to helen
i saw thee once--once only--years ago
i must not say how many--but not many
it was a july midnight and from out
a full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring,
sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven,
there fell a silvery-silken veil of light,
with quietude, and sultriness and slumber,
upon the upturnd faces of a thousand
roses that grew in an enchanted garden,
where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe--
fell on the upturnd faces of these roses
that gave out, in return for the love-light,
their odorous souls in an ecstatic death--
fell on the upturnd faces of these roses
that smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted
by thee, and by the poetry of thy presence
clad all in white, upon a violet bank
i saw thee half-reclining while the moon
fell on the upturnd faces of the roses,
and on thine own, upturnd--alas, in sorrow
was it not fate, that, on this july midnight--
was it not fate whose name is also sorrow,
that bade me pause before that garden-gate,
to breathe the incense of those slumbering roses?
no footstep stirred the hated world all slept,
save only thee and me--o heaven--o god
how my heart beats in coupling those two words--
save only thee and me i paused--i looked--
and in an instant all things disappeared
ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted
the pearly lustre of the moon went out
the mossy banks and the meandering paths,
the happy flowers and the repining trees,
were seen no more the very roses odors
died in the arms of the adoring airs
all--all expired save thee--save less than thou
save only the divine light in thine eyes--
save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes
i saw but them--they were the world to me
i saw but them--saw only them for hours--
saw only them until the moon went down
what wild heart-histories seemed to lie unwritten
upon those crystalline, celestial spheres
how dark a woe yet how sublime a hope
how silently serene a sea of pride
how daring an ambition yet how deep--
how fathomless a capacity for love
but now, at length, dear dian sank from sight,
into a western couch of thunder-cloud
and thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees
didst glide away only thine eyes remained
they would not go--they never yet have gone
lighting my lonely pathway home that night,
they have not left me as my hopes have since
they follow me--they lead me through the years
they are my ministers--yet i their slave
their office is to illumine and enkindle--
my duty, to be saved by their bright light,
and purified in their electric fire,
and sanctified in their elysian fire
they fill my soul with beauty which is hope,
and are far up in heaven--the stars i kneel to
in the sad, silent watches of my night
while even in the meridian glare of day
i see them still--two sweetly scintillant
venuses, unextinguished by the sun
  
annabel lee
it was many and many a year ago,
in a kingdom by the sea,
that a maiden there lived whom you may know
by the name of annabel lee
and this maiden she lived with no other thought
than to love and be loved by me
i was a child and she was a child,
in this kingdom by the sea
but we loved with a love that was more than love--
i and my annabel lee
with a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
coveted her and me
and this was the reason that, long ago,
in this kingdom by the sea,
a wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
my beautiful annabel lee
so that her highborn kinsmen came
and bore her away from me,
to shut her up in a sepulchre
in this kingdom by the sea
the angels, not half so happy in heaven,
went envying her and me--
yes--that was the reason as all men know,
in this kingdom by the sea
that the wind came out of the cloud by night,
chilling and killing my annabel lee
but our love it was stronger by far than the love
of those who were older than we--
of many far wiser than we--
and neither the angels in heaven above,
nor the demons down under the sea,
can ever dissever my soul from the soul
of the beautiful annabel lee
for the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
of the beautiful annabel lee
and the stars never rise but i see the bright eyes
of the beautiful annabel lee
and so, all the night-tide, i lie down by the side
of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,
in her sepulchre there by the sea--
in her tomb by the side of the sea
  
a valentine
for her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes,
brightly expressive as the twins of leda,
shall find her own sweet name, that, nestling lies
upon the page, enwrapped from every reader
search narrowly the lines--they hold a treasure
divine--a talisman--an amulet
that must be worn at heart search well the measure--
the words--the syllables do not forget
the trivialest point, or you may lose your labor
and yet there is in this no gordian knot
which one might not undo without a sabre,
if one could merely comprehend the plot
enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering
eyes scintillating soul, there lie perdus
three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing
of poets by poets--as the name is a poets, too
its letters, although naturally lying
like the knight pinto--mendez ferdinando--
still form a synonym for truth--cease trying
you will not read the riddle, though you do the best you can do
to discover the names in this and the following poem, read the first
letter of the first line in connection with the second letter of the
second line, the third letter of the third line, the fourth, of the
fourth and so on, to the end
  
an enigma
seldom we find, says solomon don dunce,
half an idea in the profoundest sonnet
through all the flimsy things we see at once
as easily as through a naples bonnet--
trash of all trash--how can a lady don it?
yet heavier far than your petrarchan stuff--
owl-downy nonsense that the faintest puff
twirls into trunk-paper the while you con it
and, veritably, sol is right enough
the general tuckermanities are arrant
bubbles--ephemeral and so transparent--
but this is, now--you may depend upon it--
stable, opaque, immortal--all by dint
of the dear names that lie concealed withint
  
to my mother
because i feel that, in the heavens above,
the angels, whispering to one another,
can find, among their burning terms of love,
none so devotional as that of mother,
therefore by that dear name i long have called you--
you who are more than mother unto me,
and fill my heart of hearts, where death installed you,
in setting my virginias spirit free
my mother--my own mother, who died early,
was but the mother of myself but you
are mother to the one i loved so dearly,
and thus are dearer than the mother i knew
by that infinity with which my wife
was dearer to my soul than its soul-life
the above was addressed to the poets mother-in-law, mrs clemm--ed
  
for annie
thank heaven the crisis--
the danger is past,
and the lingering illness
is over at last--
and the fever called living
is conquered at last
sadly, i know,
i am shorn of my strength,
and no muscle i move
as i lie at full length--
but no matter--i feel
i am better at length
and i rest so composedly,
now in my bed,
that any beholder
might fancy me dead--
might start at beholding me
thinking me dead
the moaning and groaning,
the sighing and sobbing,
are quieted now,
with that horrible throbbing
at heart--ah, that horrible,
horrible throbbing
the sickness--the nausea--
the pitiless pain--
have ceased, with the fever
that maddened my brain--
with the fever called living
that burned in my brain
and oh of all tortures
that torture the worst
has abated--the terrible
torture of thirst,
for the naphthaline river
of passion accurst--
i have drank of a water
that quenches all thirst--
of a water that flows,
with a lullaby sound,
from a spring but a very few
feet under ground--
from a cavern not very far
down under ground
and ah let it never
be foolishly said
that my room it is gloomy
and narrow my bed--
for man never slept
in a different bed
and, to sleep, you must slumber
in just such a bed
my tantalized spirit
here blandly reposes,
forgetting, or never
regretting its roses--
its old agitations
of myrtles and roses
for now, while so quietly
lying, it fancies
a holier odor
about it, of pansies--
a rosemary odor,
commingled with pansies--
with rue and the beautiful
puritan pansies
and so it lies happily,
bathing in many
a dream of the truth
and the beauty of annie--
drowned in a bath
of the tresses of annie
she tenderly kissed me,
she fondly caressed,
and then i fell gently
to sleep on her breast--
deeply to sleep
from the heaven of her breast
when the light was extinguished,
she covered me warm,
and she prayed to the angels
to keep me from harm--
to the queen of the angels
to shield me from harm
and i lie so composedly,
now in my bed
knowing her love
that you fancy me dead--
and i rest so contentedly,
now in my bed,
with her love at my breast
that you fancy me dead--
that you shudder to look at me
thinking me dead
but my heart it is brighter
than all of the many
stars in the sky,
for it sparkles with annie--
it glows with the light
of the love of my annie--
with the thought of the light
of the eyes of my annie
  
to f--
beloved amid the earnest woes
that crowd around my earthly path--
drear path, alas where grows
not even one lonely rose--
my soul at least a solace hath
in dreams of thee, and therein knows
an eden of bland repose
and thus thy memory is to me
like some enchanted far-off isle
in some tumultuous sea--
some ocean throbbing far and free
with storm--but where meanwhile
serenest skies continually
just oer that one bright inland smile
  
to frances s osgood
thou wouldst be loved?--then let thy heart
from its present pathway part not
being everything which now thou art,
be nothing which thou art not
so with the world thy gentle ways,
thy grace, thy more than beauty,
shall be an endless theme of praise
and love a simple duty
  
eldorado
gaily bedight,
a gallant knight,
in sunshine and in shadow,
had journeyed long,
singing a song,
in search of eldorado
but he grew old--
this knight so bold--
and oer his heart a shadow
fell as he found
no spot of ground
that looked like eldorado
and, as his strength
failed him at length,
he met a pilgrim shadow--
shadow, said he,
where can it be--
this land of eldorado?
over the mountains
of the moon,
down the valley of the shadow,
ride, boldly ride,
the shade replied,
if you seek for eldorado
  
eulalie
i dwelt alone
in a world of moan,
and my soul was a stagnant tide,
till the fair and gentle eulalie became my blushing bride--
till the yellow-haired young eulalie became my smiling bride
ah, less--less bright
the stars of the night
than the eyes of the radiant girl
and never a flake
that the vapor can make
with the moon-tints of purple and pearl,
can vie with the modest eulalies most unregarded curl--
can compare with the bright-eyed eulalies most humble and careless
curl
now doubt--now pain
come never again,
for her soul gives me sigh for sigh,
and all day long
shines, bright and strong,
astart within the sky,
while ever to her dear eulalie upturns her matron eye--
while ever to her young eulalie upturns her violet eye
  
a dream within a dream
take this kiss upon the brow
and, in parting from you now,
thus much let me avow--
you are not wrong, who deem
that my days have been a dream
yet if hope has flown away
in a night, or in a day,
in a vision or in none,
is it therefore the less gone?
all that we see or seem
is but a dream within a dream
i stand amid the roar
of a surf-tormented shore,
and i hold within my hand
grains of the golden sand--
how few yet how they creep
through my fingers to the deep
while i weep--while i weep
o god can i not grasp
them with a tighter clasp?
o god can i not save
one from the pitiless wave?
is all that we see or seem
but a dream within a dream?
  
to marie louise shew
of all who hail thy presence as the morning--
of all to whom thine absence is the night--
the blotting utterly from out high heaven
the sacred sun--of all who, weeping, bless thee
hourly for hope--for life--ah, above all,
for the resurrection of deep buried faith
in truth, in virtue, in humanity--
of all who, on despairs unhallowed bed
lying down to die, have suddenly arisen
at thy soft-murmured words, let there be light
at thy soft-murmured words that were fulfilled
in thy seraphic glancing of thine eyes--
of all who owe thee most, whose gratitude
nearest resembles worship,--oh, remember
the truest, the most fervently devoted,
and think that these weak lines are written by him--
by him who, as he pens them, thrills to think
his spirit is communing with an angels
  
to marie louise shew
not long ago, the writer of these lines,
in the mad pride of intellectuality,
maintained the power of words--denied that ever
a thought arose within the human brain
beyond the utterance of the human tongue
and now, as if in mockery of that boast,
two words--two foreign soft dissyllables--
italian tones, made only to be murmured
by angels dreaming in the moonlit dew
that hangs like chains of pearl on hermon hill,--
have stirred from out the abysses of his heart,
unthought-like thoughts that are the souls of thought,
richer, far wilder, far diviner visions
than even the seraph harper, israfel,
who has the sweetest voice of all gods creatures,
could hope to utter and i my spells are broken
the pen falls powerless from my shivering hand
with thy dear name as text, though hidden by thee,
i cannot write--i cannot speak or think--
alas, i cannot feel for tis not feeling,
this standing motionless upon the golden
threshold of the wide-open gate of dreams,
gazing, entranced, adown the gorgeous vista,
and thrilling as i see, upon the right,
upon the left, and all the way along,
amid empurpled vapors, far away
to where the prospect terminates--thee only
  
the city in the sea
lo death has reared himself a throne
in a strange city lying alone
far down within the dim west,
where the good and the bad and the worst and the best
have gone to their eternal rest
there shrines and palaces and towers
time-eaten towers and tremble not
resemble nothing that is ours
around, by lifting winds forgot,
resignedly beneath the sky
the melancholy waters lie
no rays from the holy heaven come down
on the long night-time of that town
but light from out the lurid sea
streams up the turrets silently--
gleams up the pinnacles far and free--
up domes--up spires--up kingly halls--
up fanes--up babylon-like walls--
up shadowy long-forgotten bowers
of sculptured ivy and stone flowers--
up many and many a marvellous shrine
whose wreathed friezes intertwine
the viol, the violet, and the vine
resignedly beneath the sky
the melancholy waters lie
so blend the turrets and shadows there
that all seem pendulous in air,
while from a proud tower in the town
death looks gigantically down
there open fanes and gaping graves
yawn level with the luminous waves
but not the riches there that lie
in each idols diamond eye--
not the gaily-jewelled dead
tempt the waters from their bed
for no ripples curl, alas
along that wilderness of glass--
no swellings tell that winds may be
upon some far-off happier sea--
no heavings hint that winds have been
on seas less hideously serene
but lo, a stir is in the air
the wave--there is a movement there
as if the towers had thrust aside,
in slightly sinking, the dull tide--
as if their tops had feebly given
a void within the filmy heaven
the waves have now a redder glow--
the hours are breathing faint and low--
and when, amid no earthly moans,
down, down that town shall settle hence,
hell, rising from a thousand thrones,
shall do it reverence
?
  
the sleeper
at midnight, in the month of june,
i stand beneath the mystic moon
an opiate vapor, dewy, dim,
exhales from out her golden rim,
and, softly dripping, drop by drop,
upon the quiet mountain top,
steals drowsily and musically
into the universal valley
the rosemary nods upon the grave
the lily lolls upon the wave
wrapping the fog about its breast,
the ruin moulders into rest
looking like lethe, see the lake
a conscious slumber seems to take,
and would not, for the world, awake
all beauty sleeps--and lo where lies
her casement open to the skies
irene, with her destinies
oh, lady bright can it be right--
this window open to the night
the wanton airs, from the tree-top,
laughingly through the lattice-drop--
the bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
flit through thy chamber in and out,
and wave the curtain canopy
so fitfully--so fearfully--
above the closed and fringed lid
neath which thy slumbring soul lies hid,
that, oer the floor and down the wall,
like ghosts the shadows rise and fall
oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?
why and what art thou dreaming here?
sure thou art come oer far-off seas,
a wonder to these garden trees
strange is thy pallor strange thy dress
strange, above all, thy length of tress,
and this all-solemn silentness
the lady sleeps oh, may her sleep
which is enduring, so be deep
heaven have her in its sacred keep
this chamber changed for one more holy,
this bed for one more melancholy,
i pray to god that she may lie
for ever with unopened eye,
while the dim sheeted ghosts go by
my love, she sleeps oh, may her sleep,
as it is lasting, so be deep
soft may the worms about her creep
far in the forest, dim and old,
for her may some tall vault unfold--
some vault that oft hath flung its black
and winged panels fluttering back,
triumphant, oer the crested palls,
of her grand family funerals--
some sepulchre, remote, alone,
against whose portal she hath thrown,
in childhood many an idle stone--
some tomb from out whose sounding door
she neer shall force an echo more,
thrilling to think, poor child of sin
it was the dead who groaned within
  
bridal ballad
the ring is on my hand,
and the wreath is on my brow
satins and jewels grand
are all at my command
and i am happy now
and my lord he loves me well
but, when first he breathed his vow,
i felt my bosom swell--
for the words rang as a knell,
and the voice seemed his who fell
in the battle down the dell,
and who is happy now
but he spoke to reassure me,
and he kissed my pallid brow,
while a reverie came oer me,
and to the churchyard bore me,
and i sighed to him before me,
thinking him dead delormie,
oh, i am happy now
and thus the words were spoken,
and thus the plighted vow,
and, though my faith be broken,
and, though my heart be broken,
behold the golden keys
that proves me happy now
would to god i could awaken
for i dream i know not how,
and my soul is sorely shaken
lest an evil step be taken,--
lest the dead who is forsaken
may not be happy now
  
the bells--ah the bells
the little silver bells
how fairy-like a melody there floats
from their throats--
from their merry little throats--
from the silver, tinkling throats
of the bells, bells, bells--
of the bells
the bells--ah, the bells
the heavy iron bells
how horrible a monody there floats
from their throats--
from their deep-toned throats--
from their melancholy throats
how i shudder at the notes
of the bells, bells, bells--
of the bells
in the autumn of  poe added another line to this poem, and sent it
to the editor of the union magazine it was not published so, in the
following february, the poet forwarded to the same periodical a much
enlarged and altered transcript three months having elapsed without
publication, another revision of the poem, similar to the current
version, was sent, and in the following october was published in the
union magazine
  
 ulalume
this poem was first published in coltons american review for december
, as to----ulalume a ballad being reprinted immediately in
the home journal, it was copied into various publications with the
name of the editor, n p willis, appended, and was ascribed to him
when first published, it contained the following additional stanza which
poe subsequently, at the suggestion of mrs whitman wisely suppressed
said we then--the two, then--ah, can it
have been that the woodlandish ghouls--
the pitiful, the merciful ghouls--
to bar up our path and to ban it
from the secret that lies in these wolds--
had drawn up the spectre of a planet
from the limbo of lunary souls--
this sinfully scintillant planet
from the hell of the planetary souls?
  
 to helen
to helen mrs s helen whitman was not published until november
, although written several months earlier it first appeared in the
union magazine and with the omission, contrary to the knowledge or
desire of poe, of the line, oh, god oh, heaven--how my heart beats in
coupling those two words
  
 annabel lee
annabel lee was written early in , and is evidently an expression
of the poets undying love for his deceased bride although at least one
of his lady admirers deemed it a response to her admiration poe sent a
copy of the ballad to the union magazine, in which publication it
appeared in january , three months after the authors death whilst
suffering from hope deferred as to its fate, poe presented a copy of
annabel lee to the editor of the southern literary messenger, who
published it in the november number of his periodical, a month after
poes death in the meantime the poets own copy, left among his papers,
passed into the hands of the person engaged to edit his works, and he
quoted the poem in an obituary of poe in the new york tribune, before
any one else had an opportunity of publishing it
  
 a valentine
a valentine, one of three poems addressed to mrs osgood, appears to
have been written early in 
  
 an enigma
an enigma, addressed to mrs sarah anna lewig stella, was sent to
that lady in a letter, in november , and the following march
appeared in sartains union magazine
  
 to my mother
the sonnet, to my mother maria clemm, was sent for publication to
the short-lived flag of our union, early in , but does not appear
to have been issued until after its authors death, when it appeared in
the leaflets of memory for 
  
 for annie
for annie was first published in the flag of our union, in the
spring of  poe, annoyed at some misprints in this issue, shortly
afterwards caused a corrected copy to be inserted in the home journal
  
 to f----
to f---- frances sargeant osgood appeared in the broadway journal
for april  these lines are but slightly varied from those inscribed
to mary, in the southern literary messenger for july , and
subsequently republished, with the two stanzas transposed, in grahams
magazine for march , as to one departed
  
 to frances s osgood
to f--s s o--d, a portion of the poets triune tribute to mrs
osgood, was published in the broadway journal for september  the
earliest version of these lines appeared in the southern literary
messenger for september , as lines written in an album, and was
addressed to eliza white, the proprietors daughter slightly revised,
the poem reappeared in burtons gentlemans magazine for august, ,
as to----
  
 eldorado
although eldorado was published during poes lifetime, in , in the
flag of our union, it does not appear to have ever received the
authors finishing touches
  
 eulalie
eulalie--a song first appears in coltons american review for july,
  
 a dream within a dream
a dream within a dream does not appear to have been published as a
separate poem during its authors lifetime a portion of it was
contained, in , in the piece beginning, should my early life seem,
and in  some few lines of it were used as a conclusion to
tamerlane in  the poet sent a friend all but the first nine lines
of the piece as a separate poem, headed for annie
  
 to marie louise shew
to m----l----s----, addressed to mrs marie louise shew, was written
in february , and published shortly afterwards in the first
posthumous collection of poes poems these lines were, for some reason,
included in the poems written in youth, and amongst those poems they
have hitherto been included
  
  to marie louise shew
to----, a second piece addressed to mrs shew, and written in ,
was also first published, but in a somewhat faulty form, in the above
named posthumous collection
  
 the city in the sea
under the title of the doomed city the initial version of the city in
the sea appeared in the  volume of poems by poe it reappeared as
the city of sin, in the southern literary messenger for august ,
whilst the present draft of it first appeared in coltons american
review for april, 
  
 the sleeper
as irene, the earliest known version of the sleeper, appeared in the
 volume it reappeared in the literary messenger for may ,
and, in its present form, in the broadway journal for may 
  
 the bridal ballad
the bridal ballad is first discoverable in the southern literary
messenger for january , and, in its present compressed and revised
form, was reprinted in the broadway journal for august, 
  
poems of manhood
  
lenore
ah, broken is the golden bowl the spirit flown forever
let the bell toll--a saintly soul floats on the stygian river
and, guy de vere, hast thou no tear?--weep now or never more
see on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, lenore
come let the burial rite be read--the funeral song be sung--
an anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young--
a dirge for her, the doubly dead in that she died so young
wretches ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride,
and when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her--that she died
how shall the ritual, then, be read?--the requiem how be sung
by you--by yours, the evil eye,--by yours, the slanderous tongue
that did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?
peccavimus but rave not thus and let a sabbath song
go up to god so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong
the sweet lenore hath gone before, with hope, that flew beside,
leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride--
for her, the fair and dbonnaire, that now so lowly lies,
the life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes--
the life still there, upon her hair--the death upon her eyes
avaunt to-night my heart is light no dirge will i upraise,
but waft the angel on her flight with a pan of old days
let no bell toll--lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed mirth,
should catch the note, as it doth float up from the damned earth
to friends above, from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven--
from hell unto a high estate far up within the heaven--
from grief and groan to a golden throne beside the king of heaven
  
to one in paradise,
thou wast that all to me, love,
for which my soul did pine--
a green isle in the sea, love,
a fountain and a shrine,
all wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,
and all the flowers were mine
ah, dream too bright to last
ah, starry hope that didst arise
but to be overcast
a voice from out the future cries,
on on--but oer the past
dim gulf my spirit hovering lies
mute, motionless, aghast
for, alas alas with me
the light of life is oer
no more--no more--no more--
such language holds the solemn sea
to the sands upon the shore
shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
or the stricken eagle soar
and all my days are trances,
and all my nightly dreams
are where thy dark eye glances,
and where thy footstep gleams--
in what ethereal dances,
by what eternal streams
alas for that accursed time
they bore thee oer the billow,
from love to titled age and crime,
and an unholy pillow
from me, and from our misty clime,
where weeps the silver willow
  
the coliseum
type of the antique rome rich reliquary
of lofty contemplation left to time
by buried centuries of pomp and power
at length--at length--after so many days
of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst,
thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,
i kneel, an altered and an humble man,
amid thy shadows, and so drink within
my very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory
vastness and age and memories of eld
silence and desolation and dim night
i feel ye now--i feel ye in your strength--
o spells more sure than eer judan king
taught in the gardens of gethsemane
o charms more potent than the rapt chaldee
ever drew down from out the quiet stars
here, where a hero fell, a column falls
here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold,
a midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat
here, where the dames of rome their gilded hair
waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle
here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled,
glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home,
lit by the wan light of the horned moon,
the swift and silent lizard of the stones
but stay these walls--these ivy-clad arcades--
these mouldering plinths--these sad and blackened shafts--
these vague entablatures--this crumbling frieze--
these shattered cornices--this wreck--this ruin--
these stones--alas these gray stones--are they all--
all of the famed, and the colossal left
by the corrosive hours to fate and me?
not all--the echoes answer me--not all
prophetic sounds and loud, arise forever
from us, and from all ruin, unto the wise,
as melody from memnon to the sun
we rule the hearts of mightiest men--we rule
with a despotic sway all giant minds
we are not impotent--we pallid stones
not all our power is gone--not all our fame--
not all the magic of our high renown--
not all the wonder that encircles us--
not all the mysteries that in us lie--
not all the memories that hang upon
and cling around about us as a garment,
clothing us in a robe of more than glory
  
the haunted palace
in the greenest of our valleys
by good angels tenanted,
once a fair and stately palace--
radiant palace--reared its head
in the monarch thoughts dominion--
it stood there
never seraph spread a pinion
over fabric half so fair
banners yellow, glorious, golden,
on its roof did float and flow,
this--all this--was in the olden
time long ago,
and every gentle air that dallied,
in that sweet day,
along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
a winged odor went away
wanderers in that happy valley,
through two luminous windows, saw
spirits moving musically,
to a lutes well-tund law,
bound about a throne where, sitting
porphyrogene
in state his glory well befitting,
the ruler of the realm was seen
and all with pearl and ruby glowing
was the fair palace door,
through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
and sparkling evermore,
a troop of echoes, whose sweet duty
was but to sing,
in voices of surpassing beauty,
the wit and wisdom of their king
but evil things, in robes of sorrow,
assailed the monarchs high estate
ah, let us mourn--for never morrow
shall dawn upon him desolate 
and round about his home the glory
that blushed and bloomed,
is but a dim-remembered story
of the old time entombed
and travellers, now, within that valley,
through the red-litten windows see
vast forms, that move fantastically
to a discordant melody,
while, like a ghastly rapid river,
through the pale door
a hideous throng rush out forever
and laugh--but smile no more
  
the conqueror worm
lo tis a gala night
within the lonesome latter years
an angel throng, bewinged, bedight
in veils, and drowned in tears,
sit in a theatre, to see
a play of hopes and fears,
while the orchestra breathes fitfully
the music of the spheres
mimes, in the form of god on high,
mutter and mumble low,
and hither and thither fly--
mere puppets they, who come and go
at bidding of vast formless things
that shift the scenery to and fro,
flapping from out their condor wings
invisible wo
that motley drama--oh, be sure
it shall not be forgot
with its phantom chased for evermore,
by a crowd that seize it not,
through a circle that ever returneth in
to the self-same spot,
and much of madness, and more of sin,
and horror the soul of the plot
but see, amid the mimic rout
a crawling shape intrude
a blood-red thing that writhes from out
the scenic solitude
it writhes--it writhes--with mortal pangs
the mimes become its food,
and the angels sob at vermin fangs
in human gore imbued
out--out are the lights--out all
and, over each quivering form,
the curtain, a funeral pall,
comes down with the rush of a storm,
and the angels, all pallid and wan,
uprising, unveiling, affirm
that the play is the tragedy, man,
and its hero the conqueror worm
  
silence
there are some qualities--some incorporate things,
that have a double life, which thus is made
a type of that twin entity which springs
from matter and light, evinced in solid and shade
there is a twofold silence--sea and shore--
body and soul one dwells in lonely places,
newly with grass oergrown some solemn graces,
some human memories and tearful lore,
render him terrorless his names no more
he is the corporate silence dread him not
no power hath he of evil in himself
but should some urgent fate untimely lot
bring thee to meet his shadow nameless elf,
that haunteth the lone regions where hath trod
no foot of man, commend thyself to god
  
dreamland
by a route obscure and lonely,
haunted by ill angels only,
where an eidolon, named night,
on a black throne reigns upright,
i have reached these lands but newly
from an ultimate dim thule--
from a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime,
out of space--out of time
bottomless vales and boundless floods,
and chasms, and caves, and titan woods,
with forms that no man can discover
for the dews that drip all over
mountains toppling evermore
into seas without a shore
seas that restlessly aspire,
surging, unto skies of fire
lakes that endlessly outspread
their lone waters--lone and dead,
their still waters--still and chilly
with the snows of the lolling lily
by the lakes that thus outspread
their lone waters, lone and dead,--
their sad waters, sad and chilly
with the snows of the lolling lily,--
by the mountains--near the river
murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,--
by the gray woods,--by the swamp
where the toad and the newt encamp,--
by the dismal tarns and pools
where dwell the ghouls,--
by each spot the most unholy--
in each nook most melancholy,--
there the traveller meets aghast
sheeted memories of the past--
shrouded forms that start and sigh
as they pass the wanderer by--
white-robed forms of friends long given,
in agony, to the earth--and heaven
for the heart whose woes are legion
tis a peaceful, soothing region--
for the spirit that walks in shadow
tis--oh, tis an eldorado
but the traveller, travelling through it,
may not--dare not openly view it
never its mysteries are exposed
to the weak human eye unclosed
so wills its king, who hath forbid
the uplifting of the fringed lid
and thus the sad soul that here passes
beholds it but through darkened glasses
by a route obscure and lonely,
haunted by ill angels only
where an eidolon, named night,
on a black throne reigns upright,
i have wandered home but newly
from this ultimate dim thule
  
to zante
fair isle, that from the fairest of all flowers,
thy gentlest of all gentle names dost take
how many memories of what radiant hours
at sight of thee and thine at once awake
how many scenes of what departed bliss
how many thoughts of what entombed hopes
how many visions of a maiden that is
no more--no more upon thy verdant slopes
no more alas, that magical sad sound
transforming all thy charms shall please no more--
thy memory no more accursed ground
henceforward i hold thy flower-enamelled shore,
o hyacinthine isle o purple zante
isola doro fior di levante
  
hymn
at morn--at noon--at twilight dim--
maria thou hast heard my hymn
in joy and wo--in good and ill--
mother of god, be with me still
when the hours flew brightly by,
and not a cloud obscured the sky,
my soul, lest it should truant be,
thy grace did guide to thine and thee
now, when storms of fate oercast
darkly my present and my past,
let my future radiant shine
with sweet hopes of thee and thine
  
 to one in paradise
to one in paradise was included originally in the visionary a tale
now known as the assignation, in july, , and appeared as a
separate poem entitled to ianthe in heaven, in burtons gentlemans
magazine for july,  the fifth stanza is now added, for the first
time, to the piece
  
 the coliseum
the coliseum appeared in the baltimore saturday visitor sic in
, and was republished in the southern literary messenger for
august , as a prize poem
  
 the haunted palace
the haunted palace originally issued in the baltimore american
museum for april, , was subsequently embodied in that much admired
tale, the fall of the house of usher, and published in it in burtons
gentlemans magazine for september,  it reappeared in that as a
separate poem in the  edition of poes poems
  
 the conqueror worm
the conqueror worm, then contained in poes favorite tale of ligeia,
was first published in the american museum for september,  as a
separate poem, it reappeared in grahams magazine for january, 
  
 silence
the sonnet, silence, was originally published in burtons gentlemans
magazine for april, 
  
 dreamland
the first known publication of dreamland was in grahams magazine
for june, 
  
 to zante
the sonnet to zante is not discoverable earlier than january, ,
when it appeared in the southern literary messenger
  
 hymn
the initial version of the catholic hymn was contained in the story of
morella, and published in the southern literary messenger for april,
 the lines as they now stand, and with their present title, were
first published in the broadway journal for august, 
  
scenes from politian
an unpublished drama
rome--a hall in a palace alessandra and castiglione
alessandra   thou art sad, castiglione
castiglione  sad--not i
oh, im the happiest, happiest man in rome
a few days more, thou knowest, my alessandra,
will make thee mine oh, i am very happy
aless  methinks thou hast a singular way of showing
thy happiness--what ails thee, cousin of mine?
why didst thou sigh so deeply?
cas did i sigh?
i was not conscious of it it is a fashion,
a silly--a most silly fashion i have
when i am very happy did i sigh? sighing
aless  thou didst thou art not well thou hast indulged
too much of late, and i am vexed to see it
late hours and wine, castiglione,--these
will ruin thee thou art already altered--
thy looks are haggard--nothing so wears away
the constitution as late hours and wine
cas musing  nothing, fair cousin, nothing--
not even deep sorrow--
wears it away like evil hours and wine
i will amend
aless  do it i would have thee drop
thy riotous company, too--fellows low born
ill suit the like of old di broglios heir
and alessandras husband
cas i will drop them
aless  thou wilt--thou must attend thou also more
to thy dress and equipage--they are over plain
for thy lofty rank and fashion--much depends
upon appearances
cas ill see to it
aless  then see to it--pay more attention, sir,
to a becoming carriage--much thou wantest
in dignity
cas much, much, oh, much i want
in proper dignity
aless
haughtily   thou mockest me, sir
cos
abstractedly  sweet, gentle lalage
aless  heard i aright?
i speak to him--he speaks of lalage?
sir count
places her hand on his shoulder
what art thou dreaming?
hes not well
what ails thee, sir?
casstarting cousin fair cousin--madam
i crave thy pardon--indeed i am not well--
your hand from off my shoulder, if you please
this air is most oppressive--madam--the duke
enter di broglio
di broglio   my son, ive news for thee--hey
--whats the matter?
observing alessandra
i the pouts? kiss her, castiglione kiss her,
you dog and make it up, i say, this minute
ive news for you both politian is expected
hourly in rome--politian, earl of leicester
well have him at the wedding tis his first visit
to the imperial city
aless  what politian
of britain, earl of leicester?
di brog   the same, my love
well have him at the wedding a man quite young
in years, but gray in fame i have not seen him,
but rumor speaks of him as of a prodigy
pre-eminent in arts, and arms, and wealth,
and high descent well have him at the wedding
aless  i have heard much of this politian
gay, volatile and giddy--is he not,
and little given to thinking?
di brog   far from it, love
no branch, they say, of all philosophy
so deep abstruse he has not mastered it
learned as few are learned
aless  tis very strange
i have known men have seen politian
and sought his company they speak of him
as of one who entered madly into life,
drinking the cup of pleasure to the dregs
cas ridiculous now i have seen politian
and know him well--nor learned nor mirthful he
he is a dreamer, and shut out
from common passions
di brog   children, we disagree
let us go forth and taste the fragrant air
of the garden did i dream, or did i hear
politian was a melancholy man?
exeunt
rome--a ladys apartment, with a window open and looking into a garden
lalage, in deep mourning, reading at a table on which lie some books and
a hand-mirror in the background jacinta a servant maid leans
carelessly upon a chair
lalage jacinta is it thou?
jacinta
pertly   yes, maam, im here
lal i did not know, jacinta, you were in waiting
sit down--let not my presence trouble you--
sit down--for i am humble, most humble
jac aside tis time
jacinta seats herself in a side-long manner upon the chair, resting
her elbows upon the back, and regarding her mistress with a contemptuous
look lalage continues to read
lal it in another climate, so he said,
bore a bright golden flower, but not i this soil
pauses--turns over some leaves and resumes
no lingering winters there, nor snow, nor shower--
but ocean ever to refresh mankind
breathes the shrill spirit of the western wind
oh, beautiful--most beautiful--how like
to what my fevered soul doth dream of heaven
o happy land pauses she died--the maiden died
o still more happy maiden who couldst die
jacinta
jacinta returns no answer, and lalage presently resumes
again--a similar tale
told of a beauteous dame beyond the sea
thus speaketh one ferdinand in the words of the play--
she died full young--one bossola answers him--
i think not so--her infelicity
seemed to have years too many--ah, luckless lady
jacinta still no answer
heres a far sterner story--
but like--oh, very like in its despair--
of that egyptian queen, winning so easily
a thousand hearts--losing at length her own
she died thus endeth the history--and her maids
lean over her and keep--two gentle maids
with gentle names--eiros and charmion
rainbow and dove--jacinta
jac
pettishly  madam, what is it?
lal wilt thou, my good jacinta, be so kind
as go down in the library and bring me
the holy evangelists?
jac pshaw
exit
lal if there be balm
for the wounded spirit in gilead, it is there
dew in the night time of my bitter trouble
will there be found--dew sweeter far than that
which hangs like chains of pearl on hermon hill
re-enter jacinta, and throws a volume on the table
there, maam, s the book
aside   indeed she is very troublesome
lal
astonished what didst thou say, jacinta?
have i done aught
to grieve thee or to vex thee?--i am sorry
for thou hast served me long and ever been
trustworthy and respectful
resumes her reading
jac aside i cant believe
she has any more jewels--no--no--she gave me all
lal what didst thou say, jacinta? now i bethink me
thou hast not spoken lately of thy wedding
how fares good ugo?--and when is it to be?
can i do aught?--is there no further aid
thou needest, jacinta?
jac aside is there no further aid
thats meant for me  im sure, madam, you need not
be always throwing those jewels in my teeth
lal jewels jacinta,--now indeed, jacinta,
i thought not of the jewels
jac oh, perhaps not
but then i might have sworn it after all,
theres ugo says the ring is only paste,
for hes sure the count castiglione never
would have given a real diamond to such as you
and at the best im certain, madam, you cannot
have use for jewels now but i might have sworn it
exit
lalage bursts into tears and leans her head upon the table--after a
short pause raises it
lal poor lalage--and is it come to this?
thy servant maid--but courage--tis but a viper
whom thou hast cherished to sting thee to the soul
taking up the mirror
ha here at leasts a friend--too much a friend
in earlier days--a friend will not deceive thee
fair mirror and true now tell me for thou canst
a tale--a pretty tale--and heed thou not
though it be rife with woe it answers me
it speaks of sunken eyes, and wasted cheeks,
and beauty long deceased--remembers me,
of joy departed--hope, the seraph hope,
inurned and entombed--now, in a tone
low, sad, and solemn, but most audible,
whispers of early grave untimely yawning
for ruined maid fair mirror and true--thou liest not
thou hast no end to gain--no heart to break--
castiglione lied who said he loved----
thou true--he false--false--false
while she speaks, a monk enters her apartment and approaches
unobserved
monk   refuge thou hast,
sweet daughter in heaven think of eternal things
give up thy soul to penitence, and pray
lal
arising hurriedly i cannot pray--my soul is at war with god
the frightful sounds of merriment below
disturb my senses--go i cannot pray--
the sweet airs from the garden worry me
thy presence grieves me--go--thy priestly raiment
fills me with dread--thy ebony crucifix
with horror and awe
monk   think of thy precious soul
lal think of my early days--think of my father
and mother in heaven think of our quiet home,
and the rivulet that ran before the door
think of my little sisters--think of them
and think of me--think of my trusting love
and confidence--his vows--my ruin--think--think
of my unspeakable misery----begone
yet stay yet stay--what was it thou saidst of prayer
and penitence? didst thou not speak of faith
and vows before the throne?
monk   i did
lal tis well
there is a vow twere fitting should be made--
a sacred vow, imperative and urgent,
a solemn vow
monk   daughter, this zeal is well
lal father, this zeal is anything but well
hast thou a crucifix fit for this thing?
a crucifix whereon to register
this sacred vow? he hands her his own
not that--oh no--no--no shuddering
not that not that--i tell thee, holy man,
thy raiments and thy ebony cross affright me
stand back i have a crucifix myself,--
i have a crucifix methinks twere fitting
the deed--the vow--the symbol of the deed--
and the deeds register should tally, father
draws a cross-handled dagger and raises it on high
behold the cross wherewith a vow like mine
is written in heaven
monk   thy words are madness, daughter,
and speak a purpose unholy--thy lips are livid--
thine eyes are wild--tempt not the wrath divine
pause ere too late--oh, be not--be not rash
swear not the oath--oh, swear it not
lal tis sworn
an apartment in a palace politian and baldazzar
baldazzar arouse thee now, politian
thou must not--nay indeed, indeed, thou shalt not
give way unto these humors be thyself
shake off the idle fancies that beset thee
and live, for now thou diest
politian  not so, baldazzar
surely i live
bal politian, it doth grieve me
to see thee thus
pol baldazzar, it doth grieve me
to give thee cause for grief, my honored friend
command me, sir what wouldst thou have me do?
at thy behest i will shake off that nature
which from my forefathers i did inherit,
which with my mothers milk i did imbibe,
and be no more politian, but some other
command me, sir
bal to the field then--to the field--
to the senate or the field
pol alas alas
there is an imp would follow me even there
there is an imp hath followed me even there
there is--what voice was that?
bal i heard it not
i heard not any voice except thine own,
and the echo of thine own
pol then i but dreamed
bal give not thy soul to dreams the camp--the court
befit thee--fame awaits thee--glory calls--
and her the trumpet-tongued thou wilt not hear
in hearkening to imaginary sounds
and phantom voices
pol it is a phantom voice
didst thou not hear it then?
bal  i heard it not
pol thou heardst it not--baldazzar, speak no more
to me, politian, of thy camps and courts
oh i am sick, sick, sick, even unto death,
of the hollow and high-sounding vanities
of the populous earth bear with me yet awhile
we have been boys together--school-fellows--
and now are friends--yet shall not be so long--
for in the eternal city thou shalt do me
a kind and gentle office, and a power--
a power august, benignant, and supreme--
shall then absolve thee of all further duties
unto thy friend
bal thou speakest a fearful riddle
i will not understand
pol yet now as fate
approaches, and the hours are breathing low,
the sands of time are changed to golden grains,
and dazzle me, baldazzar alas alas
i cannot die, having within my heart
so keen a relish for the beautiful
as hath been kindled within it methinks the air
is balmier now than it was wont to be--
rich melodies are floating in the winds--
a rarer loveliness bedecks the earth--
and with a holier lustre the quiet moon
sitteth in heaven--hist hist thou canst not say
thou hearest not now, baldazzar?
bal indeed i hear not
pol not hear it--listen--now--listen--the faintest sound
and yet the sweetest that ear ever heard
a ladys voice--and sorrow in the tone
baldazzar, it oppresses me like a spell
again--again--how solemnly it falls
into my heart of hearts that eloquent voice
surely i never heard--yet it were well
had i but heard it with its thrilling tones
in earlier days
bal i myself hear it now
be still--the voice, if i mistake not greatly,
proceeds from younder lattice--which you may see
very plainly through the window--it belongs,
does it not? unto this palace of the duke
the singer is undoubtedly beneath
the roof of his excellency--and perhaps
is even that alessandra of whom he spoke
as the betrothed of castiglione,
his son and heir
pol be still--it comes again
voice
very faintly and is thy heart so strong 
as for to leave me thus,
that have loved thee so long,
in wealth and woe among?
and is thy heart so strong
as for to leave me thus?
say nay say nay
bal the song is english, and i oft have heard it
in merry england--never so plaintively--
hist hist it comes again
voice
more loudly is it so strong
as for to leave me thus,
that have loved thee so long,
in wealth and woe among?
and is thy heart so strong
as for to leave me thus?
say nay say nay
bal tis hushed and all is still
pol all is not still
bal let us go down
pol go down, baldazzar, go
bal the hour is growing late--the duke awaits us,--
thy presence is expected in the hall
below what ails thee, earl politian?
voice
distinctly who have loved thee so long,
in wealth and woe among,
and is thy heart so strong?
say nay say nay
ballet us descend--tis time politian, give
these fancies to the wind remember, pray,
your bearing lately savored much of rudeness
unto the duke arouse thee and remember
pol remember? i do lead on i do remember
going
let us descend believe me i would give,
freely would give the broad lands of my earldom
to look upon the face hidden by yon lattice--
to gaze upon that veiled face, and hear
once more that silent tongue
ballet me beg you, sir,
descend with me--the duke may be offended
let us go down, i pray you
voice loudly say nay--say nay
pol aside tis strange--tis very strange--methought
the voice
chimed in with my desires and bade me stay
approaching the window
sweet voice i heed thee, and will surely stay
now be this fancy, by heaven, or be it fate,
still will i not descend baldazzar, make
apology unto the duke for me
i go not down to-night
bal your lordships pleasure
shall be attended to good-night, politian
pol good-night, my friend, good-night
the gardens of a palace--moonlight lalage and politian
lalage and dost thou speak of love
to me, politian?--dost thou speak of love
to lalage?--ah woe--ah woe is me
this mockery is most cruel--most cruel indeed
politian weep not oh, sob not thus--thy bitter tears
will madden me oh, mourn not, lalage--
be comforted i know--i know it all,
and still i speak of love look at me, brightest,
and beautiful lalage--turn here thine eyes
thou askest me if i could speak of love,
knowing what i know, and seeing what i have seen
thou askest me that--and thus i answer thee--
thus on my bended knee i answer thee kneeling
sweet lalage, i love thee--love thee--love thee
thro good and ill--thro weal and woe, i love thee
not mother, with her first-born on her knee,
thrills with intenser love than i for thee
not on gods altar, in any time or clime,
burned there a holier fire than burneth now
within my spirit for thee and do i love?
arising
even for thy woes i love thee--even for thy woes--
thy beauty and thy woes
lal alas, proud earl,
thou dost forget thyself, remembering me
how, in thy fathers halls, among the maidens
pure and reproachless of thy princely line,
could the dishonored lalage abide?
thy wife, and with a tainted memory--
my seared and blighted name, how would it tally
with the ancestral honors of thy house,
and with thy glory?
pol speak not to me of glory
i hate--i loathe the name i do abhor
the unsatisfactory and ideal thing
art thou not lalage, and i politian?
do i not love--art thou not beautiful--
what need we more? ha glory now speak not of it
by all i hold most sacred and most solemn--
by all my wishes now--my fears hereafter--
by all i scorn on earth and hope in heaven--
there is no deed i would more glory in,
than in thy cause to scoff at this same glory
and trample it under foot what matters it--
what matters it, my fairest, and my best,
that we go down unhonored and forgotten
into the dust--so we descend together?
descend together--and then--and then perchance--
lal why dost thou pause, politian?
pol and then perchance
arise together, lalage, and roam
the starry and quiet dwellings of the blest,
and still--
lal why dost thou pause, politian?
pol and still together--together
lal now, earl of leicester
thou lovest me, and in my heart of hearts
i feel thou lovest me truly
pol o lalage
throwing himself upon his knee
and lovest thou me?
lal hist hush within the gloom
of yonder trees methought a figure passed--
a spectral figure, solemn, and slow, and noiseless--
like the grim shadow conscience, solemn and noiseless
walks across and returns
i was mistaken--twas but a giant bough
stirred by the autumn wind politian
pol my lalage--my love why art thou moved?
why dost thou turn so pale? not conscience self,
far less a shadow which thou likenest to it,
should shake the firm spirit thus but the night wind
is chilly--and these melancholy boughs
throw over all things a gloom
lal politian
thou speakest to me of love knowest thou the land
with which all tongues are busy--a land new found--
miraculously found by one of genoa--
a thousand leagues within the golden west?
a fairy land of flowers, and fruit, and sunshine,--
and crystal lakes, and over-arching forests,
and mountains, around whose towering summits the winds
of heaven untrammelled flow--which air to breathe
is happiness now, and will be freedom hereafter
in days that are to come?
pol oh, wilt thou--wilt thou
fly to that paradise--my lalage, wilt thou
fly thither with me? there care shall be forgotten,
and sorrow shall be no more, and eros be all
and life shall then be mine, for i will live
for thee, and in thine eyes--and thou shalt be
no more a mourner--but the radiant joys
shall wait upon thee, and the angel hope
attend thee ever and i will kneel to thee
and worship thee, and call thee my beloved,
my own, my beautiful, my love, my wife,
my all--oh, wilt thou--wilt thou, lalage,
fly thither with me?
lal a deed is to be done--
castiglione lives
pol and he shall die
exit
lal
after a pause and--he--shall--die--alas
castiglione die? who spoke the words?
where am i?--what was it he said?--politian
thou art not gone--thou art not gone, politian
i feel thou art not gone--yet dare not look,
lest i behold thee not--thou couldst not go
with those words upon thy lips--oh, speak to me
and let me hear thy voice--one word--one word,
to say thou art not gone,--one little sentence,
to say how thou dost scorn--how thou dost hate
my womanly weakness ha ha thou art not gone--
oh, speak to me i knew thou wouldst not go
i knew thou wouldst not, couldst not, durst not go
villain, thou art not gone--thou mockest me
and thus i clutch thee--thus--he is gone, he is gone--
gone--gone where am i?--tis well--tis very well
so that the blade be keen--the blow be sure,
tis well, tis very well--alas alas
the suburbs politian alone
politian  this weakness grows upon me i am fain
and much i fear me ill--it will not do
to die ere i have lived--stay--stay thy hand,
o azrael, yet awhile--prince of the powers
of darkness and the tomb, oh, pity me
oh, pity me let me not perish now,
in the budding of my paradisal hope
give me to live yet--yet a little while
tis i who pray for life--i who so late
demanded but to die--what sayeth the count?
enter baldazzar
baldazzar that, knowing no cause of quarrel or of feud
between the earl politian and himself,
he doth decline your cartel
pol what didst thou say?
what answer was it you brought me, good baldazzar?
with what excessive fragrance the zephyr comes
laden from yonder bowers--a fairer day,
or one more worthy italy, methinks
no mortal eyes have seen--what said the count?
bal that he, castiglione, not being aware
of any feud existing, or any cause
of quarrel between your lordship and himself,
cannot accept the challenge
pol it is most true--
all this is very true when saw you, sir,
when saw you now, baldazzar, in the frigid
ungenial britain which we left so lately,
a heaven so calm as this--so utterly free
from the evil taint of clouds?--and he did say?
bal no more, my lord, than i have told you
the count castiglione will not fight
having no cause for quarrel
pol now this is true--
all very true thou art my friend, baldazzar,
and i have not forgotten it--thoult do me
a piece of service wilt thou go back and say
unto this man, that i, the earl of leicester,
hold him a villain?--thus much, i prythee, say
unto the count--it is exceeding just
he should have cause for quarrel
bal my lord--my friend--
pol aside tis he--he comes himself
aloud thou reasonest well
i know what thou wouldst say--not send the message--
well--i will think of it--i will not send it
now prythee, leave me--hither doth come a person
with whom affairs of a most private nature
i would adjust
bal i go--to-morrow we meet,
do we not?--at the vatican
pol at the vatican
exit bal
enter castiglione
cas the earl of leicester here
pol i am the earl of leicester, and thou seest,
dost thou not, that i am here?
cas my lord, some strange,
some singular mistake--misunderstanding--
hath without doubt arisen thou hast been urged
thereby, in heat of anger, to address
some words most unaccountable, in writing,
to me, castiglione the bearer being
baldazzar, duke of surrey i am aware
of nothing which might warrant thee in this thing,
having given thee no offence ha--am i right?
twas a mistake?--undoubtedly--we all
do err at times
pol draw, villain, and prate no more
cas ha--draw?--and villain? have at thee then at once,
proud earl
draws
pol
drawing thus to the expiatory tomb,
untimely sepulchre, i do devote thee
in the name of lalage
cas letting fall his sword and recoiling to the extremity of the
stage
of lalage
hold off--thy sacred hand--avaunt, i say
avaunt--i will not fight thee--indeed i dare not
pol thou wilt not fight with me didst say, sir count?
shall i be baffled thus?--now this is well
didst say thou darest not? ha
cas i dare not--dare not--
hold off thy hand--with that beloved name
so fresh upon thy lips i will not fight thee--
i cannot--dare not
pol now, by my halidom,
i do believe thee--coward, i do believe thee
cas ha--coward--this may not be
clutches his sword and staggers towards politian, but his purpose is
changed before reaching him, and he falls upon hia knee at the feet of
the earl
alas my lord,
it is--it is--most true in such a cause
i am the veriest coward oh, pity me
pol
greatly softened alas--i do--indeed i pity thee
cas and lalage--
pol scoundrel--arise and die
cas it needeth not be--thus--thus--oh, let me die
thus on my bended knee it were most fitting
that in this deep humiliation i perish
for in the fight i will not raise a hand
against thee, earl of leicester strike thou home--
baring his bosom
here is no let or hindrance to thy weapon--
strike home i will not fight thee
pol nows death and hell
am i not--am i not sorely--grievously tempted
to take thee at thy word? but mark me, sir
think not to fly me thus do thou prepare
for public insult in the streets--before
the eyes of the citizens ill follow thee--
like an avenging spirit ill follow thee
even unto death before those whom thou lovest--
before all rome ill taunt thee, villain,--ill taunt
thee,
dost hear? with cowardice--thou wilt not fight me?
thou liest thou shalt
exit
cas now this indeed is just
most righteous, and most just, avenging heaven
  
duke   why do you laugh?
castiglione  indeed
i hardly know myself stay was it not
on yesterday we were speaking of the earl?
of the earl politian? yes it was yesterday
alessandra, you and i, you must remember
we were walking in the garden
duke   perfectly
i do remember it--what of it--what then?
cas o nothing--nothing at all
duke   nothing at all
it is most singular that you should laugh
at nothing at all
cas most singular--singular
duke   look yon, castiglione, be so kind
as tell me, sir, at once what tis you mean
what are you talking of?
cas was it not so?
we differed in opinion touching him
duke   him--whom?
cas why, sir, the earl politian
duke   the earl of leicester yes--is it he you mean?
we differed, indeed if i now recollect
the words you used were that the earl you knew
was neither learned nor mirthful
cas ha ha--now did i?
duke   that did you, sir, and well i knew at the time
you were wrong, it being not the character
of the earl--whom all the world allows to be
a most hilarious man be not, my son,
too positive again
cas tis singular
most singular i could not think it possible
so little time could so much alter one
to say the truth about an hour ago,
as i was walking with the count san ozzo,
all arm in arm, we met this very man
the earl--he, with his friend baldazzar,
having just arrived in rome ha ha he is altered
such an account he gave me of his journey
twould have made you die with laughter--such tales he
told
of his caprices and his merry freaks
along the road--such oddity--such humor--
such wit--such whim--such flashes of wild merriment
set off too in such full relief by the grave
demeanor of his friend--who, to speak the truth
was gravity itself--
duke   did i not tell you?
cas you did--and yet tis strange but true, as strange,
how much i was mistaken i always thought
the earl a gloomy man
duke   so, so, you see
be not too positive whom have we here?
it cannot be the earl?
cas the earl oh no
tis not the earl--but yet it is--and leaning
upon his friend baldazzar ah welcome, sir
enter politian and baldazzar
my lord, a second welcome let me give you
to rome--his grace the duke of broglio
father this is the earl politian, earl
of leicester in great britain
politian bows haughtily
that, his friend
baldazzar, duke of surrey the earl has letters,
so please you, for your grace
duke   ha ha most welcome
to rome and to our palace, earl politian
and you, most noble duke i am glad to see you
i knew your father well, my lord politian
castiglione call your cousin hither,
and let me make the noble earl acquainted
with your betrothed you come, sir, at a time
most seasonable the wedding--
politian  touching those letters, sir,
your son made mention of--your son, is he not?--
touching those letters, sir, i wot not of them
if such there be, my friend baldazzar here--
baldazzar ah--my friend baldazzar here
will hand them to your grace i would retire
duke   retire--so soon?
cas what ho benito rupert
his lordships chambers--show his lordship to them
his lordship is unwell
enter benito
ben this way, my lord
exit, followed by politian
duke   retire unwell
bal so please you, sir i fear me
tis as you say--his lordship is unwell
the damp air of the evening--the fatigue
of a long journey--the--indeed i had better
follow his lordship he must be unwell
i will return anon
duke   return anon
now this is very strange castiglione
this way, my son, i wish to speak with thee
you surely were mistaken in what you said
of the earl, mirthful, indeed--which of us said
politian was a melancholy man?
exeunt
  
poems of youth
  
sonnet--to science
science true daughter of old time thou art
who alterest all things with thy peering eyes
why preyest thou thus upon the poets heart,
vulture, whose wings are dull realities
how should he love thee? or how deem thee wise,
who wouldst not leave him in his wandering
to seek for treasure in the jewelled skies,
albeit he soared with an undaunted wing
hast thou not dragged diana from her car?
and driven the hamadryad from the wood
to seek a shelter in some happier star?
hast thou not torn the naiad from her flood,
the elfin from the green grass, and from me
the summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?
  
  
al aaraaf 
part i
o nothing earthly save the ray
thrown back from flowers of beautys eye,
as in those gardens where the day
springs from the gems of circassy--
o nothing earthly save the thrill
of melody in woodland rill--
or music of the passion-hearted
joys voice so peacefully departed
that like the murmur in the shell,
its echo dwelleth and will dwell--
o nothing of the dross of ours--
yet all the beauty--all the flowers
that list our love, and deck our bowers--
adorn yon world afar, afar--
the wandering star
twas a sweet time for nesace--for there
her world lay lolling on the golden air,
near four bright suns--a temporary rest--
an oasis in desert of the blest
away away--mid seas of rays that roll
empyrean splendor oer th unchained soul--
the soul that scarce the billows are so dense
can struggle to its destind eminence--
to distant spheres, from time to time, she rode,
and late to ours, the favourd one of god--
but, now, the ruler of an anchord realm,
she throws aside the sceptre--leaves the helm,
and, amid incense and high spiritual hymns,
laves in quadruple light her angel limbs
now happiest, loveliest in yon lovely earth,
whence sprang the idea of beauty into birth,
falling in wreaths thro many a startled star,
like womans hair mid pearls, until, afar,
it lit on hills achaian, and there dwelt,
she lookd into infinity--and knelt
rich clouds, for canopies, about her curled--
fit emblems of the model of her world--
seen but in beauty--not impeding sight--
of other beauty glittering thro the light--
a wreath that twined each starry form around,
and all the opald air in color bound
all hurriedly she knelt upon a bed
of flowers of lilies such as reard the head
on the fair capo deucato , and sprang
so eagerly around about to hang
upon the flying footsteps of--deep pride--
of her who lovd a mortal--and so died 
the sephalica, budding with young bees,
upreard its purple stem around her knees
and gemmy flower, of trebizond misnamd --
inmate of highest stars, where erst it shamd
all other loveliness its honied dew
the fabled nectar that the heathen knew
deliriously sweet, was droppd from heaven,
and fell on gardens of the unforgiven
in trebizond--and on a sunny flower
so like its own above that, to this hour,
it still remaineth, torturing the bee
with madness, and unwonted reverie
in heaven, and all its environs, the leaf
and blossom of the fairy plant, in grief
disconsolate linger--grief that hangs her head,
repenting follies that full long have fled,
heaving her white breast to the balmy air,
like guilty beauty, chastend, and more fair
nyctanthes too, as sacred as the light
she fears to perfume, perfuming the night
and clytia  pondering between many a sun,
while pettish tears adown her petals run
and that aspiring flower that sprang on earth --
and died, ere scarce exalted into birth,
bursting its odorous heart in spirit to wing
its way to heaven, from garden of a king
and valisnerian lotus thither flown 
from struggling with the waters of the rhone
and thy most lovely purple perfume, zante 
isola doro--fior di levante
and the nelumbo bud that floats for ever 
with indian cupid down the holy river--
fair flowers, and fairy to whose care is given
to bear the goddess song, in odors, up to heaven 
spirit that dwellest where,
in the deep sky,
the terrible and fair,
in beauty vie
beyond the line of blue--
the boundary of the star
which turneth at the view
of thy barrier and thy bar--
of the barrier overgone
by the comets who were cast
from their pride, and from their throne
to be drudges till the last--
to be carriers of fire
the red fire of their heart
with speed that may not tire
and with pain that shall not part--
who livest--that we know--
in eternity--we feel--
but the shadow of whose brow
what spirit shall reveal?
tho the beings whom thy nesace,
thy messenger hath known
have dreamd for thy infinity
a model of their own --
thy will is done, o god
the star hath ridden high
thro many a tempest, but she rode
beneath thy burning eye
and here, in thought, to thee--
in thought that can alone
ascend thy empire and so be
a partner of thy throne--
by winged fantasy ,
my embassy is given,
till secrecy shall knowledge be
in the environs of heaven
she ceasd--and buried then her burning cheek
abashd, amid the lilies there, to seek
a shelter from the fervor of his eye
for the stars trembled at the deity
she stirrd not--breathd not--for a voice was there
how solemnly pervading the calm air
a sound of silence on the startled ear
which dreamy poets name the music of the sphere
ours is a world of words quiet we call
silence--which is the merest word of all
all nature speaks, and evn ideal things
flap shadowy sounds from the visionary wings--
but ah not so when, thus, in realms on high
the eternal voice of god is passing by,
and the red winds are withering in the sky
what tho in worlds which sightless cycles run ,
linkd to a little system, and one sun--
where all my love is folly, and the crowd
still think my terrors but the thunder cloud,
the storm, the earthquake, and the ocean-wrath
ah will they cross me in my angrier path?
what tho in worlds which own a single sun
the sands of time grow dimmer as they run,
yet thine is my resplendency, so given
to bear my secrets thro the upper heaven
leave tenantless thy crystal home, and fly,
with all thy train, athwart the moony sky--
apart--like fire-flies in sicilian night ,
and wing to other worlds another light
divulge the secrets of thy embassy
to the proud orbs that twinkle--and so be
to evry heart a barrier and a ban
lest the stars totter in the guilt of man
up rose the maiden in the yellow night,
the single-mooned eve-on earth we plight
our faith to one love--and one moon adore--
the birth-place of young beauty had no more
as sprang that yellow star from downy hours,
up rose the maiden from her shrine of flowers,
and bent oer sheeny mountain and dim plain
her way--but left not yet her therasan reign 
part ii
high on a mountain of enamelld head--
such as the drowsy shepherd on his bed
of giant pasturage lying at his ease,
raising his heavy eyelid, starts and sees
with many a mutterd hope to be forgiven
what time the moon is quadrated in heaven--
of rosy head, that towering far away
into the sunlit ether, caught the ray
of sunken suns at eve--at noon of night,
while the moon dancd with the fair stranger light--
upreard upon such height arose a pile
of gorgeous columns on th uuburthend air,
flashing from parian marble that twin smile
far down upon the wave that sparkled there,
and nursled the young mountain in its lair
of molten stars their pavement, such as fall 
thro the ebon air, besilvering the pall
of their own dissolution, while they die--
adorning then the dwellings of the sky
a dome, by linked light from heaven let down,
sat gently on these columns as a crown--
a window of one circular diamond, there,
lookd out above into the purple air
and rays from god shot down that meteor chain
and hallowd all the beauty twice again,
save when, between th empyrean and that ring,
some eager spirit flappd his dusky wing
but on the pillars seraph eyes have seen
the dimness of this world that grayish green
that nature loves the best for beautys grave
lurkd in each cornice, round each architrave--
and every sculptured cherub thereabout
that from his marble dwelling peered out,
seemd earthly in the shadow of his niche--
achaian statues in a world so rich?
friezes from tadmor and persepolis --
from balbec, and the stilly, clear abyss
of beautiful gomorrah oh, the wave 
is now upon thee--but too late to save
sound loves to revel in a summer night
witness the murmur of the gray twilight
that stole upon the ear, in eyraco ,
of many a wild star-gazer long ago--
that stealeth ever on the ear of him
who, musing, gazeth on the distance dim,
and sees the darkness coming as a cloud--
is not its form--its voice--most palpable and loud?  
but what is this?--it cometh--and it brings
a music with it--tis the rush of wings--
a pause--and then a sweeping, falling strain,
and nesace is in her halls again
from the wild energy of wanton haste
her cheeks were flushing, and her lips apart
the zone that clung around her gentle waist
had burst beneath the heaving of her heart
within the centre of that hall to breathe
she pausd and panted, zanthe all beneath,
the fairy light that kissd her golden hair
and longd to rest, yet could but sparkle there
young flowers were whispering in melody 
to happy flowers that night--and tree to tree
fountains were gushing music as they fell
in many a star-lit grove, or moon-light dell
yet silence came upon material things--
fair flowers, bright waterfalls and angel wings--
and sound alone that from the spirit sprang
bore burthen to the charm the maiden sang
neath blue-bell or streamer--
or tufted wild spray
that keeps, from the dreamer,
the moonbeam away--
bright beings that ponder,
with half-closing eyes,
on the stars which your wonder
hath drawn from the skies,
till they glance thro the shade, and
come down to your brow
like--eyes of the maiden
who calls on you now--
arise from your dreaming
in violet bowers,
to duty beseeming
these star-litten hours--
and shake from your tresses
encumberd with dew
the breath of those kisses
that cumber them too--
o how, without you, love
could angels be blest?
those kisses of true love
that lulld ye to rest
up shake from your wing
each hindering thing
the dew of the night--
it would weigh down your flight
and true love caresses--
o leave them apart
they are light on the tresses,
but lead on the heart
ligeia ligeia
my beautiful one
whose harshest idea
will to melody run,
o is it thy will
on the breezes to toss?
or, capriciously still,
like the lone albatross, 
incumbent on night
as she on the air
to keep watch with delight
on the harmony there?
ligeia wherever
thy image may be,
no magic shall sever
thy music from thee
thou hast bound many eyes
in a dreamy sleep--
but the strains still arise
which thy vigilance keep--
the sound of the rain
which leaps down to the flower,
and dances again
in the rhythm of the shower--
the murmur that springs 
from the growing of grass
are the music of things--
but are modelld, alas
away, then, my dearest,
o hie thee away
to springs that lie clearest
beneath the moon-ray--
to lone lake that smiles,
in its dream of deep rest,
at the many star-isles
that enjewel its breast--
where wild flowers, creeping,
have mingled their shade,
on its margin is sleeping
full many a maid--
some have left the cool glade, and
have slept with the bee--
arouse them, my maiden,
on moorland and lea--
go breathe on their slumber,
all softly in ear,
the musical number
they slumberd to hear--
for what can awaken
an angel so soon
whose sleep hath been taken
beneath the cold moon,
as the spell which no slumber
of witchery may test,
the rhythmical number
which lulld him to rest?
spirits in wing, and angels to the view,
a thousand seraphs burst th empyrean thro,
young dreams still hovering on their drowsy flight--
seraphs in all but knowledge, the keen light
that fell, refracted, thro thy bounds afar,
o death from eye of god upon that star
sweet was that error--sweeter still that death--
sweet was that error--evn with us the breath
of science dims the mirror of our joy--
to them twere the simoom, and would destroy--
for what to them availeth it to know
that truth is falsehood--or that bliss is woe?
sweet was their death--with them to die was rife
with the last ecstasy of satiate life--
beyond that death no immortality--
but sleep that pondereth and is not to be--
and there--oh may my weary spirit dwell--
apart from heavens eternity--and yet how far from hell 
what guilty spirit, in what shrubbery dim
heard not the stirring summons of that hymn?
but two they fell for heaven no grace imparts
to those who hear not for their beating hearts
a maiden-angel and her seraph-lover--
o where and ye may seek the wide skies over
was love, the blind, near sober duty known?
unguided love hath fallen--mid tears of perfect moan 
he was a goodly spirit--he who fell
a wanderer by mossy-mantled well--
a gazer on the lights that shine above--
a dreamer in the moonbeam by his love
what wonder? for each star is eye-like there,
and looks so sweetly down on beautys hair--
and they, and evry mossy spring were holy
to his love-haunted heart and melancholy
the night had found to him a night of wo
upon a mountain crag, young angelo--
beetling it bends athwart the solemn sky,
and scowls on starry worlds that down beneath it lie
here sate he with his love--his dark eye bent
with eagle gaze along the firmament
now turnd it upon her--but ever then
it trembled to the orb of earth again
ianthe, dearest, see how dim that ray
how lovely tis to look so far away
she seemed not thus upon that autumn eve
i left her gorgeous halls--nor mourned to leave,
that eve--that eve--i should remember well--
the sun-ray dropped, in lemnos with a spell
on th arabesque carving of a gilded hall
wherein i sate, and on the draperied wall--
and on my eyelids--o, the heavy light
how drowsily it weighed them into night
on flowers, before, and mist, and love they ran
with persian saadi in his gulistan
but o, that light--i slumbered--death, the while,
stole oer my senses in that lovely isle
so softly that no single silken hair
awoke that slept--or knew that he was there
the last spot of earths orb i trod upon
was a proud temple called the parthenon 
more beauty clung around her columned wall
then even thy glowing bosom beats withal, 
and when old time my wing did disenthral
thence sprang i--as the eagle from his tower,
and years i left behind me in an hour
what time upon her airy bounds i hung,
one half the garden of her globe was flung
unrolling as a chart unto my view--
tenantless cities of the desert too
ianthe, beauty crowded on me then,
and half i wished to be again of men
my angelo and why of them to be?
a brighter dwelling-place is here for thee--
and greener fields than in yon world above,
and womans loveliness--and passionate love
but list, ianthe when the air so soft
failed, as my pennoned spirit leapt aloft, 
perhaps my brain grew dizzy--but the world
i left so late was into chaos hurled,
sprang from her station, on the winds apart,
and rolled a flame, the fiery heaven athwart
methought, my sweet one, then i ceased to soar,
and fell--not swiftly as i rose before,
but with a downward, tremulous motion thro
light, brazen rays, this golden star unto
nor long the measure of my falling hours,
for nearest of all stars was thine to ours--
dread star that came, amid a night of mirth,
a red daedalion on the timid earth
we came--and to thy earth--but not to us
be given our ladys bidding to discuss
we came, my love around, above, below,
gay fire-fly of the night we come and go,
nor ask a reason save the angel-nod
she grants to us as granted by her god--
but, angelo, than thine gray time unfurled
never his fairy wing oer fairer world
dim was its little disk, and angel eyes
alone could see the phantom in the skies,
when first al aaraaf knew her course to be
headlong thitherward oer the starry sea--
but when its glory swelled upon the sky,
as glowing beautys bust beneath mans eye,
we paused before the heritage of men,
and thy star trembled--as doth beauty then
thus in discourse, the lovers whiled away
the night that waned and waned and brought no day
they fell for heaven to them no hope imparts
who hear not for the beating of their hearts
tamerlane
kind solace in a dying hour
such, father, is not now my theme--
i will not madly deem that power
of earth may shrive me of the sin
unearthly pride hath revelled in--
i have no time to dote or dream
you call it hope--that fire of fire
it is but agony of desire
if i can hope--o god i can--
its fount is holier--more divine--
i would not call thee fool, old man,
but such is not a gift of thine
know thou the secret of a spirit
bowed from its wild pride into shame
o yearning heart i did inherit
thy withering portion with the fame,
the searing glory which hath shone
amid the jewels of my throne,
halo of hell and with a pain
not hell shall make me fear again--
o craving heart, for the lost flowers
and sunshine of my summer hours
the undying voice of that dead time,
with its interminable chime,
rings, in the spirit of a spell,
upon thy emptiness--a knell
i have not always been as now
the fevered diadem on my brow
i claimed and won usurpingly--
hath not the same fierce heirdom given
rome to the csar--this to me?
the heritage of a kingly mind,
and a proud spirit which hath striven
triumphantly with human kind
on mountain soil i first drew life
the mists of the taglay have shed
nightly their dews upon my head,
and, i believe, the winged strife
and tumult of the headlong air
have nestled in my very hair
so late from heaven--that dew--it fell
mid dreams of an unholy night
upon me with the touch of hell,
while the red flashing of the light
from clouds that hung, like banners, oer,
appeared to my half-closing eye
the pageantry of monarchy
and the deep trumpet-thunders roar
came hurriedly upon me, telling
of human battle, where my voice,
my own voice, silly child--was swelling
o how my spirit would rejoice,
and leap within me at the cry
the battle-cry of victory
the rain came down upon my head
unsheltered--and the heavy wind
rendered me mad and deaf and blind
it was but man, i thought, who shed
laurels upon me and the rush--
the torrent of the chilly air
gurgled within my ear the crush
of empires--with the captives prayer--
the hum of suitors--and the tone
of flattery round a sovereigns throne
my passions, from that hapless hour,
usurped a tyranny which men
have deemed since i have reached to power,
my innate nature--be it so
but, father, there lived one who, then,
then--in my boyhood--when their fire
burned with a still intenser glow
for passion must, with youth, expire
een then who knew this iron heart
in womans weakness had a part
i have no words--alas--to tell
the loveliness of loving well
nor would i now attempt to trace
the more than beauty of a face
whose lineaments, upon my mind,
are--shadows on th unstable wind
thus i remember having dwelt
some page of early lore upon,
with loitering eye, till i have felt
the letters--with their meaning--melt
to fantasies--with none
o, she was worthy of all love
love as in infancy was mine--
twas such as angel minds above
might envy her young heart the shrine
on which my every hope and thought
were incense--then a goodly gift,
for they were childish and upright--
pure--as her young example taught
why did i leave it, and, adrift,
trust to the fire within, for light?
we grew in age--and love--together--
roaming the forest, and the wild
my breast her shield in wintry weather--
and, when the friendly sunshine smiled
and she would mark the opening skies,
i saw no heaven--but in her eyes
young loves first lesson is----the heart
for mid that sunshine, and those smiles,
when, from our little cares apart,
and laughing at her girlish wiles,
id throw me on her throbbing breast,
and pour my spirit out in tears--
there was no need to speak the rest--
no need to quiet any fears
of her--who asked no reason why,
but turned on me her quiet eye
yet more than worthy of the love
my spirit struggled with, and strove
when, on the mountain peak, alone,
ambition lent it a new tone--
i had no being--but in thee
the world, and all it did contain
in the earth--the air--the sea--
its joy--its little lot of pain
that was new pleasure--the ideal,
dim, vanities of dreams by night--
and dimmer nothings which were real--
shadows--and a more shadowy light
parted upon their misty wings,
and, so, confusedly, became
thine image and--a name--a name
two separate--yet most intimate things
i was ambitious--have you known
the passion, father? you have not
a cottager, i marked a throne
of half the world as all my own,
and murmured at such lowly lot--
but, just like any other dream,
upon the vapor of the dew
my own had past, did not the beam
of beauty which did while it thro
the minute--the hour--the day--oppress
my mind with double loveliness
we walked together on the crown
of a high mountain which looked down
afar from its proud natural towers
of rock and forest, on the hills--
the dwindled hills begirt with bowers
and shouting with a thousand rills
i spoke to her of power and pride,
but mystically--in such guise
that she might deem it nought beside
the moments converse in her eyes
i read, perhaps too carelessly--
a mingled feeling with my own--
the flush on her bright cheek, to me
seemed to become a queenly throne
too well that i should let it be
light in the wilderness alone
i wrapped myself in grandeur then,
and donned a visionary crown--
yet it was not that fantasy
had thrown her mantle over me--
but that, among the rabble--men,
lion ambition is chained down--
and crouches to a keepers hand--
not so in deserts where the grand--
the wild--the terrible conspire
with their own breath to fan his fire
look round thee now on samarcand--
is she not queen of earth? her pride
above all cities? in her hand
their destinies? in all beside
of glory which the world hath known
stands she not nobly and alone?
falling--her veriest stepping-stone
shall form the pedestal of a throne--
and who her sovereign? timour--he
whom the astonished people saw
striding oer empires haughtily
a diademed outlaw
o, human love thou spirit given,
on earth, of all we hope in heaven
which fallst into the soul like rain
upon the siroc-withered plain,
and, failing in thy power to bless,
but leavst the heart a wilderness
idea which bindest life around
with music of so strange a sound
and beauty of so wild a birth--
farewell for i have won the earth
when hope, the eagle that towered, could see
no cliff beyond him in the sky,
his pinions were bent droopingly--
and homeward turned his softened eye
twas sunset when the sun will part
there comes a sullenness of heart
to him who still would look upon
the glory of the summer sun
that soul will hate the evning mist
so often lovely, and will list
to the sound of the coming darkness known
to those whose spirits hearken as one
who, in a dream of night, would fly,
but cannot, from a danger nigh
what tho the moon--tho the white moon
shed all the splendor of her noon,
her smile is chilly--and her beam,
in that time of dreariness, will seem
so like you gather in your breath
a portrait taken after death
and boyhood is a summer sun
whose waning is the dreariest one--
for all we live to know is known,
and all we seek to keep hath flown--
let life, then, as the day-flower, fall
with the noon-day beauty--which is all
i reached my home--my home no more--
for all had flown who made it so
i passed from out its mossy door,
and, tho my tread was soft and low,
a voice came from the threshold stone
of one whom i had earlier known--
o, i defy thee, hell, to show
on beds of fire that burn below,
an humbler heart--a deeper woe
father, i firmly do believe--
i know--for death who comes for me
from regions of the blest afar,
where there is nothing to deceive,
hath left his iron gate ajar
and rays of truth you cannot see
are flashing thro eternity----
i do believe that eblis hath
a snare in every human path--
else how, when in the holy grove
i wandered of the idol, love,--
who daily scents his snowy wings
with incense of burnt-offerings
from the most unpolluted things,
whose pleasant bowers are yet so riven
above with trellised rays from heaven
no mote may shun--no tiniest fly--
the lightning of his eagle eye--
how was it that ambition crept,
unseen, amid the revels there,
till growing bold, he laughed and leapt
in the tangles of loves very hair
  
to helen
helen, thy beauty is to me
like those nicean barks of yore,
that gently, oer a perfumed sea,
the weary, wayworn wanderer bore
to his own native shore
on desperate seas long wont to roam,
thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,
thy naiad airs have brought me home
to the glory that was greece,
to the grandeur that was rome
lo in yon brilliant window niche,
how statue-like i see thee stand,
the agate lamp within thy hand
ah, psyche, from the regions which
are holy land
  
the valley of unrest
once it smiled a silent dell
where the people did not dwell
they had gone unto the wars,
trusting to the mild-eyed stars,
nightly, from their azure towers,
to keep watch above the flowers,
in the midst of which all day
the red sun-light lazily lay,
now each visitor shall confess
the sad valleys restlessness
nothing there is motionless--
nothing save the airs that brood
over the magic solitude
ah, by no wind are stirred those trees
that palpitate like the chill seas
around the misty hebrides
ah, by no wind those clouds are driven
that rustle through the unquiet heaven
unceasingly, from morn till even,
over the violets there that lie
in myriad types of the human eye--
over the lilies that wave
and weep above a nameless grave
they wave--from out their fragrant tops
eternal dews come down in drops
they weep--from off their delicate stems
perennial tears descend in gems
  
israfel 
in heaven a spirit doth dwell
whose heart-strings are a lute
none sing so wildly well
as the angel israfel,
and the giddy stars so legends tell,
ceasing their hymns, attend the spell
of his voice, all mute
tottering above
in her highest noon,
the enamoured moon
blushes with love,
while, to listen, the red levin
with the rapid pleiads, even,
which were seven,
pauses in heaven
and they say the starry choir
and the other listening things
that israfelis fire
is owing to that lyre
by which he sits and sings--
the trembling living wire
of those unusual strings
but the skies that angel trod,
where deep thoughts are a duty--
where loves a grow-up god--
where the houri glances are
imbued with all the beauty
which we worship in a star
therefore, thou art not wrong,
israfeli, who despisest
an unimpassioned song
to thee the laurels belong,
best bard, because the wisest
merrily live and long
the ecstasies above
with thy burning measures suit--
thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,
with the fervor of thy lute--
well may the stars be mute
yes, heaven is thine but this
is a world of sweets and sours
our flowers are merely--flowers,
and the shadow of thy perfect bliss
is the sunshine of ours
if i could dwell
where israfel
hath dwelt, and he where i,
he might not sing so wildly well
a mortal melody,
while a bolder note than this might swell
from my lyre within the sky
  
to----
i heed not that my earthly lot
hath--little of earth in it--
that years of love have been forgot
in the hatred of a minute--
i mourn not that the desolate
are happier, sweet, than i,
but that you sorrow for my fate
who am a passer-by
  
to----
the bowers whereat, in dreams, i see
the wantonest singing birds,
are lips--and all thy melody
of lip-begotten words--
thine eyes, in heaven of heart enshrined
then desolately fall,
o god on my funereal mind
like starlight on a pall--
thy heart--thy heart--i wake and sigh,
and sleep to dream till day
of the truth that gold can never buy--
of the baubles that it may
  
to the river
fair river in thy bright, clear flow
of crystal, wandering water,
thou art an emblem of the glow
of beauty--the unhidden heart--
the playful maziness of art
in old albertos daughter
but when within thy wave she looks--
which glistens then, and trembles--
why, then, the prettiest of brooks
her worshipper resembles
for in his heart, as in thy stream,
her image deeply lies--
his heart which trembles at the beam
of her soul-searching eyes
  
song
i saw thee on thy bridal day--
when a burning blush came oer thee,
though happiness around thee lay,
the world all love before thee
and in thine eye a kindling light
whatever it might be
was all on earth my aching sight
of loveliness could see
that blush, perhaps, was maiden shame--
as such it well may pass--
though its glow hath raised a fiercer flame
in the breast of him, alas
who saw thee on that bridal day,
when that deep blush would come oer thee,
though happiness around thee lay,
the world all love before thee
  
spirits of the dead
thy soul shall find itself alone
mid dark thoughts of the gray tombstone
not one, of all the crowd, to pry
into thine hour of secrecy
be silent in that solitude
which is not loneliness--for then
the spirits of the dead who stood
in life before thee are again
in death around thee--and their will
shall overshadow thee be still
the night--tho clear--shall frown--
and the stars shall not look down
from their high thrones in the heaven,
with light like hope to mortals given--
but their red orbs, without beam,
to thy weariness shall seem
as a burning and a fever
which would cling to thee forever
now are thoughts thou shalt not banish--
now are visions neer to vanish--
from thy spirit shall they pass
no more--like dew-drops from the grass
the breeze--the breath of god--is still--
and the mist upon the hill
shadowy--shadowy--yet unbroken,
is a symbol and a token--
how it hangs upon the trees,
a mystery of mysteries
  
a dream
in visions of the dark night
i have dreamed of joy departed--
but a waking dream of life and light
hath left me broken-hearted
ah what is not a dream by day
to him whose eyes are cast
on things around him with a ray
turned back upon the past?
that holy dream--that holy dream,
while all the world were chiding,
hath cheered me as a lovely beam,
a lonely spirit guiding
what though that light, thro storm and night,
so trembled from afar--
what could there be more purely bright
in truths day star?
  
romance
romance, who loves to nod and sing,
with drowsy head and folded wing,
among the green leaves as they shake
far down within some shadowy lake,
to me a painted paroquet
hath been--a most familiar bird--
taught me my alphabet to say--
to lisp my very earliest word
while in the wild wood i did lie,
a child--with a most knowing eye
of late, eternal condor years
so shake the very heaven on high
with tumult as they thunder by,
i have no time for idle cares
though gazing on the unquiet sky
and when an hour with calmer wings
its down upon my spirit flings--
that little time with lyre and rhyme
to while away--forbidden things
my heart would feel to be a crime
unless it trembled with the strings
  
fairyland
dim vales--and shadowy floods--
and cloudy-looking woods,
whose forms we cant discover
for the tears that drip all over
huge moons there wax and wane--
again--again--again--
every moment of the night--
forever changing places--
and they put out the star-light
with the breath from their pale faces
about twelve by the moon-dial
one more filmy than the rest
a kind which, upon trial,
they have found to be the best
comes down--still down--and down
with its centre on the crown
of a mountains eminence,
while its wide circumference
in easy drapery falls
over hamlets, over halls,
wherever they may be--
oer the strange woods--oer the sea--
over spirits on the wing--
over every drowsy thing--
and buries them up quite
in a labyrinth of light--
and then, how deep--o, deep
is the passion of their sleep
in the morning they arise,
and their moony covering
is soaring in the skies,
with the tempests as they toss,
like--almost any thing--
or a yellow albatross
they use that moon no more
for the same end as before--
videlicet a tent--
which i think extravagant
its atomies, however,
into a shower dissever,
of which those butterflies,
of earth, who seek the skies,
and so come down again
never-contented thing
have brought a specimen
upon their quivering wings
  
the lake
in spring of youth it was my lot
to haunt of the wide world a spot
the which i could not love the less--
so lovely was the loneliness
of a wild lake, with black rock bound,
and the tall pines that towered around
but when the night had thrown her pall
upon the spot, as upon all,
and the mystic wind went by
murmuring in melody--
then--ah, then, i would awake
to the terror of the lone lake
yet that terror was not fright,
but a tremulous delight--
a feeling not the jewelled mine
could teach or bribe me to define--
nor love--although the love were thine
death was in that poisonous wave,
and in its gulf a fitting grave
for him who thence could solace bring
to his lone imagining--
whose solitary soul could make
an eden of that dim lake
  
evening star
twas noontide of summer,
and midtime of night,
and stars, in their orbits,
shone pale, through the light
of the brighter, cold moon
mid planets her slaves,
herself in the heavens,
her beam on the waves
i gazed awhile
on her cold smile
too cold--too cold for me--
there passed, as a shroud,
a fleecy cloud,
and i turned away to thee,
proud evening star,
in thy glory afar
and dearer thy beam shall be
for joy to my heart
is the proud part
thou bearest in heaven at night,
and more i admire
thy distant fire,
than that colder, lowly light
  
imitation
a dark unfathomed tide
of interminable pride--
a mystery, and a dream,
should my early life seem
i say that dream was fraught
with a wild and waking thought
of beings that have been,
which my spirit hath not seen,
had i let them pass me by,
with a dreaming eye
let none of earth inherit
that vision on my spirit
those thoughts i would control,
as a spell upon his soul
for that bright hope at last
and that light time have past,
and my wordly rest hath gone
with a sigh as it passed on
i care not though it perish
with a thought i then did cherish
  
the happiest day
i  the happiest day--the happiest hour
my seared and blighted heart hath known,
the highest hope of pride and power,
i feel hath flown
ii of power said i? yes such i ween
but they have vanished long, alas
the visions of my youth have been--
but let them pass
iii   and pride, what have i now with thee?
another brow may evn inherit
the venom thou hast poured on me--
be still my spirit
iv the happiest day--the happiest hour
mine eyes shall see--have ever seen
the brightest glance of pride and power
i feel have been
v  but were that hope of pride and power
now offered with the pain
evn then i felt--that brightest hour
i would not live again
vi for on its wing was dark alloy
and as it fluttered--fell
an essence--powerful to destroy
a soul that knew it well
  
translation from the greek
hymn to aristogeiton and harmodius
i wreathed in myrtle, my sword ill conceal,
like those champions devoted and brave,
when they plunged in the tyrant their steel,
and to athens deliverance gave
ii   beloved heroes your deathless souls roam
in the joy breathing isles of the blest
where the mighty of old have their home--
where achilles and diomed rest
iii  in fresh myrtle my blade ill entwine,
like harmodius, the gallant and good,
when he made at the tutelar shrine
a libation of tyrannys blood
iv   ye deliverers of athens from shame
ye avengers of libertys wrongs
endless ages shall cherish your fame,
embalmed in their echoing songs
  
dreams
oh that my young life were a lasting dream
my spirit not awakening, till the beam
of an eternity should bring the morrow
yes though that long dream were of hopeless sorrow,
twere better than the cold reality
of waking life, to him whose heart must be,
and hath been still, upon the lovely earth,
a chaos of deep passion, from his birth
but should it be--that dream eternally
continuing--as dreams have been to me
in my young boyhood--should it thus be given,
twere folly still to hope for higher heaven
for i have revelled when the sun was bright
i the summer sky, in dreams of living light
and loveliness,--have left my very heart
inclines of my imaginary apart 
from mine own home, with beings that have been
of mine own thought--what more could i have seen?
twas once--and only once--and the wild hour
from my remembrance shall not pass--some power
or spell had bound me--twas the chilly wind
came oer me in the night, and left behind
its image on my spirit--or the moon
shone on my slumbers in her lofty noon
too coldly--or the stars--howeer it was
that dream was that that night-wind--let it pass
i have been happy, though in a dream
i have been happy--and i love the theme
dreams in their vivid coloring of life
as in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife
of semblance with reality which brings
to the delirious eye, more lovely things
of paradise and love--and all my own--
than young hope in his sunniest hour hath known
  
in youth i have known one
how often we forget all time, when lone
admiring natures universal throne
her woods--her wilds--her mountains--the intense
reply of hers to our intelligence
i   in youth i have known one with whom the earth
in secret communing held--as he with it,
in daylight, and in beauty, from his birth
whose fervid, flickering torch of life was lit
from the sun and stars, whence he had drawn forth
a passionate light such for his spirit was fit--
and yet that spirit knew--not in the hour
of its own fervor--what had oer it power
ii  perhaps it may be that my mind is wrought
to a ferver  by the moonbeam that hangs oer,
but i will half believe that wild light fraught
with more of sovereignty than ancient lore
hath ever told--or is it of a thought
the unembodied essence, and no more
that with a quickening spell doth oer us pass
as dew of the night-time, oer the summer grass?
iii doth oer us pass, when, as th expanding eye
to the loved object--so the tear to the lid
will start, which lately slept in apathy?
and yet it need not be--that object hid
from us in life--but common--which doth lie
each hour before us--but then only bid
with a strange sound, as of a harp-string broken
t awake us--tis a symbol and a token--
iv  of what in other worlds shall be--and given
in beauty by our god, to those alone
who otherwise would fall from life and heaven
drawn by their hearts passion, and that tone,
that high tone of the spirit which hath striven
though not with faith--with godliness--whose throne
with desperate energy t hath beaten down
wearing its own deep feeling as a crown
  
a pan
i   how shall the burial rite be read?
the solemn song be sung?
the requiem for the loveliest dead,
that ever died so young?
ii  her friends are gazing on her,
and on her gaudy bier,
and weep--oh to dishonor
dead beauty with a tear
iii   they loved her for her wealth--
and they hated her for her pride--
but she grew in feeble health,
and they love her--that she died
iv they tell me while they speak
of her costly broiderd pall
that my voice is growing weak--
that i should not sing at all--
v  or that my tone should be
tund to such solemn song
so mournfully--so mournfully,
that the dead may feel no wrong
vi but she is gone above,
with young hope at her side,
and i am drunk with love
of the dead, who is my bride--
vii   of the dead--dead who lies
all perfumd there,
with the death upon her eyes
and the life upon her hair
viii  thus on the coffin loud and long
i strike--the murmur sent
through the gray chambers to my song,
shall be the accompaniment
ix thou diedst in thy lifes june--
but thou didst not die too fair
thou didst not die too soon,
nor with too calm an air
x  from more than friends on earth,
thy life and love are riven,
to join the untainted mirth
of more than thrones in heaven--
xi therefore, to thee this night
i will no requiem raise,
but waft thee on thy flight,
with a pan of old days
  
mysterious star
thou wert my dream
all a long summer night--
be now my theme
by this clear stream,
of thee will i write
meantime from afar
bathe me in light
thy world has not the dross of ours,
yet all the beauty--all the flowers
that list our love or deck our bowers
in dreamy gardens, where do lie
dreamy maidens all the day
while the silver winds of circassy
on violet couches faint away
little--oh little dwells in thee
like unto what on earth we see
beautys eye is here the bluest
in the falsest and untruest--
on the sweetest air doth float
the most sad and solemn note--
if with thee be broken hearts,
joy so peacefully departs,
that its echo still doth dwell,
like the murmur in the shell
thou thy truest type of grief
is the gently falling leaf--
thou thy framing is so holy
sorrow is not melancholy
  
 the earliest version of tamerlane was included in the suppressed
volume of , but differs very considerably from the poem as now
published the present draft, besides innumerable verbal alterations and
improvements upon the original, is more carefully punctuated, and, the
lines being indented, presents a more pleasing appearance, to the eye at
least
  
 to helen first appeared in the  volume, as did also the
valley of unrest as the valley nis, israfel, and one or two
others of the youthful pieces
the poem styled romance constituted the preface of the  volume,
but with the addition of the following lines
succeeding years, too wild for song,
then rolled like tropic storms along,
where, though the garish lights that fly
dying along the troubled sky,
lay bare, through vistas thunder-riven,
the blackness of the general heaven,
that very blackness yet doth fling
light on the lightnings silver wing
for being an idle boy lang syne,
who read anacreon and drank wine,
i early found anacreon rhymes
were almost passionate sometimes--
and by strange alchemy of brain
his pleasures always turned to pain--
his navet to wild desire--
his wit to love--his wine to fire--
and so, being young and dipt in folly,
i fell in love with melancholy
and used to throw my earthly rest
and quiet all away in jest--
i could not love except where death
was mingling his with beautys breath--
or hymen, time, and destiny,
were stalking between her and me
  
but now my soul hath too much room--
gone are the glory and the gloom--
the black hath mellowd into gray,
and all the fires are fading away
my draught of passion hath been deep--
i revelld, and i now would sleep--
and after drunkenness of soul
succeeds the glories of the bowl--
an idle longing night and day
to dream my very life away
but dreams--of those who dream as i,
aspiringly, are damned, and die
yet should i swear i mean alone,
by notes so very shrilly blown,
to break upon times monotone,
while yet my vapid joy and grief
are tintless of the yellow leaf--
why not an imp the greybeard hath,
will shake his shadow in my path--
and een the greybeard will oerlook
connivingly my dreaming-book
  
doubtful poems
  
alone
from childhoods hour i have not been
as others were--i have not seen
as others saw--i could not bring
my passions from a common spring--
from the same source i have not taken
my sorrow--i could not awaken
my heart to joy at the same tone--
and all i loved--i loved alone--
thou--in my childhood--in the dawn
of a most stormy life--was drawn
from every depth of good and ill
the mystery which binds me still--
from the torrent, or the fountain--
from the red cliff of the mountain--
from the sun that round me rolld
in its autumn tint of gold--
from the lightning in the sky
as it passed me flying by--
from the thunder and the storm--
and the cloud that took the form
when the rest of heaven was blue
of a demon in my view
march , 
  
to isadore
i  beneath the vine-clad eaves,
whose shadows fall before
thy lowly cottage door--
under the lilacs tremulous leaves--
within thy snowy clasped hand
the purple flowers it bore
last eve in dreams, i saw thee stand,
like queenly nymph from fairy-land--
enchantress of the flowery wand,
most beauteous isadore
ii and when i bade the dream
upon thy spirit flee,
thy violet eyes to me
upturned, did overflowing seem
with the deep, untold delight
of loves serenity
thy classic brow, like lilies white
and pale as the imperial night
upon her throne, with stars bedight,
enthralled my soul to thee
iii   ah ever i behold
thy dreamy, passionate eyes,
blue as the languid skies
hung with the sunsets fringe of gold
now strangely clear thine image grows,
and olden memories
are startled from their long repose
like shadows on the silent snows
when suddenly the night-wind blows
where quiet moonlight lies
iv like music heard in dreams,
like strains of harps unknown,
of birds for ever flown,--
audible as the voice of streams
that murmur in some leafy dell,
i hear thy gentlest tone,
and silence cometh with her spell
like that which on my tongue doth dwell,
when tremulous in dreams i tell
my love to thee alone
v  in every valley heard,
floating from tree to tree,
less beautiful to me,
the music of the radiant bird,
than artless accents such as thine
whose echoes never flee
ah how for thy sweet voice i pine--
for uttered in thy tones benign
enchantress this rude name of mine
doth seem a melody
  
the village street
in these rapid, restless shadows,
once i walked at eventide,
when a gentle, silent maiden,
walked in beauty at my side
she alone there walked beside me
all in beauty, like a bride
pallidly the moon was shining
on the dewy meadows nigh
on the silvery, silent rivers,
on the mountains far and high,--
on the oceans star-lit waters,
where the winds a-weary die
slowly, silently we wandered
from the open cottage door,
underneath the elms long branches
to the pavement bending oer
underneath the mossy willow
and the dying sycamore
with the myriad stars in beauty
all bedight, the heavens were seen,
radiant hopes were bright around me,
like the light of stars serene
like the mellow midnight splendor
of the nights irradiate queen
audibly the elm-leaves whispered
peaceful, pleasant melodies,
like the distant murmured music
of unquiet, lovely seas
while the winds were hushed in slumber
in the fragrant flowers and trees
wondrous and unwonted beauty
still adorning all did seem,
while i told my love in fables
neath the willows by the stream
would the heart have kept unspoken
love that was its rarest dream
instantly away we wandered
in the shadowy twilight tide,
she, the silent, scornful maiden,
walking calmly at my side,
with a step serene and stately,
all in beauty, all in pride
vacantly i walked beside her
on the earth mine eyes were cast
swift and keen there came unto me
bitter memories of the past--
on me, like the rain in autumn
on the dead leaves, cold and fast
underneath the elms we parted,
by the lowly cottage door
one brief word alone was uttered--
never on our lips before
and away i walked forlornly,
broken-hearted evermore
slowly, silently i loitered,
homeward, in the night, alone
sudden anguish bound my spirit,
that my youth had never known
wild unrest, like that which cometh
when the nights first dream hath flown
now, to me the elm-leaves whisper
mad, discordant melodies,
and keen melodies like shadows
haunt the moaning willow trees,
and the sycamores with laughter
mock me in the nightly breeze
sad and pale the autumn moonlight
through the sighing foliage streams
and each morning, midnight shadow,
shadow of my sorrow seems
strive, o heart, forget thine idol
and, o soul, forget thy dreams
  
the forest reverie
tis said that when
the hands of men
tamed this primeval wood,
and hoary trees with groans of wo,
like warriors by an unknown foe,
were in their strength subdued,
the virgin earth
gave instant birth
to springs that neer did flow--
that in the sun
did rivulets run,
and all around rare flowers did blow--
the wild rose pale
perfumed the gale,
and the queenly lily adown the dale
whom the sun and the dew
and the winds did woo,
with the gourd and the grape luxuriant grew
so when in tears
the love of years
is wasted like the snow,
and the fine fibrils of its life
by the rude wrong of instant strife
are broken at a blow--
within the heart
do springs upstart
of which it doth now know,
and strange, sweet dreams,
like silent streams
that from new fountains overflow,
with the earlier tide
of rivers glide
deep in the heart whose hope has died--
quenching the fires its ashes hide,--
its ashes, whence will spring and grow
sweet flowers, ere long,--
the rare and radiant flowers of song
  
la musique, says marmontel, in those contes moraux which in all
our translations we have insisted upon calling moral tales, as if in
mockery of their spirit--la musique est le seul des talens qui jouisse
de lui-meme tous les autres veulent des temoins he here confounds
the pleasure derivable from sweet sounds with the capacity for creating
them no more than any other talent, is that for music susceptible of
complete enjoyment where there is no second party to appreciate its
exercise and it is only in common with other talents that it produces
effects which may be fully enjoyed in solitude the idea which the
raconteur has either failed to entertain clearly, or has sacrificed in
its expression to his national love of point, is doubtless the very
tenable one that the higher order of music is the most thoroughly
estimated when we are exclusively alone the proposition in this form
will be admitted at once by those who love the lyre for its own sake and
for its spiritual uses but there is one pleasure still within the reach
of fallen mortality, and perhaps only one, which owes even more than
does music to the accessory sentiment of seclusion i mean the happiness
experienced in the contemplation of natural scenery in truth, the man
who would behold aright the glory of god upon earth must in solitude
behold that glory to me at least the presence, not of human life only,
but of life, in any other form than that of the green things which grow
upon the soil and are voiceless, is a stain upon the landscape, is at
war with the genius of the scene i love, indeed, to regard the dark
valleys, and the gray rocks, and the waters that silently smile, and the
forests that sigh in uneasy slumbers, and the proud watchful mountains
that look down upon all,--i love to regard these as themselves but the
colossal members of one vast animate and sentient whole--a whole whose
form that of the sphere is the most perfect and most inclusive of all
whose path is among associate planets whose meek handmaiden is the
moon whose mediate sovereign is the sun whose life is eternity whose
thought is that of a god whose enjoyment is knowledge whose destinies
are lost in immensity whose cognizance of ourselves is akin with our
own cognizance of the animalcul which infest the brain, a being which
we in consequence regard as purely inanimate and material, much in the
same manner as these animalcul must thus regard us
our telescopes and our mathematical investigations assure us on every
hand, notwithstanding the cant of the more ignorant of the priesthood,
that space, and therefore that bulk, is an important consideration in
the eyes of the almighty the cycles in which the stars move are those
best adapted for the evolution, without collision, of the greatest
possible number of bodies the forms of those bodies are accurately such
as within a given surface to include the greatest possible amount of
matter while the surfaces themselves are so disposed as to accommodate
a denser population than could be accommodated on the same surfaces
otherwise arranged nor is it any argument against bulk being an object
with god that space itself is infinite for there may be an infinity of
matter to fill it and since we see clearly that the endowment of matter
with vitality is a principle--indeed, as far as our judgments extend,
the leading principle in the operations of deity, it is scarcely
logical to imagine it confined to the regions of the minute, where we
daily trace it, and not extending to those of the august as we find
cycle within cycle without end, yet all revolving around one far-distant
centre which is the godhead, may we not analogically suppose, in the
same manner, life within life, the less within the greater, and all
within the spirit divine? in short, we are madly erring through
self-esteem in believing man, in either his temporal or future
destinies, to be of more moment in the universe than that vast clod of
the valley which he tills and contemns, and to which he denies a soul,
for no more profound reason than that he does not behold it in operation
these fancies, and such as these, have always given to my meditations
among the mountains and the forests, by the rivers and the ocean, a
tinge of what the every-day world would not fail to term the fantastic
my wanderings amid such scenes have been many and far-searching, and
often solitary and the interest with which i have strayed through many
a dim deep valley, or gazed into the reflected heaven of many a bright
lake, has been an interest greatly deepened by the thought that i have
strayed and gazed alone what flippant frenchman  was it who said,
in allusion to the well known work of zimmermann, that la solitude est
une belle chose mais il faut quelquun pour vous dire que la solitude
est une belle chose? the epigram cannot be gainsaid but the necessity
is a thing that does not exist
it was during one of my lonely journeyings, amid a far distant region of
mountain locked within mountain, and sad rivers and melancholy tarns
writhing or sleeping within all, that i chanced upon a certain rivulet
and island i came upon them suddenly in the leafy june, and threw
myself upon the turf beneath the branches of an unknown odorous shrub,
that i might doze as i contemplated the scene i felt that thus only
should i look upon it, such was the character of phantasm which it wore
on all sides, save to the west where the sun was about sinking, arose
the verdant walls of the forest the little river which turned sharply
in its course, and was thus immediately lost to sight, seemed to have no
exit from its prison, but to be absorbed by the deep green foliage of
the trees to the east while in the opposite quarter so it appeared to
me as i lay at length and glanced upward there poured down noiselessly
and continuously into the valley a rich golden and crimson waterfall
from the sunset fountains of the sky
about midway in the short vista which my dreamy vision took in, one
small circular island, profusely verdured, reposed upon the bosom of the
stream
so blended bank and shadow there,
that each seemed pendulous in air--
so mirror-like was the glassy water, that it was scarcely possible to
say at what point upon the slope of the emerald turf its crystal
dominion began my position enabled me to include in a single view both
the eastern and western extremities of the islet, and i observed a
singularly-marked difference in their aspects the latter was all one
radiant harem of garden beauties it glowed and blushed beneath the eye
of the slant sunlight, and fairly laughed with flowers the grass was
short, springy, sweet-scented, and asphodel-interspersed the trees were
lithe, mirthful, erect, bright, slender, and graceful, of eastern figure
and foliage, with bark smooth, glossy, and parti-colored there seemed a
deep sense of life and joy about all, and although no airs blew from out
the heavens, yet everything had motion through the gentle sweepings to
and fro of innumerable butterflies, that might have been mistaken for
tulips with wings 
the other or eastern end of the isle was whelmed in the blackest shade
a sombre, yet beautiful and peaceful gloom, here pervaded all things
the trees were dark in color and mournful in form and attitude--
wreathing themselves into sad, solemn, and spectral shapes, that
conveyed ideas of mortal sorrow and untimely death the grass wore the
deep tint of the cypress, and the heads of its blades hung droopingly,
and hither and thither among it were many small unsightly hillocks, low
and narrow, and not very long, that had the aspect of graves, but were
not, although over and all about them the rue and the rosemary
clambered the shades of the trees fell heavily upon the water, and
seemed to bury itself therein, impregnating the depths of the element
with darkness i fancied that each shadow, as the sun descended lower
and lower, separated itself sullenly from the trunk that gave it birth,
and thus became absorbed by the stream, while other shadows issued
momently from the trees, taking the place of their predecessors thus
entombed
this idea having once seized upon my fancy greatly excited it, and i
lost myself forthwith in reverie if ever island were enchanted, said
i to myself, this is it this is the haunt of the few gentle fays who
remain from the wreck of the race are these green tombs theirs?--or do
they yield up their sweet lives as mankind yield up their own? in dying,
do they not rather waste away mournfully, rendering unto god little by
little their existence, as these trees render up shadow after shadow,
exhausting their substance unto dissolution? what the wasting tree is to
the water that imbibes its shade, growing thus blacker by what it preys
upon, may not the life of the fay be to the death which engulfs it?
as i thus mused, with half-shut eyes, while the sun sank rapidly to
rest, and eddying currents careered round and round the island, bearing
upon their bosom large dazzling white flakes of the bark of the
sycamore, flakes which, in their multiform positions upon the water, a
quick imagination might have converted into anything it pleased while i
thus mused, it appeared to me that the form of one of those very fays
about whom i had been pondering, made its way slowly into the darkness
from out the light at the western end of the island she stood erect in
a singularly fragile canoe, and urged it with the mere phantom of an
oar while within the influence of the lingering sunbeams, her attitude
seemed indicative of joy, but sorrow deformed it as she passed within
the shade slowly she glided along, and at length rounded the islet and
re-entered the region of light the revolution which has just been made
by the fay, continued i musingly, is the cycle of the brief year of
her life she has floated through her winter and through her summer she
is a year nearer unto death for i did not fail to see that as she came
into the shade, her shadow fell from her, and was swallowed up in the
dark water, making its blackness more black
and again the boat appeared and the fay, but about the attitude of the
latter there was more of care and uncertainty and less of elastic joy
she floated again from out the light and into the gloom which deepened
momently, and again her shadow fell from her into the ebony water, and
became absorbed into its blackness and again and again she made the
circuit of the island while the sun rushed down to his slumbers, and
at each issuing into the light there was more sorrow about her person,
while it grew feebler and far fainter and more indistinct, and at each
passage into the gloom there fell from her a darker shade, which became
whelmed in a shadow more black but at length, when the sun had utterly
departed, the fay, now the mere ghost of her former self, went
disconsolately with her boat into the region of the ebony flood, and
that she issued thence at all i cannot say, for darkness fell over all
things, and i beheld her magical figure no more
  
the power of words
oinos
pardon, agathos, the weakness of a spirit new-fledged with
immortality
agathos
you have spoken nothing, my oinos, for which pardon is to be demanded
not even here is knowledge a thing of intuition for wisdom, ask of
the angels freely, that it may be given
oinos
but in this existence i dreamed that i should be at once cognizant of
all things, and thus at once happy in being cognizant of all
agathos
ah, not in knowledge is happiness, but in the acquisition of
knowledge in forever knowing, we are forever blessed but to know
all, were the curse of a fiend
oinos
but does not the most high know all?
agathos
that since he is the most happy must be still the one thing
unknown even to him
oinos
but, since we grow hourly in knowledge, must not at last all things
be known?
agathos
look down into the abysmal distances--attempt to force the gaze down
the multitudinous vistas of the stars, as we sweep slowly through them
thus--and thus--and thus even the spiritual vision, is it not at all
points arrested by the continuous golden walls of the universe?--the
walls of the myriads of the shining bodies that mere number has
appeared to blend into unity?
oinos
i clearly perceive that the infinity of matter is no dream
agathos
there are no dreams in aidenn--but it is here whispered that, of this
infinity of matter, the sole purpose is to afford infinite springs
at which the soul may allay the thirst to know which is forever
unquenchable within it--since to quench it would be to extinguish the
souls self question me then, my oinos, freely and without fear
come we will leave to the left the loud harmony of the pleiades, and
swoop outward from the throne into the starry meadows beyond orion,
where, for pansies and violets, and hearts-ease, are the beds of the
triplicate and triple-tinted suns
oinos
and now, agathos, as we proceed, instruct me--speak to me in the
earths familiar tones i understand not what you hinted to me just
now of the modes or of the methods of what during mortality, we were
accustomed to call creation do you mean to say that the creator is
not god?
agathos
i mean to say that the deity does not create
oinos
explain
agathos
in the beginning only, he created the seeming creatures which are now
throughout the universe so perpetually springing into being can only
be considered as the mediate or indirect, not as the direct or
immediate results of the divine creative power
oinos
among men, my agathos, this idea would be considered heretical in the
extreme
agathos
among the angels, my oinos, it is seen to be simply true
oinos
i can comprehend you thus far--that certain operations of what we term
nature, or the natural laws, will, under certain conditions, give rise
to that which has all the appearance of creation shortly before the
final overthrow of the earth, there were, i well remember, many very
successful experiments in what some philosophers were weak enough to
denominate the creation of animalcul
agathos
the cases of which you speak were, in fact, instances of the secondary
creation, and of the only species of creation which has ever been
since the first word spoke into existence the first law
oinos
are not the starry worlds that, from the abyss of nonentity, burst
hourly forth into the heavens--are not these stars, agathos, the
immediate handiwork of the king?
agathos
let me endeavor, my oinos, to lead you, step by step, to the
conception i intend you are well aware that, as no thought can
perish, so no act is without infinite result we moved our hands, for
example, when we were dwellers on the earth, and in so doing we gave
vibration to the atmosphere which engirdled it this vibration was
indefinitely extended till it gave impulse to every particle of the
earths air, which thenceforward, and forever, was actuated by the
one movement of the hand this fact the mathematicians of our globe
well knew they made the special effects, indeed, wrought in the fluid
by special impulses, the subject of exact calculation--so that it
became easy to determine in what precise period an impulse of given
extent would engirdle the orb, and impress forever every atom of the
atmosphere circumambient retrograding, they found no difficulty from
a given effect, under given conditions, in determining the value of
the original impulse now the mathematicians who saw that the results
of any given impulse were absolutely endless--and who saw that a
portion of these results were accurately traceable through the agency
of algebraic analysis--who saw, too, the facility of the
retrogradation--these men saw, at the same time, that this species of
analysis itself had within itself a capacity for indefinite
progress--that there were no bounds conceivable to its advancement and
applicability, except within the intellect of him who advanced or
applied it but at this point our mathematicians paused
oinos
and why, agathos, should they have proceeded?
agathos
because there were some considerations of deep interest beyond it was
deducible from what they knew, that to a being of infinite
understanding--one to whom the perfection of the algebraic analysis
lay unfolded--there could be no difficulty in tracing every impulse
given the air--and the ether through the air--to the remotest
consequences at any even infinitely remote epoch of time it is indeed
demonstrable that every such impulse given the air, must in the
end impress every individual thing that exists within the
universe--and the being of infinite understanding--the being whom
we have imagined--might trace the remote undulations of the
impulse--trace them upward and onward in their influences upon all
particles of all matter--upward and onward forever in their
modifications of old forms--or, in other words, in their creation of
new--until he found them reflected--unimpressive at last--back from
the throne of the godhead and not only could such a being do this,
but at any epoch, should a given result be afforded him--should one of
these numberless comets, for example, be presented to his
inspection--he could have no difficulty in determining, by the
analytic retrogradation, to what original impulse it was due this
power of retrogradation in its absolute fulness and perfection--this
faculty of referring at all epochs, all effects to all
causes--is of course the prerogative of the deity alone--but in every
variety of degree, short of the absolute perfection, is the power
itself exercised by the whole host of the angelic intelligences
oinos
but you speak merely of impulses upon the air
agathos
in speaking of the air, i referred only to the earth but the general
proposition has reference to impulses upon the ether--which, since it
pervades, and alone pervades all space, is thus the great medium of
creation
oinos
then all motion, of whatever nature, creates?
agathos
it must but a true philosophy has long taught that the source of all
motion is thought--and the source of all thought is--
oinos
god
agathos
i have spoken to you, oinos, as to a child, of the fair earth which
lately perished--of impulses upon the atmosphere of the earth
oinos
you did
agathos
and while i thus spoke, did there not cross your mind some thought of
the physical power of words? is not every word an impulse on the
air?
oinos
but why, agathos, do you weep--and why, oh, why do your wings droop as
we hover above this fair star--which is the greenest and yet most
terrible of all we have encountered in our flight? its brilliant
flowers look like a fairy dream--but its fierce volcanoes like the
passions of a turbulent heart
agathos
they are--they are--this wild star--it is now three centuries
since, with clasped hands, and with streaming eyes, at the feet of my
beloved--i spoke it--with a few passionate sentences--into birth its
brilliant flowers are the dearest of all unfulfilled dreams, and its
raging volcanoes are the passions of the most turbulent and
unhallowed of hearts
  
the colloquy of monos and una
greek mellonta  sauta
these things are in the future
sophocles--antig
una
born again?
monos
yes, fairest and best beloved una, born again these were the words
upon whose mystical meaning i had so long pondered, rejecting the
explanations of the priesthood, until death itself resolved for me the
secret
una
death
monos
how strangely, sweet una, you echo my words i observe, too, a
vacillation in your step, a joyous inquietude in your eyes you are
confused and oppressed by the majestic novelty of the life eternal
yes, it was of death i spoke and here how singularly sounds that word
which of old was wont to bring terror to all hearts, throwing a mildew
upon all pleasures
una
ah, death, the spectre which sate at all feasts how often, monos, did
we lose ourselves in speculations upon its nature how mysteriously
did it act as a check to human bliss, saying unto it, thus far, and
no farther that earnest mutual love, my own monos, which burned
within our bosoms, how vainly did we flatter ourselves, feeling happy
in its first upspringing that our happiness would strengthen with its
strength alas, as it grew, so grew in our hearts the dread of that
evil hour which was hurrying to separate us forever thus in time it
became painful to love hate would have been mercy then
monos
speak not here of these griefs, dear una--mine, mine forever now
una
but the memory of past sorrow, is it not present joy? i have much to
say yet of the things which have been above all, i burn to know the
incidents of your own passage through the dark valley and shadow
monos
and when did the radiant una ask anything of her monos in vain? i will
be minute in relating all, but at what point shall the weird narrative
begin?
una
at what point?
monos
you have said
una
monos, i comprehend you in death we have both learned the propensity
of man to define the indefinable i will not say, then, commence with
the moment of lifes cessation--but commence with that sad, sad
instant when, the fever having abandoned you, you sank into a
breathless and motionless torpor, and i pressed down your pallid
eyelids with the passionate fingers of love
monos
one word first, my una, in regard to mans general condition at this
epoch you will remember that one or two of the wise among our
forefathers--wise in fact, although not in the worlds esteem--had
ventured to doubt the propriety of the term improvement, as applied
to the progress of our civilization there were periods in each of the
five or six centuries immediately preceding our dissolution when arose
some vigorous intellect, boldly contending for those principles whose
truth appears now, to our disenfranchised reason, so utterly obvious
--principles which should have taught our race to submit to the
guidance of the natural laws rather than attempt their control at
long intervals some master-minds appeared, looking upon each advance
in practical science as a retrogradation in the true utility
occasionally the poetic intellect--that intellect which we now feel to
have been the most exalted of all--since those truths which to us were
of the most enduring importance could only be reached by that
analogy which speaks in proof-tones to the imagination alone, and to
the unaided reason bears no weight--occasionally did this poetic
intellect proceed a step farther in the evolving of the vague idea of
the philosophic, and find in the mystic parable that tells of the tree
of knowledge, and of its forbidden fruit, death-producing, a distinct
intimation that knowledge was not meet for man in the infant condition
of his soul and these men--the poets--living and perishing amid the
scorn of the utilitarians--of rough pedants, who arrogated to
themselves a title which could have been properly applied only to the
scorned--these men, the poets, pondered piningly, yet not unwisely,
upon the ancient days when our wants were not more simple than our
enjoyments were keen--days when mirth was a word unknown, so
solemnly deep-toned was happiness--holy, august, and blissful days,
blue rivers ran undammed, between hills unhewn, into far forest
solitudes, primeval, odorous, and unexplored yet these noble
exceptions from the general misrule served but to strengthen it by
opposition alas we had fallen upon the most evil of all our evil
days the great movement--that was the cant term--went on a
diseased commotion, moral and physical art--the arts--arose supreme,
and once enthroned, cast chains upon the intellect which had elevated
them to power man, because he could not but acknowledge the majesty
of nature, fell into childish exultation at his acquired and
still-increasing dominion over her elements even while he stalked a
god in his own fancy, an infantine imbecility came over him as might
be supposed from the origin of his disorder, he grew infected with
system, and with abstraction he enwrapped himself in generalities
among other odd ideas, that of universal equality gained ground and
in the face of analogy and of god--in despite of the loud warning
voice of the laws of gradation so visibly pervading all things in
earth and heaven--wild attempts at an omniprevalent democracy were
made yet this evil sprang necessarily from the leading evil,
knowledge man could not both know and succumb meantime huge smoking
cities arose, innumerable green leaves shrank before the hot breath
of furnaces the fair face of nature was deformed as with the ravages
of some loathsome disease and methinks, sweet una, even our
slumbering sense of the forced and of the far-fetched might have
arrested us here but now it appears that we had worked out our own
destruction in the perversion of our taste, or rather in the blind
neglect of its culture in the schools for, in truth, it was at this
crisis that taste alone--that faculty which, holding a middle position
between the pure intellect and the moral sense, could never safely
have been disregarded--it was now that taste alone could have led us
gently back to beauty, to nature, and to life but alas for the pure
contemplative spirit and majestic intuition of plato alas for the
greek mousichae  which he justly regarded as an all-sufficient
education for the soul alas for him and for it--since both were most
desperately needed, when both were most entirely forgotten or despised
 pascal, a philosopher whom we both love, has said, how
truly--que tout notre raisonnement se rduit  cder au
sentiment and it is not impossible that the sentiment of the
natural, had time permitted it, would have regained its old ascendency
over the harsh mathematical reason of the schools but this thing was
not to be prematurely induced by intemperance of knowledge, the old
age of the world drew near this the mass of mankind saw not, or,
living lustily although unhappily, affected not to see but, for
myself, the earths records had taught me to look for widest ruin as
the price of highest civilization i had imbibed a prescience of our
fate from comparison of china the simple and enduring, with assyria
the architect, with egypt the astrologer, with nubia, more crafty than
either, the turbulent mother of all arts in the history of these
regions i met with a ray from the future the individual
artificialities of the three latter were local diseases of the earth,
and in their individual overthrows we had seen local remedies applied
but for the infected world at large i could anticipate no regeneration
save in death that man, as a race, should not become extinct, i saw
that he must be born again
and now it was, fairest and dearest, that we wrapped our spirits,
daily, in dreams now it was that, in twilight, we discoursed of the
days to come, when the art-scarred surface of the earth, having
undergone that purification which alone could efface its rectangular
obscenities, should clothe itself anew in the verdure and the
mountain-slopes and the smiling waters of paradise, and be rendered at
length a fit dwelling-place for man--for man the death-purged--for
man to whose now exalted intellect there should be poison in knowledge
no more--for the redeemed, regenerated, blissful, and now immortal,
but still for the material, man
una
well do i remember these conversations, dear monos but the epoch of
the fiery overthrow was not so near at hand as we believed, and as the
corruption you indicate did surely warrant us in believing men lived
and died individually you yourself sickened, and passed into the
grave and thither your constant una speedily followed you and though
the century which has since elapsed, and whose conclusion brings up
together once more, tortured our slumbering senses with no impatience
of duration, yet my monos, it was a century still
monos
say, rather, a point in the vague infinity unquestionably, it was in
the earths dotage that i died wearied at heart with anxieties which
had their origin in the general turmoil and decay, i succumbed to the
fierce fever after some few days of pain, and many of dreamy delirium
replete with ecstasy, the manifestations of which you mistook for
pain, while i longed but was impotent to undeceive you--after some
days there came upon me, as you have said, a breathless and motionless
torpor and this was termed death by those who stood around me
words are vague things my condition did not deprive me of sentience
it appeared to me not greatly dissimilar to the extreme quiescence of
him, who, having slumbered long and profoundly, lying motionless and
fully prostrate in a mid-summer noon, begins to steal slowly back into
consciousness, through the mere sufficiency of his sleep, and without
being awakened by external disturbances
i breathed no longer the pulses were still the heart had ceased to
beat volition had not departed, but was powerless the senses were
unusually active, although eccentrically so--assuming often each
others functions at random the taste and the smell were inextricably
confounded, and became one sentiment, abnormal and intense the
rose-water with which your tenderness had moistened my lips to the
last, affected me with sweet fancies of flowers--fantastic flowers,
far more lovely than any of the old earth, but whose prototypes we
have here blooming around us the eye-lids, transparent and bloodless,
offered no complete impediment to vision as volition was in abeyance,
the balls could not roll in their sockets--but all objects within the
range of the visual hemisphere were seen with more or less
distinctness the rays which fell upon the external retina, or into
the corner of the eye, producing a more vivid effect than those which
struck the front or interior surface yet, in the former instance,
this effect was so far anomalous that i appreciated it only as
sound--sound sweet or discordant as the matters presenting
themselves at my side were light or dark in shade--curved or angular
in outline the hearing, at the same time, although excited in degree,
was not irregular in action--estimating real sounds with an
extravagance of precision, not less than of sensibility touch had
undergone a modification more peculiar its impressions were tardily
received, but pertinaciously retained, and resulted always in the
highest physical pleasure thus the pressure of your sweet fingers
upon my eyelids, at first only recognized through vision, at length,
long after their removal, filled my whole being with a sensual delight
immeasurable i say with a sensual delight all my perceptions were
purely sensual the materials furnished the passive brain by the
senses were not in the least degree wrought into shape by the deceased
understanding of pain there was some little of pleasure there was
much but of moral pain or pleasure none at all thus your wild sobs
floated into my ear with all their mournful cadences, and were
appreciated in their every variation of sad tone but they were soft
musical sounds and no more they conveyed to the extinct reason no
intimation of the sorrows which gave them birth while large and
constant tears which fell upon my face, telling the bystanders of a
heart which broke, thrilled every fibre of my frame with ecstasy
alone and this was in truth the death of which these bystanders
spoke reverently, in low whispers--you, sweet una, gaspingly, with
loud cries
they attired me for the coffin--three or four dark figures which
flitted busily to and fro as these crossed the direct line of my
vision they affected me as forms but upon passing to my side their
images impressed me with the idea of shrieks, groans, and, other
dismal expressions of terror, of horror, or of woe you alone, habited
in a white robe, passed in all directions musically about
the day waned and, as its light faded away, i became possessed by a
vague uneasiness--an anxiety such as the sleeper feels when sad real
sounds fall continuously within his ear--low distant bell-tones,
solemn, at long but equal intervals, and commingling with melancholy
dreams night arrived and with its shadows a heavy discomfort it
oppressed my limbs with the oppression of some dull weight, and was
palpable there was also a moaning sound, not unlike the distant
reverberation of surf, but more continuous, which, beginning with the
first twilight, had grown in strength with the darkness suddenly
lights were brought into the rooms, and this reverberation became
forthwith interrupted into frequent unequal bursts of the same sound,
but less dreary and less distinct the ponderous oppression was in a
great measure relieved and, issuing from the flame of each lamp for
there were many, there flowed unbrokenly into my ears a strain of
melodious monotone and when now, dear una, approaching the bed upon
which i lay outstretched, you sat gently by my side, breathing odor
from your sweet lips, and pressing them upon my brow, there arose
tremulously within my bosom, and mingling with the merely physical
sensations which circumstances had called forth, a something akin to
sentiment itself--a feeling that, half appreciating, half responded
to your earnest love and sorrow but this feeling took no root in the
pulseless heart, and seemed indeed rather a shadow than a reality, and
faded quickly away, first into extreme quiescence, and then into a
purely sensual pleasure as before
and now, from the wreck and the chaos of the usual senses, there
appeared to have arisen within me a sixth, all perfect in its
exercise i found a wild delight--yet a delight still physical,
inasmuch as the understanding had in it no part motion in the animal
frame had fully ceased no muscle quivered no nerve thrilled no
artery throbbed but there seemed to have sprung up in the brain
that of which no words could convey to the merely human intelligence
even an indistinct conception let me term it a mental pendulous
pulsation it was the moral embodiment of mans abstract idea of
time by the absolute equalization of this movement--or of such as
this--had the cycles of the firmamental orbs themselves been adjusted
by its aid i measured the irregularities of the clock upon the mantel,
and of the watches of the attendants their tickings came sonorously
to my ears the slightest deviations from the true proportion--and
these deviations were omniprevalent--affected me just as violations of
abstract truth were wont on earth to affect the moral sense although
no two of the timepieces in the chamber struck the individual seconds
accurately together, yet i had no difficulty in holding steadily in
mind the tones, and the respective momentary errors of each and
this--this keen, perfect self-existing sentiment of duration--this
sentiment existing as man could not possibly have conceived it to
exist independently of any succession of events--this idea--this
sixth sense, upspringing from the ashes of the rest, was the first
obvious and certain step of the intemporal soul upon the threshold of
the temporal eternity
it was midnight and you still sat by my side all others had departed
from the chamber of death they had deposited me in the coffin the
lamps burned flickeringly for this i knew by the tremulousness of the
monotonous strains but suddenly these strains diminished in
distinctness and in volume finally they ceased the perfume in my
nostrils died away forms affected my vision no longer the oppression
of the darkness uplifted itself from my bosom a dull shot like that
of electricity pervaded my frame, and was followed by total loss of
the idea of contact all of what man has termed sense was merged in
the sole consciousness of entity, and in the one abiding sentiment of
duration the mortal body had been at length stricken with the hand of
the deadly decay
yet had not all of sentience departed for the consciousness and the
sentiment remaining supplied some of its functions by a lethargic
intuition i appreciated the direful change now in operation upon the
flesh, and, as the dreamer is sometimes aware of the bodily presence
of one who leans over him, so, sweet una, i still dully felt that you
sat by my side so, too, when the noon of the second day came, i was
not unconscious of those movements which displaced you from my side,
which confined me within the coffin, which deposited me within the
hearse, which bore me to the grave, which lowered me within it, which
heaped heavily the mould upon me, and which thus left me, in blackness
and corruption, to my sad and solemn slumbers with the worm
and here in the prison-house which has few secrets to disclose, there
rolled away days and weeks and months and the soul watched narrowly
each second as it flew, and, without effort, took record of its
flight--without effort and without object
a year passed the consciousness of being had grown hourly more
indistinct, and that of mere locality had in great measure usurped
its position the idea of entity was becoming merged in that of
place the narrow space immediately surrounding what had been the
body was now growing to be the body itself at length, as often
happens to the sleeper by sleep and its world alone is death
imaged--at length, as sometimes happened on earth to the deep
slumberer, when some flitting light half startled him into awaking,
yet left him half enveloped in dreams--so to me, in the strict embrace
of the shadow, came that light which alone might have had power to
startle--the light of enduring love men toiled at the grave in
which i lay darkling they upthrew the damp earth upon my mouldering
bones there descended the coffin of una and now again all was void
that nebulous light had been extinguished that feeble thrill had
vibrated itself into quiescence many lustra had supervened dust
had returned to dust the worm had food no more the sense of being
had at length utterly departed, and there reigned in its stead--
instead of all things, dominant and perpetual--the autocrats place
and time for that which was not--for that which had no
form--for that which had no thought--for that which had no
sentience--for that which was soundless, yet of which matter formed no
portion--for all this nothingness, yet for all this immortality, the
grave was still a home, and the corrosive hours, co-mates
  
the conversation of eiros and charmion
i will bring fire to thee
euripides--androm
eiros
why do you call me eiros?
charmion
so henceforward will you always be called you must forget, too, my
earthly name, and speak to me as charmion
eiros
this is indeed no dream
charmion
dreams are with us no more--but of these mysteries anon i rejoice to
see you looking life-like and rational the film of the shadow has
already passed from off your eyes be of heart, and fear nothing your
allotted days of stupor have expired, and to-morrow i will myself
induct you into the full joys and wonders of your novel existence
eiros
true--i feel no stupor--none at all the wild sickness and the
terrible darkness have left me, and i hear no longer that mad,
rushing, horrible sound, like the voice of many waters yet my
senses are bewildered, charmion, with the keenness of their perception
of the new
charmion
a few days will remove all this--but i fully understand you, and
feel for you it is now ten earthly years since i underwent what you
undergo--yet the remembrance of it hangs by me still you have now
suffered all of pain, however, which you will suffer in aidenn
eiros
in aidenn?
charmion
in aidenn
eiros
o god--pity me, charmion--i am overburthened with the majesty of all
things--of the unknown now known--of the speculative future merged in
the august and certain present
charmion
grapple not now with such thoughts to-morrow we will speak of this
your mind wavers, and its agitation will find relief in the exercise
of simple memories look not around, nor forward--but back i am
burning with anxiety to hear the details of that stupendous event
which threw you among us tell me of it let us converse of familiar
things, in the old familiar language of the world which has so
fearfully perished
eiros
most fearfully, fearfully--this is indeed no dream
charmion
dreams are no more was i much mourned, my eiros?
eiros
mourned, charmion?--oh, deeply to that last hour of all there hung a
cloud of intense gloom and devout sorrow over your household
charmion
and that last hour--speak of it remember that, beyond the naked fact
of the catastrophe itself, i know nothing when, coming out from among
mankind, i passed into night through the grave--at that period, if i
remember aright, the calamity which overwhelmed you was utterly
unanticipated but, indeed, i knew little of the speculative
philosophy of the day
eiros
the individual calamity was, as you say, entirely unanticipated but
analogous misfortunes had been long a subject of discussion with
astronomers i need scarce tell you, my friend, that, even when you
left us, men had agreed to understand those passages in the most holy
writings which speak of the final destruction of all things by fire as
having reference to the orb of the earth alone, but in regard to the
immediate agency of the ruin, speculation had been at fault from that
epoch in astronomical knowledge in which the comets were divested of
the terrors of flame the very moderate density of these bodies had
been well established they had been observed to pass among the
satellites of jupiter without bringing about any sensible alteration
either in the masses or in the orbits of these secondary planets we
had long regarded the wanderers as vapory creations of inconceivable
tenuity, and as altogether incapable of doing injury to our
substantial globe, even in the event of contact but contact was not
in any degree dreaded for the elements of all the comets were
accurately known that among them we should look for the agency of
the threatened fiery destruction had been for many years considered an
inadmissible idea but wonders and wild fancies had been of late days
strangely rife among mankind and, although it was only with a few of
the ignorant that actual apprehension prevailed, upon the announcement
by astronomers of a new comet, yet this announcement was generally
received with i know not what of agitation and mistrust
the elements of the strange orb were immediately calculated, and it
was at once conceded by all observers that its path, at perihelion
would bring it into very close proximity with the earth there were
two or three astronomers of secondary note who resolutely maintained
that a contact was inevitable i cannot very well express to you the
effect of this intelligence upon the people for a few short days they
would not believe an assertion which their intellect, so long employed
among worldly considerations, could not in any manner grasp but the
truth of a vitally important fact soon makes its way into the
understanding of even the most stolid finally, all men saw that
astronomical knowledge lies not, and they awaited the comet its
approach was not at first seemingly rapid, nor was its appearance of
very unusual character it was of a dull red, and had little
perceptible train for seven or eight days we saw no material increase
in its apparent diameter, and but a partial alteration in its color
meantime, the ordinary affairs of men were discarded, and all interest
absorbed in a growing discussion instituted by the philosophic in
respect to the cometary nature even the grossly ignorant aroused
their sluggish capacities to such considerations the learned now
gave their intellect--their soul--to no such points as the allaying of
fear, or to the sustenance of loved theory they sought--they panted
for right views they groaned for perfected knowledge truth arose
in the purity of her strength and exceeding majesty, and the wise
bowed down and adored
that material injury to our globe or to its inhabitants would result
from the apprehended contact was an opinion which hourly lost ground
among the wise and the wise were now freely permitted to rule the
reason and the fancy of the crowd it was demonstrated that the
density of the comets nucleus was far less than that of our rarest
gas and the harmless passage of a similar visitor among the
satellites of jupiter was a point strongly insisted upon, and which
served greatly to allay terror theologists, with an earnestness
fear-enkindled, dwelt upon the biblical prophecies, and expounded them
to the people with a directness and simplicity of which no previous
instance had been known that the final destruction of the earth must
be brought about by the agency of fire, was urged with a spirit that
enforced everywhere conviction and that the comets were of no fiery
nature as all men now knew was a truth which relieved all, in a
great measure, from the apprehension of the great calamity foretold
it is noticeable that the popular prejudices and vulgar errors in
regard to pestilences and wars--errors which were wont to prevail upon
every appearance of a comet--were now altogether unknown, as if by
some sudden convulsive exertion reason had at once hurled superstition
from her throne the feeblest intellect had derived vigor from
excessive interest
what minor evils might arise from the contact were points of elaborate
question the learned spoke of slight geological disturbances, of
probable alterations in climate, and consequently in vegetation of
possible magnetic and electric influences many held that no visible
or perceptible effect would in any manner be produced while such
discussions were going on, their subject gradually approached, growing
larger in apparent diameter, and of a more brilliant lustre mankind
grew paler as it came all human operations were suspended
there was an epoch in the course of the general sentiment when the
comet had attained, at length, a size surpassing that of any
previously recorded visitation the people now, dismissing any
lingering hope that the astronomers were wrong, experienced all the
certainty of evil the chimerical aspect of their terror was gone the
hearts of the stoutest of our race beat violently within their bosoms
a very few days suffered, however, to merge even such feelings in
sentiments more unendurable we could no longer apply to the strange
orb any accustomed thoughts its historical attributes had
disappeared it oppressed us with a hideous novelty of emotion we
saw it not as an astronomical phenomenon in the heavens, but as an
incubus upon our hearts and a shadow upon our brains it had taken,
with unconceivable rapidity, the character of a gigantic mantle of
rare flame, extending from horizon to horizon
yet a day, and men breathed with greater freedom it was clear that we
were already within the influence of the comet yet we lived we even
felt an unusual elasticity of frame and vivacity of mind the
exceeding tenuity of the object of our dread was apparent for all
heavenly objects were plainly visible through it meantime, our
vegetation had perceptibly altered and we gained faith, from this
predicted circumstance, in the foresight of the wise a wild
luxuriance of foliage, utterly unknown before, burst out upon every
vegetable thing
yet another day--and the evil was not altogether upon us it was now
evident that its nucleus would first reach us a wild change had come
over all men and the first sense of pain was the wild signal for
general lamentation and horror the first sense of pain lay in a
rigorous construction of the breast and lungs, and an insufferable
dryness of the skin it could not be denied that our atmosphere was
radically affected the conformation of this atmosphere and the
possible modifications to which it might be subjected, were now the
topics of discussion the result of investigation sent an electric
thrill of the intensest terror through the universal heart of man
it had been long known that the air which encircled us was a compound
of oxygen and nitrogen gases, in the proportion of twenty-one measures
of oxygen and seventy-nine of nitrogen in every one hundred of the
atmosphere oxygen, which was the principle of combustion, and the
vehicle of heat, was absolutely necessary to the support of animal
life, and was the most powerful and energetic agent in nature
nitrogen, on the contrary, was incapable of supporting either animal
life or flame an unnatural excess of oxygen would result, it had been
ascertained, in just such an elevation of the animal spirits as we had
latterly experienced it was the pursuit, the extension of the idea,
which had engendered awe what would be the result of a total
extraction of the nitrogen? a combustion irresistible, all-devouring,
omni-prevalent, immediate--the entire fulfilment, in all their
minute and terrible details, of the fiery and horror-inspiring
denunciations of the prophecies of the holy book
why need i paint, charmion, the now disenchained frenzy of mankind?
that tenuity in the comet which had previously inspired us with hope,
was now the source of the bitterness of despair in its impalpable
gaseous character we clearly perceived the consummation of fate
meantime a day again passed--bearing away with it the last shadow of
hope we gasped in the rapid modification of the air the red blood
bounded tumultuously through its strict channels a furious delirium
possessed all men and with arms rigidly outstretched towards the
threatening heavens, they trembled and shrieked aloud but the nucleus
of the destroyer was now upon us--even here in aidenn i shudder while
i speak let me be brief--brief as the ruin that overwhelmed for a
moment there was a wild lurid light alone, visiting and penetrating
all things then--let us bow down, charmion, before the excessive
majesty of the great god--then, there came a shouting and pervading
sound, as if from the mouth itself of him while the whole incumbent
mass of ether in which we existed, burst at once into a species of
intense flame, for whose surpassing brilliancy and all-fervid heat
even the angels in the high heaven of pure knowledge have no name
thus ended all
  
shadow--a parable
yea though i walk through the valley of the shadow
psalm of david
ye who read are still among the living but i who write shall have long
since gone my way into the region of shadows for indeed strange things
shall happen, and secret things be known, and many centuries shall pass
away, ere these memorials be seen of men and, when seen, there will be
some to disbelieve and some to doubt, and yet a few who will find much
to ponder upon in the characters here graven with a stylus of iron
the year had been a year of terror, and of feeling more intense than
terror for which there is no name upon the earth for many prodigies and
signs had taken place, and far and wide, over sea and land, the black
wings of the pestilence were spread abroad to those, nevertheless,
cunning in the stars, it was not unknown that the heavens wore an aspect
of ill and to me, the greek oinos, among others, it was evident that
now had arrived the alternation of that seven hundred and ninety-fourth
year when, at the entrance of aries, the planet jupiter is enjoined with
the red ring of the terrible saturnus the peculiar spirit of the skies,
if i mistake not greatly, made itself manifest, not only in the physical
orb of the earth, but in the souls, imaginations, and meditations of
mankind
over some flasks of the red chian wine, within the walls of a noble
hall, in a dim city called ptolemais, we sat, at night, a company of
seven and to our chamber there was no entrance save by a lofty door of
brass and the door was fashioned by the artisan corinnos, and, being of
rare workmanship, was fastened from within black draperies, likewise in
the gloomy room, shut out from our view the moon, the lurid stars, and
the peopleless streets--but the boding and the memory of evil, they
would not be so excluded there were things around us and about of which
i can render no distinct account--things material and spiritual--
heaviness in the atmosphere--a sense of suffocation--anxiety--and, above
all, that terrible state of existence which the nervous experience when
the senses are keenly living and awake, and meanwhile the powers of
thought lie dormant a dead weight hung upon us it hung upon our
limbs--upon the household furniture--upon the goblets from which we
drank and all things were depressed, and borne down thereby--all things
save only the flames of the seven iron lamps which illumined our revel
uprearing themselves in tall slender lines of light, they thus remained
burning all pallid and motionless and in the mirror which their lustre
formed upon the round table of ebony at which we sat each of us there
assembled beheld the pallor of his own countenance, and the unquiet
glare in the downcast eyes of his companions yet we laughed and were
merry in our proper way--which was hysterical and sang the songs of
anacreon--which are madness and drank deeply--although the purple wine
reminded us of blood for there was yet another tenant of our chamber in
the person of young zoilus dead and at full length he lay,
enshrouded--the genius and the demon of the scene alas he bore no
portion in our mirth, save that his countenance, distorted with the
plague, and his eyes in which death had but half extinguished the fire
of the pestilence, seemed to take such an interest in our merriment as
the dead may haply take in the merriment of those who are to die but
although i, oinos, felt that the eyes of the departed were upon me,
still i forced myself not to perceive the bitterness of their
expression, and gazing down steadily into the depths of the ebony
mirror, sang with a loud and sonorous voice the songs of the son of
teos but gradually my songs they ceased, and their echoes, rolling afar
off among the sable draperies of the chamber, became weak, and
undistinguishable, and so faded away and lo from among those sable
draperies, where the sounds of the song departed, there came forth a
dark and undefiled shadow--a shadow such as the moon, when low in
heaven, might fashion from the figure of a man but it was the shadow
neither of man nor of god, nor of any familiar thing and quivering
awhile among the draperies of the room it at length rested in full view
upon the surface of the door of brass but the shadow was vague, and
formless, and indefinite, and was the shadow neither of man nor
god--neither god of greece, nor god of chalda, nor any egyptian god
and the shadow rested upon the brazen doorway, and under the arch of the
entablature of the door and moved not, nor spoke any word, but there
became stationary and remained and the door whereupon the shadow rested
was, if i remember aright, over against the feet of the young zoilus
enshrouded but we, the seven there assembled, having seen the shadow as
it came out from among the draperies, dared not steadily behold it, but
cast down our eyes, and gazed continually into the depths of the mirror
of ebony and at length i, oinos, speaking some low words, demanded of
the shadow its dwelling and its appellation and the shadow answered, i
am shadow, and my dwelling is near to the catacombs of ptolemais, and
hard by those dim plains of helusion which border upon the foul
charonian canal and then did we, the seven, start from our seats in
horror, and stand trembling, and shuddering, and aghast for the tones
in the voice of the shadow were not the tones of any one being, but of a
multitude of beings, and varying in their cadences from syllable to
syllable, fell duskily upon our ears in the well remembered and familiar
accents of many thousand departed friends
  
silence--a fable
the mountain pinnacles slumber valleys, crags, and caves are silent
listen to me, said the demon, as he placed his hand upon my head
the region of which i speak is a dreary region in libya, by the borders
of the river zire and there is no quiet there, nor silence
the waters of the river have a saffron and sickly hue and they flow
not onward to the sea, but palpitate forever and forever beneath the red
eye of the sun with a tumultuous and convulsive motion for many miles
on either side of the rivers oozy bed is a pale desert of gigantic
water-lilies they sigh one unto the other in that solitude, and stretch
towards the heaven their long and ghastly necks, and nod to and fro
their everlasting heads and there is an indistinct murmur which cometh
out from among them like the rushing of subterrene water and they sigh
one unto the other
but there is a boundary to their realm--the boundary of the dark,
horrible, lofty forest there, like the waves about the hebrides, the
low underwood is agitated continually but there is no wind throughout
the heaven and the tall primeval trees rock eternally hither and
thither with a crashing and mighty sound and from their high summits,
one by one, drop everlasting dews and at the roots, strange poisonous
flowers lie writhing in perturbed slumber and overhead, with a rustling
and loud noise, the gray clouds rush westwardly forever until they roll,
a cataract, over the fiery wall of the horizon but there is no wind
throughout the heaven and by the shores of the river zire there is
neither quiet nor silence
it was night, and the rain fell and, falling, it was rain, but, having
fallen, it was blood and i stood in the morass among the tall lilies,
and the rain fell upon my head--and the lilies sighed one unto the other
in the solemnity of their desolation
and, all at once, the moon arose through the thin ghastly mist, and was
crimson in color and mine eyes fell upon a huge gray rock which stood
by the shore of the river and was lighted by the light of the moon and
the rock was gray and ghastly, and tall,--and the rock was gray upon
its front were characters engraven in the stones and i walked through
the morass of water-lilies, until i came close unto the shore, that i
might read the characters upon the stone but i could not decipher them
and i was going back into the morass when the moon shone with a fuller
red, and i turned and looked again upon the rock and upon the
characters--and the characters were desolation
and i looked upwards, and there stood a man upon the summit of the
rock and i hid myself among the water-lilies that i might discover the
action of the man and the man was tall and stately in form, and wrapped
up from his shoulders to his feet in the toga of old rome and the
outlines of his figure were indistinct--but his features were the
features of a deity for the mantle of the night, and of the mist, and
of the moon, and of the dew, had left uncovered the features of his
face and his brow was lofty with thought, and his eye wild with care
and in the few furrows upon his cheek, i read the fables of sorrow, and
weariness, and disgust with mankind, and a longing after solitude
and the man sat upon the rock, and leaned his head upon his hand, and
looked out upon the desolation he looked down into the low unquiet
shrubbery, and up into the tall primeval trees, and up higher at the
rustling heaven, and into the crimson moon and i lay close within
shelter of the lilies, and observed the actions of the man and the man
trembled in the solitude--but the night waned, and he sat upon the
rock
and the man turned his attention from the heaven, and looked out upon
the dreary river zire, and upon the yellow ghastly waters, and upon the
pale legions of the water-lilies and the man listened to the sighs of
the water-lilies, and to the murmur that came up from among them and i
lay close within my covert and observed the actions of the man and the
man trembled in the solitude--but the night waned, and he sat upon the
rock
then i went down into the recesses of the morass, and waded afar in
among the wilderness of the lilies, and called unto the hippopotami
which dwelt among the fens in the recesses of the morass and the
hippopotami heard my call, and came, with the behemoth, unto the foot of
the rock, and roared loudly and fearfully beneath the moon and i lay
close within my covert and observed the actions of the man and the man
trembled in the solitude--but the night waned, and he sat upon the
rock
then i cursed the elements with the curse of tumult and a frightful
tempest gathered in the heaven, where before there had been no wind and
the heaven became livid with the violence of the tempest--and the rain
beat upon the head of the man--and the floods of the river came
down--and the river was tormented into foam--and the water-lilies
shrieked within their beds--and the forest crumbled before the wind--and
the thunder rolled--and the lightning fell--and the rock rocked to its
foundation and i lay close within my covert and observed the actions of
the man and the man trembled in the solitude--but the night waned, and
he sat upon the rock
then i grew angry and cursed, with the curse of silence, the river, and
the lilies, and the wind, and the forest, and the heaven, and the
thunder, and the sighs of the water-lilies and they became accursed,
and were still and the moon ceased to totter up its pathway to
heaven--and the thunder died away--and the lightning did not flash--and
the clouds hung motionless--and the waters sunk to their level and
remained--and the trees ceased to rock--and the water-lilies sighed no
more--and the murmur was heard no longer from among them, nor any shadow
of sound throughout the vast illimitable desert and i looked upon the
characters of the rock, and they were changed--and the characters were
silence
and mine eyes fell upon the countenance of the man, and his countenance
was wan with terror and, hurriedly, he raised his head from his hand,
and stood forth upon the rock and listened but there was no voice
throughout the vast illimitable desert, and the characters upon the rock
were silence and the man shuddered, and turned his face away, and fled
afar off, in haste, so that i beheld him no more
now there are fine tales in the volumes of the magi--in the iron-bound,
melancholy volumes of the magi therein, i say, are glorious histories
of the heaven, and of the earth, and of the mighty sea--and of the genii
that overruled the sea, and the earth, and the lofty heaven there was
much lore, too, in the sayings which were said by the sybils and holy,
holy things were heard of old by the dim leaves that trembled around
dodona--but, as allah liveth, that fable which the demon told me as he
sat by my side in the shadow of the tomb, i hold to be the most
wonderful of all and as the demon made an end of his story, he fell
back within the cavity of the tomb and laughed and i could not laugh
with the demon, and he cursed me because i could not laugh and the lynx
which dwelleth forever in the tomb, came out therefrom, and lay down at
the feet of the demon, and looked at him steadily in the face
  
essays
  
the poetic principle
in speaking of the poetic principle, i have no design to be either
thorough or profound while discussing very much at random the
essentiality of what we call poetry, my principal purpose will be to
cite for consideration some few of those minor english or american poems
which best suit my own taste, or which, upon my own fancy, have left the
most definite impression by minor poems i mean, of course, poems of
little length and here, in the beginning, permit me to say a few words
in regard to a somewhat peculiar principle, which, whether rightfully or
wrongfully, has always had its influence in my own critical estimate of
the poem i hold that a long poem does not exist i maintain that the
phrase, a long poem, is simply a flat contradiction in terms
i need scarcely observe that a poem deserves its title only inasmuch as
it excites, by elevating the soul the value of the poem is in the ratio
of this elevating excitement but all excitements are, through a psychal
necessity, transient that degree of excitement which would entitle a
poem to be so called at all, cannot be sustained throughout a
composition of any great length after the lapse of half an hour, at the
very utmost, it flags--fails--a revulsion ensues--and then the poem is,
in effect, and in fact, no longer such
there are, no doubt, many who have found difficulty in reconciling the
critical dictum that the paradise lost is to be devoutly admired
throughout, with the absolute impossibility of maintaining for it,
during perusal, the amount of enthusiasm which that critical dictum
would demand this great work, in fact, is to be regarded as poetical
only when, losing sight of that vital requisite in all works of art,
unity, we view it merely as a series of minor poems if, to preserve its
unity--its totality of effect or impression--we read it as would be
necessary at a single sitting, the result is but a constant alternation
of excitement and depression after a passage of what we feel to be true
poetry, there follows, inevitably, a passage of platitude which no
critical prejudgment can force us to admire but if, upon completing the
work, we read it again omitting the first book--that is to say,
commencing with the second--we shall be surprised at now finding that
admirable which we before condemned--that damnable which we had
previously so much admired it follows from all this that the ultimate,
aggregate, or absolute effect of even the best epic under the sun, is a
nullity--and this is precisely the fact
in regard to the iliad, we have, if not positive proof, at least very
good reason, for believing it intended as a series of lyrics but,
granting the epic intention, i can say only that the work is based in an
imperfect sense of art the modern epic is, of the supposititious
ancient model, but an inconsiderate and blindfold imitation but the day
of these artistic anomalies is over if, at any time, any very long poem
were popular in reality--which i doubt--it is at least clear that no
very long poem will ever be popular again
that the extent of a poetical work is ceteris paribus, the measure of
its merit, seems undoubtedly, when we thus state it, a proposition
sufficiently absurd--yet we are indebted for it to the quarterly
reviews surely there can be nothing in mere size, abstractly
considered--there can be nothing in mere bulk, so far as a volume is
concerned, which has so continuously elicited admiration from these
saturnine pamphlets a mountain, to be sure, by the mere sentiment of
physical magnitude which it conveys, does impress us with a sense of
the sublime--but no man is impressed after this fashion by the
material grandeur of even the columbiad even the quarterlies have not
instructed us to be so impressed by it as yet, they have not
insisted on our estimating lamartine by the cubic foot, or pollock by
the pound--but what else are we to infer from their continual prating
about sustained effort? if, by sustained effort, any little
gentleman has accomplished an epic, let us frankly commend him for the
effort--if this indeed be a thing commendable--but let us forbear
praising the epic on the efforts account it is to be hoped thai common
sense, in the time to come, will prefer deciding upon a work of art
rather by the impression it makes--by the effect it produces--than by
the time it took to impress the effect, or by the amount of sustained
effort which had been found necessary in effecting the impression the
fact is, that perseverance is one thing and genius quite another--nor
can all the quarterlies in christendom confound them by and by, this
proposition, with many which i have been just urging, will be received
as self-evident in the meantime, by being generally condemned as
falsities, they will not be essentially damaged as truths
on the other hand, it is clear that a poem may be improperly brief
undue brevity degenerates into mere epigrammatism a very short poem,
while now and then producing a brilliant or vivid, never produces a
profound or enduring effect there must be the steady pressing down of
the stamp upon the wax de branger has wrought innumerable things,
pungent and spirit-stirring, but in general they have been too
imponderous to stamp themselves deeply into the public attention, and
thus, as so many feathers of fancy, have been blown aloft only to be
whistled down the wind
a remarkable instance of the effect of undue brevity in depressing a
poem, in keeping it out of the popular view, is afforded by the
following exquisite little serenade
i arise from dreams of thee
in the first sweet sleep of night
when the winds are breathing low,
and the stars are shining bright
i arise from dreams of thee,
and a spirit in my feet
has led me--who knows how?--
to thy chamber-window, sweet
the wandering airs they faint
on the dark the silent stream--
the champak odors fail
like sweet thoughts in a dream
the nightingales complaint,
it dies upon her heart,
as i must die on thine,
o, beloved as thou art
o, lift me from the grass
i die, i faint, i fail
let thy love in kisses rain
on my lips and eyelids pale
my cheek is cold and white, alas
my heart beats loud and fast
o, press it close to thine again,
where it will break at last
very few perhaps are familiar with these lines, yet no less a poet than
shelley is their author their warm, yet delicate and ethereal
imagination will be appreciated by all, but by none so thoroughly as by
him who has himself arisen from sweet dreams of one beloved to bathe in
the aromatic air of a southern midsummer night
one of the finest poems by willis, the very best in my opinion which he
has ever written, has no doubt, through this same defect of undue
brevity, been kept back from its proper position, not less in the
critical than in the popular view
the shadows lay along broadway,
twas near the twilight-tide--
and slowly there a lady fair
was walking in her pride
alone walkd she but, viewlessly
walkd spirits at her side
peace charmd the street beneath her feet,
and honor charmd the air
and all astir looked kind on her,
and called her good as fair--
for all god ever gave to her
she kept with chary care
she kept with care her beauties rare
from lovers warm and true--
for heart was cold to all but gold,
and the rich came not to woo--
but honord well her charms to sell,
if priests the selling do
now walking there was one more fair--
a slight girl, lily-pale
and she had unseen company
to make the spirit quail--
twixt want and scorn she walkd forlorn,
and nothing could avail
no mercy now can clear her brow
from this worlds peace to pray,
for as loves wild prayer dissolved in air,
her womans heart gave way--
but the sin forgiven by christ in heaven,
by man is cursed alway
in this composition we find it difficult to recognise the willis who has
written so many mere verses of society the lines are not only richly
ideal but full of energy, while they breathe an earnestness, an evident
sincerity of sentiment, for which we look in vain throughout all the
other works of this author
while the epic mania, while the idea that to merit in poetry prolixity
is indispensable, has for some years past been gradually dying out of
the public mind, by mere dint of its own absurdity, we find it succeeded
by a heresy too palpably false to be long tolerated, but one which, in
the brief period it has already endured, may be said to have
accomplished more in the corruption of our poetical literature than all
its other enemies combined i allude to the heresy of the didactic it
has been assumed, tacitly and avowedly, directly and indirectly, that
the ultimate object of all poetry is truth every poem, it is said,
should inculcate a moral, and by this moral is the poetical merit of the
work to be adjudged we americans especially have patronized this happy
idea, and we bostonians very especially have developed it in full we
have taken it into our heads that to write a poem simply for the poems
sake, and to acknowledge such to have been our design, would be to
confess ourselves radically wanting in the true poetic dignity and
force--but the simple fact is that would we but permit ourselves to
look into our own souls we should immediately there discover that under
the sun there neither exists nor can exist any work more thoroughly
dignified, more supremely noble, than this very poem, this poem per
se, this poem which is a poem and nothing more, this poem written
solely for the poems sake
with as deep a reverence for the true as ever inspired the bosom of man,
i would nevertheless limit, in some measure, its modes of inculcation i
would limit to enforce them i would not enfeeble them by dissipation
the demands of truth are severe she has no sympathy with the myrtles
all that which is so indispensable in song is precisely all that
with which she has nothing whatever to do it is but making her a
flaunting paradox to wreathe her in gems and flowers in enforcing a
truth we need severity rather than efflorescence of language we must be
simple, precise, terse we must be cool, calm, unimpassioned in a word,
we must be in that mood which, as nearly as possible, is the exact
converse of the poetical he must be blind indeed who does not
perceive the radical and chasmal difference between the truthful and the
poetical modes of inculcation he must be theory-mad beyond redemption
who, in spite of these differences, shall still persist in attempting to
reconcile the obstinate oils and waters of poetry and truth
dividing the world of mind into its three most immediately obvious
distinctions, we have the pure intellect, taste, and the moral sense i
place taste in the middle because it is just this position which in the
mind it occupies it holds intimate relations with either extreme but
from the moral sense is separated by so faint a difference that
aristotle has not hesitated to place some of its operations among the
virtues themselves nevertheless we find the offices of the trio
marked with a sufficient distinction just as the intellect concerns
itself with truth, so taste informs us of the beautiful, while the moral
sense is regardful of duty of this latter, while conscience teaches the
obligation, and reason the expediency, taste contents herself with
displaying the charms, waging war upon vice solely on the ground of her
deformity, her disproportion, her animosity to the fitting, to the
appropriate, to the harmonious, in a word, to beauty
an immortal instinct deep within the spirit of man is thus plainly a
sense of the beautiful this it is which administers to his delight in
the manifold forms, and sounds, and odors, and sentiments amid which he
exists and just as the lily is repeated in the lake, or the eyes of
amaryllis in the mirror, so is the mere oral or written repetition of
these forms, and sounds, and colors, and odors, and sentiments a
duplicate source of delight but this mere repetition is not poetry he
who shall simply sing, with however glowing enthusiasm, or with however
vivid a truth of description, of the sights, and sounds, and odors, and
colors, and sentiments which greet him in common with all mankind--he, i
say, has yet failed to prove his divine title there is still a
something in the distance which he has been unable to attain we have
still a thirst unquenchable, to allay which he has not shown us the
crystal springs this thirst belongs to the immortality of man it is at
once a consequence and an indication of his perennial existence it is
the desire of the moth for the star it is no mere appreciation of the
beauty before us, but a wild effort to reach the beauty above inspired
by an ecstatic prescience of the glories beyond the grave, we struggle
by multiform combinations among the things and thoughts of time to
attain a portion of that loveliness whose very elements perhaps
appertain to eternity alone and thus when by poetry, or when by music,
the most entrancing of the poetic moods, we find ourselves melted into
tears, we weep then, not as the abbate gravina supposes, through excess
of pleasure, but through a certain petulant, impatient sorrow at our
inability to grasp now, wholly, here on earth, at once and forever,
those divine and rapturous joys of which through the poem, or
through the music, we attain to but brief and indeterminate glimpses
the struggle to apprehend the supernal loveliness--this struggle, on the
part of souls fittingly constituted--has given to the world all that
which it the world has ever been enabled at once to understand and to
feel as poetic
the poetic sentiment, of course, may develop itself in various modes--in
painting, in sculpture, in architecture, in the dance--very especially
in music--and very peculiarly, and with a wide field, in the composition
of the landscape garden our present theme, however, has regard only to
its manifestation in words and here let me speak briefly on the topic
of rhythm contenting myself with the certainty that music, in its
various modes of metre, rhythm, and rhyme, is of so vast a moment in
poetry as never to be wisely rejected--is so vitally important an
adjunct, that he is simply silly who declines its assistance, i will not
now pause to maintain its absolute essentiality it is in music perhaps
that the soul most nearly attains the great end for which, when inspired
by the poetic sentiment, it struggles--the creation of supernal beauty
it may be, indeed, that here this sublime end is, now and, then,
attained in fact we are often made to feel, with a shivering delight,
that from an earthly harp are stricken notes which cannot have been
unfamiliar to the angels and thus there can be little doubt that in the
union of poetry with music in its popular sense, we shall find the
widest field for the poetic development the old bards and minnesingers
had advantages which we do not possess--and thomas moore, singing his
own songs, was, in the most legitimate manner, perfecting them as poems
to recapitulate then--i would define, in brief, the poetry of words as
the rhythmical creation of beauty its sole arbiter is taste with the
intellect or with the conscience it has only collateral relations
unless incidentally, it has no concern whatever either with duty or with
truth
a few words, however, in explanation that pleasure which is at once
the most pure, the most elevating, and the most intense, is derived, i
maintain, from the contemplation of the beautiful in the contemplation
of beauty we alone find it possible to attain that pleasurable
elevation, or excitement of the soul, which we recognize as the poetic
sentiment, and which is so easily distinguished from truth, which is the
satisfaction of the reason, or from passion, which is the excitement of
the heart i make beauty, therefore--using the word as inclusive of the
sublime--i make beauty the province of the poem, simply because it is an
obvious rule of art that effects should be made to spring as directly as
possible from their causes--no one as yet having been weak enough to
deny that the peculiar elevation in question is at least most readily
attainable in the poem it by no means follows, however, that the
incitements of passion, or the precepts of duty, or even the lessons of
truth, may not be introduced into a poem, and with advantage for they
may subserve incidentally, in various ways, the general purposes of the
work but the true artist will always contrive to tone them down in
proper subjection to that beauty which is the atmosphere and the real
essence of the poem
i cannot better introduce the few poems which i shall present for your
consideration, than by the citation of the prem to longfellows waif
the day is done, and the darkness
falls from the wings of night,
as a feather is wafted downward
from an eagle in his flight
i see the lights of the village
gleam through the rain and the mist,
and a feeling of sadness comes oer me,
that my soul cannot resist
a feeling of sadness and longing,
that is not akin to pain,
and resembles sorrow only
as the mist resembles the rain
come, read to me some poem,
some simple and heartfelt lay,
that shall soothe this restless feeling,
and banish the thoughts of day
not from the grand old masters,
not from the bards sublime,
whose distant footsteps echo
through the corridors of time
for, like strains of martial music,
their mighty thoughts suggest
lifes endless toil and endeavor
and to-night i long for rest
read from some humbler poet,
whose songs gushed from his heart,
as showers from the clouds of summer,
or tears from the eyelids start
who through long days of labor,
and nights devoid of ease,
still heard in his soul the music
of wonderful melodies
such songs have power to quiet
the restless pulse of care,
and come like the benediction
that follows after prayer
then read from the treasured volume
the poem of thy choice,
and lend to the rhyme of the poet
the beauty of thy voice
and the night shall be filled with music,
and the cares that infest the day,
shall fold their tents like the arabs,
and as silently steal away
with no great range of imagination, these lines have been justly admired
for their delicacy of expression some of the images are very effective
nothing can be better than
--the bards sublime,
whose distant footsteps echo
down the corridors of time
the idea of the last quatrain is also very effective the poem on the
whole, however, is chiefly to be admired for the graceful insouciance
of its metre, so well in accordance with the character of the
sentiments, and especially for the ease of the general manner this
ease or naturalness, in a literary style, it has long been the fashion
to regard as ease in appearance alone--as a point of really difficult
attainment but not so--a natural manner is difficult only to him who
should never meddle with it--to the unnatural it is but the result of
writing with the understanding, or with the instinct, that the tone,
in composition, should always be that which the mass of mankind would
adopt--and must perpetually vary, of course, with the occasion the
author who, after the fashion of the north american review, should be
upon all occasions merely quiet, must necessarily upon many
occasions be simply silly, or stupid and has no more right to be
considered easy or natural than a cockney exquisite, or than the
sleeping beauty in the waxworks
among the minor poems of bryant, none has so much impressed me as the
one which he entitles june i quote only a portion of it
there, through the long, long summer hours,
the golden light should lie,
and thick young herbs and groups of flowers
stand in their beauty by
the oriole should build and tell
his love-tale, close beside my cell
the idle butterfly
should rest him there, and there be heard
the housewife-bee and humming bird
and what, if cheerful shouts at noon,
come, from the village sent,
or songs of maids, beneath the moon,
with fairy laughter blent?
and what if, in the evening light,
betrothed lovers walk in sight
of my low monument?
i would the lovely scene around
might know no sadder sight nor sound
i know, i know i should not see
the seasons glorious show,
nor would its brightness shine for me
nor its wild music flow
but if, around my place of sleep,
the friends i love should come to weep,
they might not haste to go
soft airs and song, and light and bloom,
should keep them lingering by my tomb
these to their softend hearts should bear
the thought of what has been,
and speak of one who cannot share
the gladness of the scene
whose part in all the pomp that fills
the circuit of the summer hills,
is--that his grave is green
and deeply would their hearts rejoice
to hear again his living voice
the rhythmical flow here is even voluptuous--nothing could be more
melodious the poem has always affected me in a remarkable manner the
intense melancholy which seems to well up, perforce, to the surface of
all the poets cheerful sayings about his grave, we find thrilling us to
the soul--while there is the truest poetic elevation in the thrill the
impression left is one of a pleasurable sadness and if, in the
remaining compositions which i shall introduce to you, there be more or
less of a similar tone always apparent, let me remind you that how or
why we know not this certain taint of sadness is inseparably connected
with all the higher manifestations of true beauty it is, nevertheless,
a feeling of sadness and longing
that is not akin to pain,
and resembles sorrow only
as the mist resembles the rain
the taint of which i speak is clearly perceptible even in a poem so full
of brilliancy and spirit as the health of edward coote pinkney
i fill this cup to one made up
of loveliness alone,
a woman, of her gentle sex
the seeming paragon
to whom the better elements
and kindly stars have given
a form so fair, that like the air,
tis less of earth than heaven
her every tone is musics own,
like those of morning birds,
and something more than melody
dwells ever in her words
the coinage of her heart are they,
and from her lips each flows
as one may see the burdend bee
forth issue from the rose
affections are as thoughts to her,
the measures of her hours
her feelings have the fragrancy,
the freshness of young flowers
and lovely passions, changing oft,
so fill her, she appears
the image of themselves by turns,--
the idol of past years
of her bright face one glance will trace
a picture on the brain,
and of her voice in echoing hearts
a sound must long remain
but memory, such as mine of her,
so very much endears,
when death is nigh my latest sigh
will not be lifes, but hers
i filld this cup to one made up
of loveliness alone,
a woman, of her gentle sex
the seeming paragon--
her health and would on earth there stood,
some more of such a frame,
that life might be all poetry,
and weariness a name
it was the misfortune of mr pinkney to have been born too far south
had he been a new englander, it is probable that he would have been
ranked as the first of american lyrists by that magnanimous cabal which
has so long controlled the destinies of american letters, in conducting
the thing called the north american review the poem just cited is
especially beautiful but the poetic elevation which it induces we must
refer chiefly to our sympathy in the poets enthusiasm we pardon his
hyperboles for the evident earnestness with which they are uttered
it was by no means my design, however, to expatiate upon the merits
of what i should read you these will necessarily speak for themselves
boccalina, in his advertisements from parnassus, tells us that zoilus
once presented apollo a very caustic criticism upon a very admirable
book--whereupon the god asked him for the beauties of the work he
replied that he only busied himself about the errors on hearing this,
apollo, handing him a sack of unwinnowed wheat, bade him pick out all
the chaff for his reward
now this fable answers very well as a hit at the critics--but i am by no
means sure that the god was in the right i am by no means certain that
the true limits of the critical duty are not grossly misunderstood
excellence, in a poem especially, may be considered in the light of an
axiom, which need only be properly put, to become self-evident it is
not excellence if it require to be demonstrated its such--and thus to
point out too particularly the merits of a work of art, is to admit that
they are not merits altogether
among the melodies of thomas moore is one whose distinguished
character as a poem proper seems to have been singularly left out of
view i allude to his lines beginning--come, rest in this bosom the
intense energy of their expression is not surpassed by anything in
byron there are two of the lines in which a sentiment is conveyed that
embodies the all in all of the divine passion of love--a sentiment
which, perhaps, has found its echo in more, and in more passionate,
human hearts that any other single sentiment ever embodied in words
come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer,
though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here
here still is the smile, that no cloud can oercast,
and a heart and a hand all thy own to the last
oh what was love made for, if tis not the same
through joy and through torment, through glory and shame?
i know not, i ask not, if guilts in that heart,
i but know that i love thee, whatever thou art
thou hast calld me thy angel in moments of bliss,
and thy angel ill be,mid the horrors of this,--
through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,
and shield thee, and save thee,--or perish there too
it has been the fashion of late days to deny moore imagination, while
granting him fancy--a distinction originating with coleridge--than whom
no man more fully comprehended the great powers of moore the fact is,
that the fancy of this poet so far predominates over all his other
faculties, and over the fancy of all other men, as to have induced, very
naturally, the idea that he is fanciful only but never was there a
greater mistake never was a grosser wrong done the fame of a true poet
in the compass of the english language i can call to mind no poem more
profoundly--more weirdly imaginative, in the best sense, than the
lines commencing--i would i were by that dim lake--which are the
composition of thomas moore i regret that i am unable to remember them
one of the noblest--and, speaking of fancy--one of the most singularly
fanciful of modern poets, was thomas hood his fair ines had always
for me an inexpressible charm
o saw ye not fair ines?
shes gone into the west,
to dazzle when the sun is down
and rob the world of rest
she took our daylight with her,
the smiles that we love best,
with morning blushes on her cheek,
and pearls upon her breast
o turn again, fair ines,
before the fall of night,
for fear the moon should shine alone,
and stars unrivalld bright
and blessed will the lover be
that walks beneath their light,
and breathes the love against thy cheek
i dare not even write
would i had been, fair ines,
that gallant cavalier,
who rode so gaily by thy side,
and whisperd thee so near
were there no bonny dames at home,
or no true lovers here,
that he should cross the seas to win
the dearest of the dear?
i saw thee, lovely ines,
descend along the shore,
with bands of noble gentlemen,
and banners-waved before
and gentle youth and maidens gay,
and snowy plumes they wore
it would have been a beauteous dream,
if it had been no more
alas, alas, fair ines,
she went away with song,
with music waiting on her steps,
and shoutings of the throng
but some were sad and felt no mirth,
but only musics wrong,
in sounds that sang farewell, farewell,
to her youve loved so long
farewell, farewell, fair ines,
that vessel never bore
so fair a lady on its deck,
nor danced so light before,--
alas for pleasure on the sea,
and sorrow on the shore
the smile that blest one lovers heart
has broken many more
the haunted house, by the same author, is one of the truest poems ever
written,--one of the truest, one of the most unexceptionable, one of the
most thoroughly artistic, both in its theme and in its execution it is,
moreover, powerfully ideal--imaginative i regret that its length
renders it unsuitable for the purposes of this lecture in place of it
permit me to offer the universally appreciated bridge of sighs
one more unfortunate,
weary of breath,
rashly importunate
gone to her death
take her up tenderly,
lift her with care--
fashiond so slenderly,
young and so fair
look at her garments
clinging like cerements
whilst the wave constantly
drips from her clothing
take her up instantly,
loving, not loathing
touch her not scornfully
think of her mournfully,
gently and humanly
not of the stains of her,
all that remains of her
now is pure womanly
make no deep scrutiny
into her mutiny
rash and undutiful
past all dishonor,
death has left on her
only the beautiful
where the lamps quiver
so far in the river,
with many a light
from window and casement,
from garret to basement,
she stood, with amazement,
houseless by night
the bleak wind of march
made her tremble and shiver
but not the dark arch,
or the black flowing river
mad from lifes history,
glad to deaths mystery,
swift to be hurld--
anywhere, anywhere
out of the world
in she plunged boldly,
no matter how coldly
the rough river ran,--
over the brink of it,
picture it,--think of it,
dissolute man
lave in it, drink of it
then, if you can
still, for all slips of hers,
one of eves family--
wipe those poor lips of hers
oozing so clammily,
loop up her tresses
escaped from the comb,
her fair auburn tresses
whilst wonderment guesses
where was her home?
who was her father?
who was her mother
had she a sister?
had she a brother?
or was there a dearer one
still, and a nearer one
yet, than all other?
alas for the rarity
of christian charity
under the sun
oh it was pitiful
near a whole city full,
home she had none
sisterly, brotherly,
fatherly, motherly,
feelings had changed
love, by harsh evidence,
thrown from its eminence
even gods providence
seeming estranged
take her up tenderly
lift her with care
fashiond so slenderly,
young, and so fair
ere her limbs frigidly
stiffen too rigidly,
decently,--kindly,--
smooth and compose them
and her eyes, close them,
staring so blindly
dreadfully staring
through muddy impurity,
as when with the daring
last look of despairing
fixed on futurity
perishing gloomily,
spurred by contumely,
cold inhumanity,
burning insanity,
into her rest,--
cross her hands humbly,
as if praying dumbly,
over her breast
owning her weakness,
her evil behavior,
and leaving, with meekness,
her sins to her saviour
the vigor of this poem is no less remarkable than its pathos the
versification, although carrying the fanciful to the very verge of the
fantastic, is nevertheless admirably adapted to the wild insanity which
is the thesis of the poem
among the minor poems of lord byron is one which has never received from
the critics the praise which it undoubtedly deserves
though the day of my destinys over,
and the star of my fate hath declined,
thy soft heart refused to discover
the faults which so many could find
though thy soul with my grief was acquainted,
it shrunk not to share it with me,
and the love which my spirit hath painted
it never hath found but in thee
then when nature around me is smiling,
the last smile which answers to mine,
i do not believe it beguiling,
because it reminds me of thine
and when winds are at war with the ocean,
as the breasts i believed in with me,
if their billows excite an emotion,
it is that they bear me from thee
though the rock of my last hope is shivered,
and its fragments are sunk in the wave,
though i feel that my soul is delivered
to pain--it shall not be its slave
there is many a pang to pursue me
they may crush, but they shall not contemn--
they may torture, but shall not subdue me--
tis of thee that i think--not of them
though human, thou didst not deceive me,
though woman, thou didst not forsake,
though loved, thou forborest to grieve me,
though slandered, thou never couldst shake,--
though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me,
though parted, it was not to fly,
though watchful, twas not to defame me,
nor mute, that the world might belie
yet i blame not the world, nor despise it,
nor the war of the many with one--
if my soul was not fitted to prize it,
twas folly not sooner to shun
and if dearly that error hath cost me,
and more than i once could foresee,
i have found that whatever it lost me,
it could not deprive me of thee
from the wreck of the past, which hath perished,
thus much i at least may recall,
it hath taught me that which i most cherished
deserved to be dearest of all
in the desert a fountain is springing,
in the wide waste there still is a tree,
and a bird in the solitude singing,
which speaks to my spirit of thee
although the rhythm here is one of the most difficult, the versification
could scarcely be improved no nobler theme ever engaged the pen of
poet it is the soul-elevating idea that no man can consider himself
entitled to complain of fate while in his adversity he still retains the
unwavering love of woman
from alfred tennyson, although in perfect sincerity i regard him as the
noblest poet that ever lived, i have left myself time to cite only a
very brief specimen i call him, and think him the noblest of poets,
not because the impressions he produces are at all times the most
profound--not because the poetical excitement which he induces is at
all times the most intense--but because it is at all times the most
ethereal--in other words, the most elevating and most pure no poet is
so little of the earth, earthy what i am about to read is from his last
long poem, the princess
tears, idle tears, i know not what they mean,
tears from the depth of some divine despair
rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
in looking on the happy autumn fields,
and thinking of the days that are no more
fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
that brings our friends up from the underworld,
sad as the last which reddens over one
that sinks with all we love below the verge
so sad, so fresh, the days that are no more
ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
the earliest pipe of half-awakend birds
to dying ears, when unto dying eyes
the casement slowly grows a glimmering square
so sad, so strange, the days that are no more
dear as rememberd kisses after death,
and sweet as those by hopeless fancy feignd
on lips that are for others deep as love,
deep as first love, and wild with all regret
o death in life, the days that are no more
thus, although in a very cursory and imperfect manner, i have endeavored
to convey to you my conception of the poetic principle it has been my
purpose to suggest that, while this principle itself is strictly and
simply the human aspiration for supernal beauty, the manifestation of
the principle is always found in an elevating excitement of the soul,
quite independent of that passion which is the intoxication of the
heart, or of that truth which is the satisfaction of the reason for in
regard to passion, alas its tendency is to degrade rather than to
elevate the soul love, on the contrary--love--the true, the divine
eros--the uranian as distinguished from the dionasan venus--is
unquestionably the purest and truest of all poetical themes and in
regard to truth, if, to be sure, through the attainment of a truth we
are led to perceive a harmony where none was apparent before, we
experience at once the true poetical effect but this effect is
referable to the harmony alone, and not in the least degree to the truth
which merely served to render the harmony manifest
we shall reach, however, more immediately a distinct conception of what
true poetry is, by mere reference to a few of the simple elements which
induce in the poet himself the true poetical effect he recognizes the
ambrosia which nourishes his soul in the bright orbs that shine in
heaven, in the volutes of the flower, in the clustering of low
shrubberies, in the waving of the grain-fields, in the slanting of tall
eastern trees, in the blue distance of mountains, in the grouping of
clouds, in the twinkling of half-hidden brooks, in the gleaming of
silver rivers, in the repose of sequestered lakes, in the star-mirroring
depths of lonely wells he perceives it in the songs of birds, in the
harp of olus, in the sighing of the night-wind, in the repining voice
of the forest, in the surf that complains to the shore, in the fresh
breath of the woods, in the scent of the violet, in the voluptuous
perfume of the hyacinth, in the suggestive odor that comes to him at
eventide from far-distant undiscovered islands, over dim oceans,
illimitable and unexplored he owns it in all noble thoughts, in all
unworldly motives, in all holy impulses, in all chivalrous, generous,
and self-sacrificing deeds he feels it in the beauty of woman, in the
grace of her step, in the lustre of her eye, in the melody of her voice,
in her soft laughter, in her sigh, in the harmony of the rustling of her
robes he deeply feels it in her winning endearments, in her burning
enthusiasms, in her gentle charities, in her meek and devotional
endurance, but above all, ah, far above all, he kneels to it, he
worships it in the faith, in the purity, in the strength, in the
altogether divine majesty of her love
let me conclude by the recitation of yet another brief poem, one very
different in character from any that i have before quoted it is by
motherwell, and is called the song of the cavalier with our modern
and altogether rational ideas of the absurdity and impiety of warfare,
we are not precisely in that frame of mind best adapted to sympathize
with the sentiments, and thus to appreciate the real excellence of the
poem to do this fully we must identify ourselves in fancy with the soul
of the old cavalier
a steed a steed of matchless speede
a sword of metal keene
al else to noble heartes is drosse--
al else on earth is meane
the neighynge of the war-horse prowde
the rowleing of the drum,
the clangor of the trumpet lowde--
be soundes from heaven that come
and oh the thundering presse of knightes,
when as their war-cryes welle,
may tole from heaven an angel bright,
and rowse a fiend from hell,
then mounte then mounte, brave gallants all,
and don your helmes amaine,
deathes couriers, fame and honor, call
us to the field againe
no shrewish teares shall fill your eye
when the sword-hilts in our hand,--
heart-whole well part, and no whit sighe
for the fayrest of the land
let piping swaine, and craven wight,
thus weepe and puling crye,
our business is like men to fight,
and hero-like to die
success is counted sweetest
by those who neer succeed
to comprehend a nectar
requires sorest need
not one of all the purple host
who took the flag to-day
can tell the definition,
so clear, of victory,
as he, defeated, dying,
on whose forbidden ear
the distant strains of triumph
break, agonized and clear
our share of night to bear,
our share of morning,
our blank in bliss to fill,
our blank in scorning
here a star, and there a star,
some lose their way
here a mist, and there a mist,
afterwards -- day
rouge et noir
soul, wilt thou toss again?
by just such a hazard
hundreds have lost, indeed,
but tens have won an all
angels breathless ballot
lingers to record thee
imps in eager caucus
raffle for my soul
rouge gagne
t is so much joy t is so much joy
if i should fail, what poverty
and yet, as poor as i
have ventured all upon a throw
have gained yes hesitated so
this side the victory
life is but life, and death but death
bliss is but bliss, and breath but breath
and if, indeed, i fail,
at least to know the worst is sweet
defeat means nothing but defeat,
no drearier can prevail
and if i gain, -- oh, gun at sea,
oh, bells that in the steeples be,
at first repeat it slow
for heaven is a different thing
conjectured, and waked sudden in,
and might oerwhelm me so
glee the great storm is over
four have recovered the land
forty gone down together
into the boiling sand
ring, for the scant salvation
toll, for the bonnie souls, --
neighbor and friend and bridegroom,
spinning upon the shoals
how they will tell the shipwreck
when winter shakes the door,
till the children ask, but the forty?
did they come back no more?
then a silence suffuses the story,
and a softness the tellers eye
and the children no further question,
and only the waves reply
if i can stop one heart from breaking,
i shall not live in vain
if i can ease one life the aching,
or cool one pain,
or help one fainting robin
unto his nest again,
i shall not live in vain
almost
within my reach
i could have touched
i might have chanced that way
soft sauntered through the village,
sauntered as soft away
so unsuspected violets
within the fields lie low,
too late for striving fingers
that passed, an hour ago
a wounded deer leaps highest,
ive heard the hunter tell
t is but the ecstasy of death,
and then the brake is still
the smitten rock that gushes,
the trampled steel that springs
a cheek is always redder
just where the hectic stings
mirth is the mail of anguish,
in which it cautions arm,
lest anybody spy the blood
and youre hurt exclaim
the heart asks pleasure first,
and then, excuse from pain
and then, those little anodynes
that deaden suffering
and then, to go to sleep
and then, if it should be
the will of its inquisitor,
the liberty to die
in a library
a precious, mouldering pleasure t is
to meet an antique book,
in just the dress his century wore
a privilege, i think,
his venerable hand to take,
and warming in our own,
a passage back, or two, to make
to times when he was young
his quaint opinions to inspect,
his knowledge to unfold
on what concerns our mutual mind,
the literature of old
what interested scholars most,
what competitions ran
when plato was a certainty
and sophocles a man
when sappho was a living girl,
and beatrice wore
the gown that dante deified
facts, centuries before,
he traverses familiar,
as one should come to town
and tell you all your dreams were true
he lived where dreams were sown
his presence is enchantment,
you beg him not to go
old volumes shake their vellum heads
and tantalize, just so
much madness is divinest sense
to a discerning eye
much sense the starkest madness
t is the majority
in this, as all, prevails
assent, and you are sane
demur, -- youre straightway dangerous,
and handled with a chain
i asked no other thing,
no other was denied
i offered being for it
the mighty merchant smiled
brazil? he twirled a button,
without a glance my way
but, madam, is there nothing else
that we can show to-day?
exclusion
the soul selects her own society,
then shuts the door
on her divine majority
obtrude no more
unmoved, she notes the chariots pausing
at her low gate
unmoved, an emperor is kneeling
upon her mat
ive known her from an ample nation
choose one
then close the valves of her attention
like stone
the secret
some things that fly there be, --
birds, hours, the bumble-bee
of these no elegy
some things that stay there be, --
grief, hills, eternity
nor this behooveth me
there are, that resting, rise
can i expound the skies?
how still the riddle lies
the lonely house
i know some lonely houses off the road
a robber d like the look of, --
wooden barred,
and windows hanging low,
inviting to
a portico,
where two could creep
one hand the tools,
the other peep
to make sure alls asleep
old-fashioned eyes,
not easy to surprise
how orderly the kitchen d look by night,
with just a clock, --
but they could gag the tick,
and mice wont bark
and so the walls dont tell,
none will
a pair of spectacles ajar just stir --
an almanacs aware
was it the mat winked,
or a nervous star?
the moon slides down the stair
to see whos there
theres plunder, -- where?
tankard, or spoon,
earring, or stone,
a watch, some ancient brooch
to match the grandmamma,
staid sleeping there
day rattles, too,
stealths slow
the sun has got as far
as the third sycamore
screams chanticleer,
whos there?
and echoes, trains away,
sneer -- where?
while the old couple, just astir,
fancy the sunrise left the door ajar
to fight aloud is very brave,
but gallanter, i know,
who charge within the bosom,
the cavalry of woe
who win, and nations do not see,
who fall, and none observe,
whose dying eyes no country
regards with patriot love
we trust, in plumed procession,
for such the angels go,
rank after rank, with even feet
and uniforms of snow
dawn
when night is almost done,
and sunrise grows so near
that we can touch the spaces,
it s time to smooth the hair
and get the dimples ready,
and wonder we could care
for that old faded midnight
that frightened but an hour
the book of martyrs
read, sweet, how others strove,
till we are stouter
what they renounced,
till we are less afraid
how many times they bore
the faithful witness,
till we are helped,
as if a kingdom cared
read then of faith
that shone above the fagot
clear strains of hymn
the river could not drown
brave names of men
and celestial women,
passed out of record
into renown
the mystery of pain
pain has an element of blank
it cannot recollect
when it began, or if there were
a day when it was not
it has no future but itself,
its infinite realms contain
its past, enlightened to perceive
new periods of pain
i taste a liquor never brewed,
from tankards scooped in pearl
not all the vats upon the rhine
yield such an alcohol
inebriate of air am i,
and debauchee of dew,
reeling, through endless summer days,
from inns of molten blue
when landlords turn the drunken bee
out of the foxgloves door,
when butterflies renounce their drams,
i shall but drink the more
till seraphs swing their snowy hats,
and saints to windows run,
to see the little tippler
leaning against the sun
a book
he ate and drank the precious words,
his spirit grew robust
he knew no more that he was poor,
nor that his frame was dust
he danced along the dingy days,
and this bequest of wings
was but a book what liberty
a loosened spirit brings
i had no time to hate, because
the grave would hinder me,
and life was not so ample i
could finish enmity
nor had i time to love but since
some industry must be,
the little toil of love, i thought,
was large enough for me
unreturning
t was such a little, little boat
that toddled down the bay
t was such a gallant, gallant sea
that beckoned it away
t was such a greedy, greedy wave
that licked it from the coast
nor ever guessed the stately sails
my little craft was lost
whether my bark went down at sea,
whether she met with gales,
whether to isles enchanted
she bent her docile sails
by what mystic mooring
she is held to-day, --
this is the errand of the eye
out upon the bay
belshazzar had a letter, --
he never had but one
belshazzars correspondent
concluded and begun
in that immortal copy
the conscience of us all
can read without its glasses
on revelations wall
the brain within its groove
runs evenly and true
but let a splinter swerve,
t were easier for you
to put the water back
when floods have slit the hills,
and scooped a turnpike for themselves,
and blotted out the mills
ii love
mine
mine by the right of the white election
mine by the royal seal
mine by the sign in the scarlet prison
bars cannot conceal
mine, here in vision and in veto
mine, by the graves repeal
titled, confirmed, -- delirious charter
mine, while the ages steal
bequest
you left me, sweet, two legacies, --
a legacy of love
a heavenly father would content,
had he the offer of
you left me boundaries of pain
capacious as the sea,
between eternity and time,
your consciousness and me
alter? when the hills do
falter? when the sun
question if his glory
be the perfect one
surfeit? when the daffodil
doth of the dew
even as herself, o friend
i will of you
suspense
elysium is as far as to
the very nearest room,
if in that room a friend await
felicity or doom
what fortitude the soul contains,
that it can so endure
the accent of a coming foot,
the opening of a door
surrender
doubt me, my dim companion
why, god would be content
with but a fraction of the love
poured thee without a stint
the whole of me, forever,
what more the woman can, --
say quick, that i may dower thee
with last delight i own
it cannot be my spirit,
for that was thine before
i ceded all of dust i knew, --
what opulence the more
had i, a humble maiden,
whose farthest of degree
was that she might,
some distant heaven,
dwell timidly with thee
if you were coming in the fall,
id brush the summer by
with half a smile and half a spurn,
as housewives do a fly
if i could see you in a year,
id wind the months in balls,
and put them each in separate drawers,
until their time befalls
if only centuries delayed,
id count them on my hand,
subtracting till my fingers dropped
into van diemens land
if certain, when this life was out,
that yours and mine should be,
id toss it yonder like a rind,
and taste eternity
but now, all ignorant of the length
of times uncertain wing,
it goads me, like the goblin bee,
that will not state its sting
with a flower
i hide myself within my flower,
that wearing on your breast,
you, unsuspecting, wear me too --
and angels know the rest
i hide myself within my flower,
that, fading from your vase,
you, unsuspecting, feel for me
almost a loneliness
proof
that i did always love,
i bring thee proof
that till i loved
i did not love enough
that i shall love alway,
i offer thee
that love is life,
and life hath immortality
this, dost thou doubt, sweet?
then have i
nothing to show
but calvary
have you got a brook in your little heart,
where bashful flowers blow,
and blushing birds go down to drink,
and shadows tremble so?
and nobody knows, so still it flows,
that any brook is there
and yet your little draught of life
is daily drunken there
then look out for the little brook in march,
when the rivers overflow,
and the snows come hurrying from the hills,
and the bridges often go
and later, in august it may be,
when the meadows parching lie,
beware, lest this little brook of life
some burning noon go dry
transplanted
as if some little arctic flower,
upon the polar hem,
went wandering down the latitudes,
until it puzzled came
to continents of summer,
to firmaments of sun,
to strange, bright crowds of flowers,
and birds of foreign tongue
i say, as if this little flower
to eden wandered in --
what then? why, nothing, only,
your inference therefrom
the outlet
my river runs to thee
blue sea, wilt welcome me?
my river waits reply
oh sea, look graciously
ill fetch thee brooks
from spotted nooks, --
say, sea,
take me
in vain
i cannot live with you,
it would be life,
and life is over there
behind the shelf
the sexton keeps the key to,
putting up
our life, his porcelain,
like a cup
discarded of the housewife,
quaint or broken
a newer sevres pleases,
old ones crack
i could not die with you,
for one must wait
to shut the others gaze down, --
you could not
and i, could i stand by
and see you freeze,
without my right of frost,
deaths privilege?
nor could i rise with you,
because your face
would put out jesus,
that new grace
glow plain and foreign
on my homesick eye,
except that you, than he
shone closer by
theyd judge us -- how?
for you served heaven, you know,
or sought to
i could not,
because you saturated sight,
and i had no more eyes
for sordid excellence
as paradise
and were you lost, i would be,
though my name
rang loudest
on the heavenly fame
and were you saved,
and i condemned to be
where you were not,
that self were hell to me
so we must keep apart,
you there, i here,
with just the door ajar
that oceans are,
and prayer,
and that pale sustenance,
despair
renunciation
there came a day at summers full
entirely for me
i thought that such were for the saints,
where revelations be
the sun, as common, went abroad,
the flowers, accustomed, blew,
as if no soul the solstice passed
that maketh all things new
the time was scarce profaned by speech
the symbol of a word
was needless, as at sacrament
the wardrobe of our lord
each was to each the sealed church,
permitted to commune this time,
lest we too awkward show
at supper of the lamb
the hours slid fast, as hours will,
clutched tight by greedy hands
so faces on two decks look back,
bound to opposing lands
and so, when all the time had failed,
without external sound,
each bound the others crucifix,
we gave no other bond
sufficient troth that we shall rise --
deposed, at length, the grave --
to that new marriage, justified
through calvaries of love
loves baptism
im ceded, ive stopped being theirs
the name they dropped upon my face
with water, in the country church,
is finished using now,
and they can put it with my dolls,
my childhood, and the string of spools
ive finished threading too
baptized before without the choice,
but this time consciously, of grace
unto supremest name,
called to my full, the crescent dropped,
existences whole arc filled up
with one small diadem
my second rank, too small the first,
crowned, crowing on my fathers breast,
a half unconscious queen
but this time, adequate, erect,
with will to choose or to reject
and i choose -- just a throne
resurrection
t was a long parting, but the time
for interview had come
before the judgment-seat of god,
the last and second time
these fleshless lovers met,
a heaven in a gaze,
a heaven of heavens, the privilege
of one anothers eyes
no lifetime set on them,
apparelled as the new
unborn, except they had beheld,
born everlasting now
was bridal eer like this?
a paradise, the host,
and cherubim and seraphim
the most familiar guest
apocalypse
im wife ive finished that,
that other state
im czar, im woman now
its safer so
how odd the girls life looks
behind this soft eclipse
i think that earth seems so
to those in heaven now
this being comfort, then
that other kind was pain
but why compare?
im wife stop there
the wife
she rose to his requirement, dropped
the playthings of her life
to take the honorable work
of woman and of wife
if aught she missed in her new day
of amplitude, or awe,
or first prospective, or the gold
in using wore away,
it lay unmentioned, as the sea
develops pearl and weed,
but only to himself is known
the fathoms they abide
apotheosis
come slowly, eden
lips unused to thee,
bashful, sip thy jasmines,
as the fainting bee,
reaching late his flower,
round her chamber hums,
counts his nectars -- enters,
and is lost in balms
iii nature
new feet within my garden go,
new fingers stir the sod
a troubadour upon the elm
betrays the solitude
new children play upon the green,
new weary sleep below
and still the pensive spring returns,
and still the punctual snow
may-flower
pink, small, and punctual,
aromatic, low,
covert in april,
candid in may,
dear to the moss,
known by the knoll,
next to the robin
in every human soul
bold little beauty,
bedecked with thee,
nature forswears
antiquity
why?
the murmur of a bee
a witchcraft yieldeth me
if any ask me why,
t were easier to die
than tell
the red upon the hill
taketh away my will
if anybody sneer,
take care, for god is here,
thats all
the breaking of the day
addeth to my degree
if any ask me how,
artist, who drew me so,
must tell
perhaps youd like to buy a flower?
but i could never sell
if you would like to borrow
until the daffodil
unties her yellow bonnet
beneath the village door,
until the bees, from clover rows
their hock and sherry draw,
why, i will lend until just then,
but not an hour more
the pedigree of honey
does not concern the bee
a clover, any time, to him
is aristocracy
a service of song
some keep the sabbath going to church
i keep it staying at home,
with a bobolink for a chorister,
and an orchard for a dome
some keep the sabbath in surplice
i just wear my wings,
and instead of tolling the bell for church,
our little sexton sings
god preaches, -- a noted clergyman, --
and the sermon is never long
so instead of getting to heaven at last,
im going all along
the bee is not afraid of me,
i know the butterfly
the pretty people in the woods
receive me cordially
the brooks laugh louder when i come,
the breezes madder play
wherefore, mine eyes, thy silver mists?
wherefore, o summers day?
summers armies
some rainbow coming from the fair
some vision of the world cashmere
i confidently see
or else a peacocks purple train,
feather by feather, on the plain
fritters itself away
the dreamy butterflies bestir,
lethargic pools resume the whir
of last years sundered tune
from some old fortress on the sun
baronial bees march, one by one,
in murmuring platoon
the robins stand as thick to-day
as flakes of snow stood yesterday,
on fence and roof and twig
the orchis binds her feather on
for her old lover, don the sun,
revisiting the bog
without commander, countless, still,
the regiment of wood and hill
in bright detachment stand
behold whose multitudes are these?
the children of whose turbaned seas,
or what circassian land?
the grass
the grass so little has to do, --
a sphere of simple green,
with only butterflies to brood,
and bees to entertain,
and stir all day to pretty tunes
the breezes fetch along,
and hold the sunshine in its lap
and bow to everything
and thread the dews all night, like pearls,
and make itself so fine, --
a duchess were too common
for such a noticing
and even when it dies, to pass
in odors so divine,
as lowly spices gone to sleep,
or amulets of pine
and then to dwell in sovereign barns,
and dream the days away, --
the grass so little has to do,
i wish i were the hay
a little road not made of man,
enabled of the eye,
accessible to thill of bee,
or cart of butterfly
if town it have, beyond itself,
t is that i cannot say
i only sigh, -- no vehicle
bears me along that way
summer shower
a drop fell on the apple tree,
another on the roof
a half a dozen kissed the eaves,
and made the gables laugh
a few went out to help the brook,
that went to help the sea
myself conjectured, were they pearls,
what necklaces could be
the dust replaced in hoisted roads,
the birds jocoser sung
the sunshine threw his hat away,
the orchards spangles hung
the breezes brought dejected lutes,
and bathed them in the glee
the east put out a single flag,
and signed the fete away
psalm of the day
a something in a summers day,
as slow her flambeaux burn away,
which solemnizes me
a something in a summers noon, --
an azure depth, a wordless tune,
transcending ecstasy
and still within a summers night
a something so transporting bright,
i clap my hands to see
then veil my too inspecting face,
lest such a subtle, shimmering grace
flutter too far for me
the wizard-fingers never rest,
the purple brook within the breast
still chafes its narrow bed
still rears the east her amber flag,
guides still the sun along the crag
his caravan of red,
like flowers that heard the tale of dews,
but never deemed the dripping prize
awaited their low brows
or bees, that thought the summers name
some rumor of delirium
no summer could for them
or arctic creature, dimly stirred
by tropic hint, -- some travelled bird
imported to the wood
or winds bright signal to the ear,
making that homely and severe,
contented, known, before
the heaven unexpected came,
to lives that thought their worshipping
a too presumptuous psalm
the sea of sunset
this is the land the sunset washes,
these are the banks of the yellow sea
where it rose, or whither it rushes,
these are the western mystery
night after night her purple traffic
strews the landing with opal bales
merchantmen poise upon horizons,
dip, and vanish with fairy sails
purple clover
there is a flower that bees prefer,
and butterflies desire
to gain the purple democrat
the humming-birds aspire
and whatsoever insect pass,
a honey bears away
proportioned to his several dearth
and her capacity
her face is rounder than the moon,
and ruddier than the gown
of orchis in the pasture,
or rhododendron worn
she doth not wait for june
before the world is green
her sturdy little countenance
against the wind is seen,
contending with the grass,
near kinsman to herself,
for privilege of sod and sun,
sweet litigants for life
and when the hills are full,
and newer fashions blow,
doth not retract a single spice
for pang of jealousy
her public is the noon,
her providence the sun,
her progress by the bee proclaimed
in sovereign, swerveless tune
the bravest of the host,
surrendering the last,
nor even of defeat aware
when cancelled by the frost
the bee
like trains of cars on tracks of plush
i hear the level bee
a jar across the flowers goes,
their velvet masonry
withstands until the sweet assault
their chivalry consumes,
while he, victorious, tilts away
to vanquish other blooms
his feet are shod with gauze,
his helmet is of gold
his breast, a single onyx
with chrysoprase, inlaid
his labor is a chant,
his idleness a tune
oh, for a bees experience
of clovers and of noon
presentiment is that long shadow on the lawn
indicative that suns go down
the notice to the startled grass
that darkness is about to pass
as children bid the guest good-night,
and then reluctant turn,
my flowers raise their pretty lips,
then put their nightgowns on
as children caper when they wake,
merry that it is morn,
my flowers from a hundred cribs
will peep, and prance again
angels in the early morning
may be seen the dews among,
stooping, plucking, smiling, flying
do the buds to them belong?
angels when the sun is hottest
may be seen the sands among,
stooping, plucking, sighing, flying
parched the flowers they bear along
so bashful when i spied her,
so pretty, so ashamed
so hidden in her leaflets,
lest anybody find
so breathless till i passed her,
so helpless when i turned
and bore her, struggling, blushing,
her simple haunts beyond
for whom i robbed the dingle,
for whom betrayed the dell,
many will doubtless ask me,
but i shall never tell
two worlds
it makes no difference abroad,
the seasons fit the same,
the mornings blossom into noons,
and split their pods of flame
wild-flowers kindle in the woods,
the brooks brag all the day
no blackbird bates his jargoning
for passing calvary
auto-da-fe and judgment
are nothing to the bee
his separation from his rose
to him seems misery
the mountain
the mountain sat upon the plain
in his eternal chair,
his observation omnifold,
his inquest everywhere
the seasons prayed around his knees,
like children round a sire
grandfather of the days is he,
of dawn the ancestor
a day
ill tell you how the sun rose, --
a ribbon at a time
the steeples swam in amethyst,
the news like squirrels ran
the hills untied their bonnets,
the bobolinks begun
then i said softly to myself,
that must have been the sun
  
but how he set, i know not
there seemed a purple stile
which little yellow boys and girls
were climbing all the while
till when they reached the other side,
a dominie in gray
put gently up the evening bars,
and led the flock away
the butterflys assumption-gown,
in chrysoprase apartments hung,
this afternoon put on
how condescending to descend,
and be of buttercups the friend
in a new england town
the wind
of all the sounds despatched abroad,
theres not a charge to me
like that old measure in the boughs,
that phraseless melody
the wind does, working like a hand
whose fingers brush the sky,
then quiver down, with tufts of tune
permitted gods and me
when winds go round and round in bands,
and thrum upon the door,
and birds take places overhead,
to bear them orchestra,
i crave him grace, of summer boughs,
if such an outcast be,
he never heard that fleshless chant
rise solemn in the tree,
as if some caravan of sound
on deserts, in the sky,
had broken rank,
then knit, and passed
in seamless company
death and life
apparently with no surprise
to any happy flower,
the frost beheads it at its play
in accidental power
the blond assassin passes on,
the sun proceeds unmoved
to measure off another day
for an approving god
t was later when the summer went
than when the cricket came,
and yet we knew that gentle clock
meant nought but going home
t was sooner when the cricket went
than when the winter came,
yet that pathetic pendulum
keeps esoteric time
indian summer
these are the days when birds come back,
a very few, a bird or two,
to take a backward look
these are the days when skies put on
the old, old sophistries of june, --
a blue and gold mistake
oh, fraud that cannot cheat the bee,
almost thy plausibility
induces my belief,
till ranks of seeds their witness bear,
and softly through the altered air
hurries a timid leaf
oh, sacrament of summer days,
oh, last communion in the haze,
permit a child to join,
thy sacred emblems to partake,
thy consecrated bread to break,
taste thine immortal wine
autumn
the morns are meeker than they were,
the nuts are getting brown
the berrys cheek is plumper,
the rose is out of town
the maple wears a gayer scarf,
the field a scarlet gown
lest i should be old-fashioned,
ill put a trinket on
beclouded
the sky is low, the clouds are mean,
a travelling flake of snow
across a barn or through a rut
debates if it will go
a narrow wind complains all day
how some one treated him
nature, like us, is sometimes caught
without her diadem
the hemlock
i think the hemlock likes to stand
upon a marge of snow
it suits his own austerity,
and satisfies an awe
that men must slake in wilderness,
or in the desert cloy, --
an instinct for the hoar, the bald,
laplands necessity
the hemlocks nature thrives on cold
the gnash of northern winds
is sweetest nutriment to him,
his best norwegian wines
to satin races he is nought
but children on the don
beneath his tabernacles play,
and dnieper wrestlers run
theres a certain slant of light,
on winter afternoons,
that oppresses, like the weight
of cathedral tunes
heavenly hurt it gives us
we can find no scar,
but internal difference
where the meanings are
none may teach it anything,
 t is the seal, despair, --
an imperial affliction
sent us of the air
when it comes, the landscape listens,
shadows hold their breath
when it goes, t is like the distance
on the look of death
iv time and eternity
one dignity delays for all,
one mitred afternoon
none can avoid this purple,
none evade this crown
coach it insures, and footmen,
chamber and state and throng
bells, also, in the village,
as we ride grand along
what dignified attendants,
what service when we pause
how loyally at parting
their hundred hats they raise
how pomp surpassing ermine,
when simple you and i
present our meek escutcheon,
and claim the rank to die
too late
delayed till she had ceased to know,
delayed till in its vest of snow
her loving bosom lay
an hour behind the fleeting breath,
later by just an hour than death, --
oh, lagging yesterday
could she have guessed that it would be
could but a crier of the glee
have climbed the distant hill
had not the bliss so slow a pace, --
who knows but this surrendered face
were undefeated still?
oh, if there may departing be
any forgot by victory
in her imperial round,
show them this meek apparelled thing,
that could not stop to be a king,
doubtful if it be crowned
astra castra
departed to the judgment,
a mighty afternoon
great clouds like ushers leaning,
creation looking on
the flesh surrendered, cancelled,
the bodiless begun
two worlds, like audiences, disperse
and leave the soul alone
safe in their alabaster chambers,
untouched by morning and untouched by noon,
sleep the meek members of the resurrection,
rafter of satin, and roof of stone
light laughs the breeze in her castle of sunshine
babbles the bee in a stolid ear
pipe the sweet birds in ignorant cadence, --
ah, what sagacity perished here
grand go the years in the crescent above them
worlds scoop their arcs, and firmaments row,
diadems drop and doges surrender,
soundless as dots on a disk of snow
on this long storm the rainbow rose,
on this late morn the sun
the clouds, like listless elephants,
horizons straggled down
the birds rose smiling in their nests,
the gales indeed were done
alas how heedless were the eyes
on whom the summer shone
the quiet nonchalance of death
no daybreak can bestir
the slow archangels syllables
must awaken her
from the chrysalis
my cocoon tightens, colors tease,
im feeling for the air
a dim capacity for wings
degrades the dress i wear
a power of butterfly must be
the aptitude to fly,
meadows of majesty concedes
and easy sweeps of sky
so i must baffle at the hint
and cipher at the sign,
and make much blunder, if at last
i take the clew divine
setting sail
exultation is the going
of an inland soul to sea, --
past the houses, past the headlands,
into deep eternity
bred as we, among the mountains,
can the sailor understand
the divine intoxication
of the first league out from land?
look back on time with kindly eyes,
he doubtless did his best
how softly sinks his trembling sun
in human natures west
a train went through a burial gate,
a bird broke forth and sang,
and trilled, and quivered, and shook his throat
till all the churchyard rang
and then adjusted his little notes,
and bowed and sang again
doubtless, he thought it meet of him
to say good-by to men
i died for beauty, but was scarce
adjusted in the tomb,
when one who died for truth was lain
in an adjoining room
he questioned softly why i failed?
for beauty, i replied
and i for truth, -- the two are one
we brethren are, he said
and so, as kinsmen met a night,
we talked between the rooms,
until the moss had reached our lips,
and covered up our names
troubled about many things
how many times these low feet staggered,
only the soldered mouth can tell
try can you stir the awful rivet?
try can you lift the hasps of steel?
stroke the cool forehead, hot so often,
lift, if you can, the listless hair
handle the adamantine fingers
never a thimble more shall wear
buzz the dull flies on the chamber window
brave shines the sun through the freckled pane
fearless the cobweb swings from the ceiling --
indolent housewife, in daisies lain
real
i like a look of agony,
because i know it s true
men do not sham convulsion,
nor simulate a throe
the eyes glaze once, and that is death
impossible to feign
the beads upon the forehead
by homely anguish strung
the funeral
that short, potential stir
that each can make but once,
that bustle so illustrious
t is almost consequence,
is the eclat of death
oh, thou unknown renown
that not a beggar would accept,
had he the power to spurn
i went to thank her,
but she slept
her bed a funnelled stone,
with nosegays at the head and foot,
that travellers had thrown,
who went to thank her
but she slept
t was short to cross the sea
to look upon her like, alive,
but turning back t was slow
ive seen a dying eye
run round and round a room
in search of something, as it seemed,
then cloudier become
and then, obscure with fog,
and then be soldered down,
without disclosing what it be,
t were blessed to have seen
refuge
the clouds their backs together laid,
the north begun to push,
the forests galloped till they fell,
the lightning skipped like mice
the thunder crumbled like a stuff --
how good to be safe in tombs,
where natures temper cannot reach,
nor vengeance ever comes
i never saw a moor,
i never saw the sea
yet know i how the heather looks,
and what a wave must be
i never spoke with god,
nor visited in heaven
yet certain am i of the spot
as if the chart were given
playmates
god permits industrious angels
afternoons to play
i met one, -- forgot my school-mates,
all, for him, straightway
god calls home the angels promptly
at the setting sun
i missed mine how dreary marbles,
after playing crown
to know just how he suffered would be dear
to know if any human eyes were near
to whom he could intrust his wavering gaze,
until it settled firm on paradise
to know if he was patient, part content,
was dying as he thought, or different
was it a pleasant day to die,
and did the sunshine face his way?
what was his furthest mind, of home, or god,
or what the distant say
at news that he ceased human nature
on such a day?
and wishes, had he any?
just his sigh, accented,
had been legible to me
and was he confident until
ill fluttered out in everlasting well?
and if he spoke, what name was best,
what first,
what one broke off with
at the drowsiest?
was he afraid, or tranquil?
might he know
how conscious consciousness could grow,
till love that was, and love too blest to be,
meet -- and the junction be eternity?
the last night that she lived,
it was a common night,
except the dying this to us
made nature different
we noticed smallest things, --
things overlooked before,
by this great light upon our minds
italicized, as t were
that others could exist
while she must finish quite,
a jealousy for her arose
so nearly infinite
we waited while she passed
it was a narrow time,
too jostled were our souls to speak,
at length the notice came
she mentioned, and forgot
then lightly as a reed
bent to the water, shivered scarce,
consented, and was dead
and we, we placed the hair,
and drew the head erect
and then an awful leisure was,
our faith to regulate
the first lesson
not in this world to see his face
sounds long, until i read the place
where this is said to be
but just the primer to a life
unopened, rare, upon the shelf,
clasped yet to him and me
and yet, my primer suits me so
i would not choose a book to know
than that, be sweeter wise
might some one else so learned be,
and leave me just my a b c,
himself could have the skies
the bustle in a house
the morning after death
is solemnest of industries
enacted upon earth, --
the sweeping up the heart,
and putting love away
we shall not want to use again
until eternity
i reason, earth is short,
and anguish absolute,
and many hurt
but what of that?
i reason, we could die
the best vitality
cannot excel decay
but what of that?
i reason that in heaven
somehow, it will be even,
some new equation given
but what of that?
afraid? of whom am i afraid?
not death for who is he?
the porter of my fathers lodge
as much abasheth me
of life? t were odd i fear a thing
that comprehendeth me
in one or more existences
at deitys decree
of resurrection? is the east
afraid to trust the morn
with her fastidious forehead?
as soon impeach my crown
dying
the sun kept setting, setting still
no hue of afternoon
upon the village i perceived, --
from house to house t was noon
the dusk kept dropping, dropping still
no dew upon the grass,
but only on my forehead stopped,
and wandered in my face
my feet kept drowsing, drowsing still,
my fingers were awake
yet why so little sound myself
unto my seeming make?
how well i knew the light before
i could not see it now
t is dying, i am doing but
im not afraid to know
two swimmers wrestled on the spar
until the morning sun,
when one turned smiling to the land
o god, the other one
the stray ships passing spied a face
upon the waters borne,
with eyes in death still begging raised,
and hands beseeching thrown
the chariot
because i could not stop for death,
he kindly stopped for me
the carriage held but just ourselves
and immortality
we slowly drove, he knew no haste,
and i had put away
my labor, and my leisure too,
for his civility
we passed the school where children played,
their lessons scarcely done
we passed the fields of gazing grain,
we passed the setting sun
we paused before a house that seemed
a swelling of the ground
the roof was scarcely visible,
the cornice but a mound
since then t is centuries but each
feels shorter than the day
i first surmised the horses heads
were toward eternity
she went as quiet as the dew
from a familiar flower
not like the dew did she return
at the accustomed hour
she dropt as softly as a star
from out my summers eve
less skilful than leverrier
its sorer to believe
resurgam
at last to be identified
at last, the lamps upon thy side,
the rest of life to see
past midnight, past the morning star
past sunrise ah what leagues there are
between our feet and day
except to heaven, she is nought
except for angels, lone
except to some wide-wandering bee,
a flower superfluous blown
except for winds, provincial
except by butterflies,
unnoticed as a single dew
that on the acre lies
the smallest housewife in the grass,
yet take her from the lawn,
and somebody has lost the face
that made existence home
death is a dialogue between
the spirit and the dust
dissolve, says death the spirit, sir,
i have another trust
death doubts it, argues from the ground
the spirit turns away,
just laying off, for evidence,
an overcoat of clay
it was too late for man,
but early yet for god
creation impotent to help,
but prayer remained our side
how excellent the heaven,
when earth cannot be had
how hospitable, then, the face
of our old neighbor, god
along the potomac
when i was small, a woman died
to-day her only boy
went up from the potomac,
his face all victory,
to look at her how slowly
the seasons must have turned
till bullets clipt an angle,
and he passed quickly round
if pride shall be in paradise
i never can decide
of their imperial conduct,
no person testified
but proud in apparition,
that woman and her boy
pass back and forth before my brain,
as ever in the sky
the daisy follows soft the sun,
and when his golden walk is done,
sits shyly at his feet
he, waking, finds the flower near
wherefore, marauder, art thou here?
because, sir, love is sweet
we are the flower, thou the sun
forgive us, if as days decline,
we nearer steal to thee, --
enamoured of the parting west,
the peace, the flight, the amethyst,
nights possibility
emancipation
no rack can torture me,
my souls at liberty
behind this mortal bone
there knits a bolder one
you cannot prick with saw,
nor rend with scymitar
two bodies therefore be
bind one, and one will flee
the eagle of his nest
no easier divest
and gain the sky,
than mayest thou,
except thyself may be
thine enemy
captivity is consciousness,
sos liberty
lost
i lost a world the other day
has anybody found?
youll know it by the row of stars
around its forehead bound
a rich man might not notice it
yet to my frugal eye
of more esteem than ducats
oh, find it, sir, for me
if i shouldnt be alive
when the robins come,
give the one in red cravat
a memorial crumb
if i couldnt thank you,
being just asleep,
you will know im trying
with my granite lip
sleep is supposed to be,
by souls of sanity,
the shutting of the eye
sleep is the station grand
down which on either hand
the hosts of witness stand
morn is supposed to be,
by people of degree,
the breaking of the day
morning has not occurred
that shall aurora be
east of eternity
one with the banner gay,
one in the red array, --
that is the break of day
i shall know why, when time is over,
and i have ceased to wonder why
christ will explain each separate anguish
in the fair schoolroom of the sky
he will tell me what peter promised,
and i, for wonder at his woe,
i shall forget the drop of anguish
that scalds me now, that scalds me now
i never lost as much but twice,
and that was in the sod
twice have i stood a beggar
before the door of god
angels, twice descending,
reimbursed my store
burglar, banker, father,
i am poor once more
my nosegays are for captives
dim, long-expectant eyes,
fingers denied the plucking,
patient till paradise,
to such, if they should whisper
of morning and the moor,
they bear no other errand,
and i, no other prayer
i life
im nobody  who are you?
are you nobody, too?
then there s a pair of us -- dont tell
they d banish us, you know
how dreary to be somebody
how public, like a frog
to tell your name the livelong day
to an admiring bog
i bring an unaccustomed wine
to lips long parching, next to mine,
and summon them to drink
crackling with fever, they essay
i turn my brimming eyes away,
and come next hour to look
the hands still hug the tardy glass
the lips i would have cooled, alas
are so superfluous cold,
i would as soon attempt to warm
the bosoms where the frost has lain
ages beneath the mould
some other thirsty there may be
to whom this would have pointed me
had it remained to speak
and so i always bear the cup
if, haply, mine may be the drop
some pilgrim thirst to slake, --
if, haply, any say to me,
unto the little, unto me,
when i at last awake
the nearest dream recedes, unrealized
the heaven we chase
like the june bee
before the school-boy
invites the race
stoops to an easy clover --
dips -- evades -- teases -- deploys
then to the royal clouds
lifts his light pinnace
heedless of the boy
staring, bewildered, at the mocking sky
homesick for steadfast honey,
ah the bee flies not
that brews that rare variety
we play at paste,
till qualified for pearl,
then drop the paste,
and deem ourself a fool
the shapes, though, were similar,
and our new hands
learned gem-tactics
practising sands
i found the phrase to every thought
i ever had, but one
and that defies me, -- as a hand
did try to chalk the sun
to races nurtured in the dark --
how would your own begin?
can blaze be done in cochineal,
or noon in mazarin?
hope
hope is the thing with feathers
that perches in the soul,
and sings the tune without the words,
and never stops at all,
and sweetest in the gale is heard
and sore must be the storm
that could abash the little bird
that kept so many warm
i ve heard it in the chillest land,
and on the strangest sea
yet, never, in extremity,
it asked a crumb of me
the white heat
dare you see a soul at the white heat?
then crouch within the door
red is the fires common tint
but when the vivid ore
has sated flames conditions,
its quivering substance plays
without a color but the light
of unanointed blaze
least village boasts its blacksmith,
whose anvils even din
stands symbol for the finer forge
that soundless tugs within,
refining these impatient ores
with hammer and with blaze,
until the designated light
repudiate the forge
triumphant
who never lost, are unprepared
a coronet to find
who never thirsted, flagons
and cooling tamarind
who never climbed the weary league --
can such a foot explore
the purple territories
on pizarros shore?
how many legions overcome?
the emperor will say
how many colors taken
on revolution day?
how many bullets bearest?
the royal scar hast thou?
angels, write promoted
on this soldiers brow
the test
i can wade grief,
whole pools of it, --
i m used to that
but the least push of joy
breaks up my feet,
and i tip -- drunken
let no pebble smile,
t was the new liquor, --
that was all
power is only pain,
stranded, through discipline,
till weights will hang
give balm to giants,
and they ll wilt, like men
give himmaleh, --
they ll carry him
escape
i never hear the word escape
without a quicker blood,
a sudden expectation,
a flying attitude
i never hear of prisons broad
by soldiers battered down,
but i tug childish at my bars, --
only to fail again
compensation
for each ecstatic instant
we must an anguish pay
in keen and quivering ratio
to the ecstasy
for each beloved hour
sharp pittances of years,
bitter contested farthings
and coffers heaped with tears
the martyrs
through the straight pass of suffering
the martyrs even trod,
their feet upon temptation,
their faces upon god
a stately, shriven company
convulsion playing round,
harmless as streaks of meteor
upon a planets bound
their faith the everlasting troth
their expectation fair
the needle to the north degree
wades so, through polar air
a prayer
i meant to have but modest needs,
such as content, and heaven
within my income these could lie,
and life and i keep even
but since the last included both,
it would suffice my prayer
but just for one to stipulate,
and grace would grant the pair
and so, upon this wise i prayed, --
great spirit, give to me
a heaven not so large as yours,
but large enough for me
a smile suffused jehovahs face
the cherubim withdrew
grave saints stole out to look at me,
and showed their dimples, too
i left the place with all my might, --
my prayer away i threw
the quiet ages picked it up,
and judgment twinkled, too,
that one so honest be extant
as take the tale for true
that whatsoever you shall ask,
itself be given you
but i, grown shrewder, scan the skies
with a suspicious air, --
as children, swindled for the first,
all swindlers be, infer
the thought beneath so slight a film
is more distinctly seen, --
as laces just reveal the surge,
or mists the apennine
the soul unto itself
is an imperial friend, --
or the most agonizing spy
an enemy could send
secure against its own,
no treason it can fear
itself its sovereign, of itself
the soul should stand in awe
surgeons must be very careful
when they take the knife
underneath their fine incisions
stirs the culprit, -- life
the railway train
i like to see it lap the miles,
and lick the valleys up,
and stop to feed itself at tanks
and then, prodigious, step
around a pile of mountains,
and, supercilious, peer
in shanties by the sides of roads
and then a quarry pare
to fit its sides, and crawl between,
complaining all the while
in horrid, hooting stanza
then chase itself down hill
and neigh like boanerges
then, punctual as a star,
stop -- docile and omnipotent --
at its own stable door
the show
the show is not the show,
but they that go
menagerie to me
my neighbor be
fair play --
both went to see
delight becomes pictorial
when viewed through pain, --
more fair, because impossible
that any gain
the mountain at a given distance
in amber lies
approached, the amber flits a little, --
and that s the skies
a thought went up my mind to-day
that i have had before,
but did not finish, -- some way back,
i could not fix the year,
nor where it went, nor why it came
the second time to me,
nor definitely what it was,
have i the art to say
but somewhere in my soul, i know
i ve met the thing before
it just reminded me -- t was all --
and came my way no more
is heaven a physician?
they say that he can heal
but medicine posthumous
is unavailable
is heaven an exchequer?
they speak of what we owe
but that negotiation
i m not a party to
the return
though i get home how late, how late
so i get home, t will compensate
better will be the ecstasy
that they have done expecting me,
when, night descending, dumb and dark,
they hear my unexpected knock
transporting must the moment be,
brewed from decades of agony
to think just how the fire will burn,
just how long-cheated eyes will turn
to wonder what myself will say,
and what itself will say to me,
beguiles the centuries of way
a poor torn heart, a tattered heart,
that sat it down to rest,
nor noticed that the ebbing day
flowed silver to the west,
nor noticed night did soft descend
nor constellation burn,
intent upon the vision
of latitudes unknown
the angels, happening that way,
this dusty heart espied
tenderly took it up from toil
and carried it to god
there, -- sandals for the barefoot
there, -- gathered from the gales,
do the blue havens by the hand
lead the wandering sails
too much
i should have been too glad, i see,
too lifted for the scant degree
of lifes penurious round
my little circuit would have shamed
this new circumference, have blamed
the homelier time behind
i should have been too saved, i see,
too rescued fear too dim to me
that i could spell the prayer
i knew so perfect yesterday, --
that scalding one, sabachthani,
recited fluent here
earth would have been too much, i see,
and heaven not enough for me
i should have had the joy
without the fear to justify, --
the palm without the calvary
so, saviour, crucify
defeat whets victory, they say
the reefs in old gethsemane
endear the shore beyond
t is beggars banquets best define
t is thirsting vitalizes wine, --
faith faints to understand
shipwreck
it tossed and tossed, --
a little brig i knew, --
oertook by blast,
it spun and spun,
and groped delirious, for morn
it slipped and slipped,
as one that drunken stepped
its white foot tripped,
then dropped from sight
ah, brig, good-night
to crew and you
the oceans heart too smooth, too blue,
to break for you
victory comes late,
and is held low to freezing lips
too rapt with frost
to take it
how sweet it would have tasted,
just a drop
was god so economical?
his table s spread too high for us
unless we dine on tip-toe
crumbs fit such little mouths,
cherries suit robins
the eagles golden breakfast
strangles them
god keeps his oath to sparrows,
who of little love
know how to starve
enough
god gave a loaf to every bird,
but just a crumb to me
i dare not eat it, though i starve, --
my poignant luxury
to own it, touch it, prove the feat
that made the pellet mine, --
too happy in my sparrow chance
for ampler coveting
it might be famine all around,
i could not miss an ear,
such plenty smiles upon my board,
my garner shows so fair
i wonder how the rich may feel, --
an indiaman -- an earl?
i deem that i with but a crumb
am sovereign of them all
experiment to me
is every one i meet
if it contain a kernel?
the figure of a nut
presents upon a tree,
equally plausibly
but meat within is requisite,
to squirrels and to me
my countrys wardrobe
my country need not change her gown,
her triple suit as sweet
as when t was cut at lexington,
and first pronounced a fit
great britain disapproves the stars
disparagement discreet, --
there s something in their attitude
that taunts her bayonet
faith is a fine invention
for gentlemen who see
but microscopes are prudent
in an emergency
except the heaven had come so near,
so seemed to choose my door,
the distance would not haunt me so
i had not hoped before
but just to hear the grace depart
i never thought to see,
afflicts me with a double loss
t is lost, and lost to me
portraits are to daily faces
as an evening west
to a fine, pedantic sunshine
in a satin vest
the duel
i took my power in my hand
and went against the world
t was not so much as david had,
but i was twice as bold
i aimed my pebble, but myself
was all the one that fell
was it goliath was too large,
or only i too small?
a shady friend for torrid days
is easier to find
than one of higher temperature
for frigid hour of mind
the vane a little to the east
scares muslin souls away
if broadcloth breasts are firmer
than those of organdy,
who is to blame? the weaver?
ah the bewildering thread
the tapestries of paradise
so notelessly are made
the goal
each life converges to some centre
expressed or still
exists in every human nature
a goal,
admitted scarcely to itself, it may be,
too fair
for credibilitys temerity
to dare
adored with caution, as a brittle heaven,
to reach
were hopeless as the rainbows raiment
to touch,
yet persevered toward, surer for the distance
how high
unto the saints slow diligence
the sky
ungained, it may be, by a lifes low venture,
but then,
eternity enables the endeavoring
again
sight
before i got my eye put out,
i liked as well to see
as other creatures that have eyes,
and know no other way
but were it told to me, to-day,
that i might have the sky
for mine, i tell you that my heart
would split, for size of me
the meadows mine, the mountains mine, --
all forests, stintless stars,
as much of noon as i could take
between my finite eyes
the motions of the dipping birds,
the lightnings jointed road,
for mine to look at when i liked, --
the news would strike me dead
so safer, guess, with just my soul
upon the window-pane
where other creatures put their eyes,
incautious of the sun
talk with prudence to a beggar
of potosi and the mines
reverently to the hungry
of your viands and your wines
cautious, hint to any captive
you have passed enfranchised feet
anecdotes of air in dungeons
have sometimes proved deadly sweet
the preacher
he preached upon breadth till it argued him narrow, --
the broad are too broad to define
and of truth until it proclaimed him a liar, --
the truth never flaunted a sign
simplicity fled from his counterfeit presence
as gold the pyrites would shun
what confusion would cover the innocent jesus
to meet so enabled a man
good night which put the candle out?
a jealous zephyr, not a doubt
ah friend, you little knew
how long at that celestial wick
the angels labored diligent
extinguished, now, for you
it might have been the lighthouse spark
some sailor, rowing in the dark,
had importuned to see
it might have been the waning lamp
that lit the drummer from the camp
to purer reveille
when i hoped i feared,
since i hoped i dared
everywhere alone
as a church remain
spectre cannot harm,
serpent cannot charm
he deposes doom,
who hath suffered him
deed
a deed knocks first at thought,
and then it knocks at will
that is the manufacturing spot,
and will at home and well
it then goes out an act,
or is entombed so still
that only to the ear of god
its doom is audible
times lesson
mine enemy is growing old, --
i have at last revenge
the palate of the hate departs
if any would avenge, --
let him be quick, the viand flits,
it is a faded meat
anger as soon as fed is dead
t is starving makes it fat
remorse
remorse is memory awake,
her companies astir, --
a presence of departed acts
at window and at door
its past set down before the soul,
and lighted with a match,
perusal to facilitate
of its condensed despatch
remorse is cureless, -- the disease
not even god can heal
for t is his institution, --
the complement of hell
the shelter
the body grows outside, --
the more convenient way, --
that if the spirit like to hide,
its temple stands alway
ajar, secure, inviting
it never did betray
the soul that asked its shelter
in timid honesty
undue significance a starving man attaches
to food
far off he sighs, and therefore hopeless,
and therefore good
partaken, it relieves indeed, but proves us
that spices fly
in the receipt it was the distance
was savory
heart not so heavy as mine,
wending late home,
as it passed my window
whistled itself a tune, --
a careless snatch, a ballad,
a ditty of the street
yet to my irritated ear
an anodyne so sweet,
it was as if a bobolink,
sauntering this way,
carolled and mused and carolled,
then bubbled slow away
it was as if a chirping brook
upon a toilsome way
set bleeding feet to minuets
without the knowing why
to-morrow, night will come again,
weary, perhaps, and sore
ah, bugle, by my window,
i pray you stroll once more
i many times thought peace had come,
when peace was far away
as wrecked men deem they sight the land
at centre of the sea,
and struggle slacker, but to prove,
as hopelessly as i,
how many the fictitious shores
before the harbor lie
unto my books so good to turn
far ends of tired days
it half endears the abstinence,
and pain is missed in praise
as flavors cheer retarded guests
with banquetings to be,
so spices stimulate the time
till my small library
it may be wilderness without,
far feet of failing men,
but holiday excludes the night,
and it is bells within
i thank these kinsmen of the shelf
their countenances bland
enamour in prospective,
and satisfy, obtained
this merit hath the worst, --
it cannot be again
when fate hath taunted last
and thrown her furthest stone,
the maimed may pause and breathe,
and glance securely round
the deer invites no longer
than it eludes the hound
hunger
i had been hungry all the years
my noon had come, to dine
i, trembling, drew the table near,
and touched the curious wine
t was this on tables i had seen,
when turning, hungry, lone,
i looked in windows, for the wealth
i could not hope to own
i did not know the ample bread,
t was so unlike the crumb
the birds and i had often shared
in natures dining-room
the plenty hurt me, t was so new, --
myself felt ill and odd,
as berry of a mountain bush
transplanted to the road
nor was i hungry so i found
that hunger was a way
of persons outside windows,
the entering takes away
i gained it so,
by climbing slow,
by catching at the twigs that grow
between the bliss and me
it hung so high,
as well the sky
attempt by strategy
i said i gained it, --
this was all
look, how i clutch it,
lest it fall,
and i a pauper go
unfitted by an instants grace
for the contented beggars face
i wore an hour ago
to learn the transport by the pain,
as blind men learn the sun
to die of thirst, suspecting
that brooks in meadows run
to stay the homesick, homesick feet
upon a foreign shore
haunted by native lands, the while,
and blue, beloved air --
this is the sovereign anguish,
this, the signal woe
these are the patient laureates
whose voices, trained below,
ascend in ceaseless carol,
inaudible, indeed,
to us, the duller scholars
of the mysterious bard
returning
i years had been from home,
and now, before the door,
i dared not open, lest a face
i never saw before
stare vacant into mine
and ask my business there
my business, -- just a life i left,
was such still dwelling there?
i fumbled at my nerve,
i scanned the windows near
the silence like an ocean rolled,
and broke against my ear
i laughed a wooden laugh
that i could fear a door,
who danger and the dead had faced,
but never quaked before
i fitted to the latch
my hand, with trembling care,
lest back the awful door should spring,
and leave me standing there
i moved my fingers off
as cautiously as glass,
and held my ears, and like a thief
fled gasping from the house
prayer
prayer is the little implement
through which men reach
where presence is denied them
they fling their speech
by means of it in gods ear
if then he hear,
this sums the apparatus
comprised in prayer
i know that he exists
somewhere, in silence
he has hid his rare life
from our gross eyes
t is an instants play,
t is a fond ambush,
just to make bliss
earn her own surprise
but should the play
prove piercing earnest,
should the glee glaze
in deaths stiff stare,
would not the fun
look too expensive?
would not the jest
have crawled too far?
melodies unheard
musicians wrestle everywhere
all day, among the crowded air,
i hear the silver strife
and -- waking long before the dawn --
such transport breaks upon the town
i think it that new life
it is not bird, it has no nest
nor band, in brass and scarlet dressed,
nor tambourine, nor man
it is not hymn from pulpit read, --
the morning stars the treble led
on times first afternoon
some say it is the spheres at play
some say that bright majority
of vanished dames and men
some think it service in the place
where we, with late, celestial face,
please god, shall ascertain
called back
just lost when i was saved
just felt the world go by
just girt me for the onset with eternity,
when breath blew back,
and on the other side
i heard recede the disappointed tide
therefore, as one returned, i feel,
odd secrets of the line to tell
some sailor, skirting foreign shores,
some pale reporter from the awful doors
before the seal
next time, to stay
next time, the things to see
by ear unheard,
unscrutinized by eye
next time, to tarry,
while the ages steal, --
slow tramp the centuries,
and the cycles wheel
ii love
choice
of all the souls that stand create
i have elected one
when sense from spirit files away,
and subterfuge is done
when that which is and that which was
apart, intrinsic, stand,
and this brief tragedy of flesh
is shifted like a sand
when figures show their royal front
and mists are carved away, --
behold the atom i preferred
to all the lists of clay
i have no life but this,
to lead it here
nor any death, but lest
dispelled from there
nor tie to earths to come,
nor action new,
except through this extent,
the realm of you
your riches taught me poverty
myself a millionnaire
in little wealths, -- as girls could boast, --
till broad as buenos ayre,
you drifted your dominions
a different peru
and i esteemed all poverty,
for lifes estate with you
of mines i little know, myself,
but just the names of gems, --
the colors of the commonest
and scarce of diadems
so much that, did i meet the queen,
her glory i should know
but this must be a different wealth,
to miss it beggars so
i m sure t is india all day
to those who look on you
without a stint, without a blame, --
might i but be the jew
i m sure it is golconda,
beyond my power to deem, --
to have a smile for mine each day,
how better than a gem
at least, it solaces to know
that there exists a gold,
although i prove it just in time
its distance to behold
it s far, far treasure to surmise,
and estimate the pearl
that slipped my simple fingers through
while just a girl at school
the contract
i gave myself to him,
and took himself for pay
the solemn contract of a life
was ratified this way
the wealth might disappoint,
myself a poorer prove
than this great purchaser suspect,
the daily own of love
depreciate the vision
but, till the merchant buy,
still fable, in the isles of spice,
the subtle cargoes lie
at least, t is mutual risk, --
some found it mutual gain
sweet debt of life, -- each night to owe,
insolvent, every noon
the letter
going to him happy letter tell him --
tell him the page i didnt write
tell him i only said the syntax,
and left the verb and the pronoun out
tell him just how the fingers hurried,
then how they waded, slow, slow, slow
and then you wished you had eyes in your pages,
so you could see what moved them so
tell him it wasnt a practised writer,
you guessed, from the way the sentence toiled
you could hear the bodice tug, behind you,
as if it held but the might of a child
you almost pitied it, you, it worked so
tell him -- no, you may quibble there,
for it would split his heart to know it,
and then you and i were silenter
tell him night finished before we finished,
and the old clock kept neighing day
and you got sleepy and begged to be ended --
what could it hinder so, to say?
tell him just how she sealed you, cautious,
but if he ask where you are hid
until to-morrow, -- happy letter
gesture, coquette, and shake your head
the way i read a letter s this
t is first i lock the door,
and push it with my fingers next,
for transport it be sure
and then i go the furthest off
to counteract a knock
then draw my little letter forth
and softly pick its lock
then, glancing narrow at the wall,
and narrow at the floor,
for firm conviction of a mouse
not exorcised before,
peruse how infinite i am
to -- no one that you know
and sigh for lack of heaven, -- but not
the heaven the creeds bestow
wild nights wild nights
were i with thee,
wild nights should be
our luxury
futile the winds
to a heart in port, --
done with the compass,
done with the chart
rowing in eden
ah the sea
might i but moor
to-night in thee
at home
the night was wide, and furnished scant
with but a single star,
that often as a cloud it met
blew out itself for fear
the wind pursued the little bush,
and drove away the leaves
november left then clambered up
and fretted in the eaves
no squirrel went abroad
a dogs belated feet
like intermittent plush were heard
adown the empty street
to feel if blinds be fast,
and closer to the fire
her little rocking-chair to draw,
and shiver for the poor,
the housewifes gentle task
how pleasanter, said she
unto the sofa opposite,
the sleet than may -- no thee
possession
did the harebell loose her girdle
to the lover bee,
would the bee the harebell hallow
much as formerly?
did the paradise, persuaded,
yield her moat of pearl,
would the eden be an eden,
or the earl an earl?
a charm invests a face
imperfectly beheld, --
the lady dare not lift her veil
for fear it be dispelled
but peers beyond her mesh,
and wishes, and denies, --
lest interview annul a want
that image satisfies
the lovers
the rose did caper on her cheek,
her bodice rose and fell,
her pretty speech, like drunken men,
did stagger pitiful
her fingers fumbled at her work, --
her needle would not go
what ailed so smart a little maid
it puzzled me to know,
till opposite i spied a cheek
that bore another rose
just opposite, another speech
that like the drunkard goes
a vest that, like the bodice, danced
to the immortal tune, --
till those two troubled little clocks
ticked softly into one
in lands i never saw, they say,
immortal alps look down,
whose bonnets touch the firmament,
whose sandals touch the town, --
meek at whose everlasting feet
a myriad daisies play
which, sir, are you, and which am i,
upon an august day?
the moon is distant from the sea,
and yet with amber hands
she leads him, docile as a boy,
along appointed sands
he never misses a degree
obedient to her eye,
he comes just so far toward the town,
just so far goes away
oh, signor, thine the amber hand,
and mine the distant sea, --
obedient to the least command
thine eyes impose on me
he put the belt around my life, --
i heard the buckle snap,
and turned away, imperial,
my lifetime folding up
deliberate, as a duke would do
a kingdoms title-deed, --
henceforth a dedicated sort,
a member of the cloud
yet not too far to come at call,
and do the little toils
that make the circuit of the rest,
and deal occasional smiles
to lives that stoop to notice mine
and kindly ask it in, --
whose invitation, knew you not
for whom i must decline?
the lost jewel
i held a jewel in my fingers
and went to sleep
the day was warm, and winds were prosy
i said t will keep
i woke and chid my honest fingers, --
the gem was gone
and now an amethyst remembrance
is all i own
what if i say i shall not wait?
what if i burst the fleshly gate
and pass, escaped, to thee?
what if i file this mortal off,
see where it hurt me, -- that s enough, --
and wade in liberty?
they cannot take us any more, --
dungeons may call, and guns implore
unmeaning now, to me,
as laughter was an hour ago,
or laces, or a travelling show,
or who died yesterday
iii nature
mother nature
nature, the gentlest mother,
impatient of no child,
the feeblest or the waywardest, --
her admonition mild
in forest and the hill
by traveller is heard,
restraining rampant squirrel
or too impetuous bird
how fair her conversation,
a summer afternoon, --
her household, her assembly
and when the sun goes down
her voice among the aisles
incites the timid prayer
of the minutest cricket,
the most unworthy flower
when all the children sleep
she turns as long away
as will suffice to light her lamps
then, bending from the sky
with infinite affection
and infiniter care,
her golden finger on her lip,
wills silence everywhere
out of the morning
will there really be a morning?
is there such a thing as day?
could i see it from the mountains
if i were as tall as they?
has it feet like water-lilies?
has it feathers like a bird?
is it brought from famous countries
of which i have never heard?
oh, some scholar oh, some sailor
oh, some wise man from the skies
please to tell a little pilgrim
where the place called morning lies
at half-past three a single bird
unto a silent sky
propounded but a single term
of cautious melody
at half-past four, experiment
had subjugated test,
and lo her silver principle
supplanted all the rest
at half-past seven, element
nor implement was seen,
and place was where the presence was,
circumference between
days parlor
the day came slow, till five oclock,
then sprang before the hills
like hindered rubies, or the light
a sudden musket spills
the purple could not keep the east,
the sunrise shook from fold,
like breadths of topaz, packed a night,
the lady just unrolled
the happy winds their timbrels took
the birds, in docile rows,
arranged themselves around their prince
the wind is prince of those
the orchard sparkled like a jew, --
how mighty t was, to stay
a guest in this stupendous place,
the parlor of the day
the suns wooing
the sun just touched the morning
the morning, happy thing,
supposed that he had come to dwell,
and life would be all spring
she felt herself supremer, --
a raised, ethereal thing
henceforth for her what holiday
meanwhile, her wheeling king
trailed slow along the orchards
his haughty, spangled hems,
leaving a new necessity, --
the want of diadems
the morning fluttered, staggered,
felt feebly for her crown, --
her unanointed forehead
henceforth her only one
the robin
the robin is the one
that interrupts the morn
with hurried, few, express reports
when march is scarcely on
the robin is the one
that overflows the noon
with her cherubic quantity,
an april but begun
the robin is the one
that speechless from her nest
submits that home and certainty
and sanctity are best
the butterflys day
from cocoon forth a butterfly
as lady from her door
emerged -- a summer afternoon --
repairing everywhere,
without design, that i could trace,
except to stray abroad
on miscellaneous enterprise
the clovers understood
her pretty parasol was seen
contracting in a field
where men made hay, then struggling hard
with an opposing cloud,
where parties, phantom as herself,
to nowhere seemed to go
in purposeless circumference,
as t were a tropic show
and notwithstanding bee that worked,
and flower that zealous blew,
this audience of idleness
disdained them, from the sky,
till sundown crept, a steady tide,
and men that made the hay,
and afternoon, and butterfly,
extinguished in its sea
the bluebird
before you thought of spring,
except as a surmise,
you see, god bless his suddenness,
a fellow in the skies
of independent hues,
a little weather-worn,
inspiriting habiliments
of indigo and brown
with specimens of song,
as if for you to choose,
discretion in the interval,
with gay delays he goes
to some superior tree
without a single leaf,
and shouts for joy to nobody
but his seraphic self
april
an altered look about the hills
a tyrian light the village fills
a wider sunrise in the dawn
a deeper twilight on the lawn
a print of a vermilion foot
a purple finger on the slope
a flippant fly upon the pane
a spider at his trade again
an added strut in chanticleer
a flower expected everywhere
an axe shrill singing in the woods
fern-odors on untravelled roads, --
all this, and more i cannot tell,
a furtive look you know as well,
and nicodemus mystery
receives its annual reply
the sleeping flowers
whose are the little beds, i asked,
which in the valleys lie?
some shook their heads, and others smiled,
and no one made reply
perhaps they did not hear, i said
i will inquire again
whose are the beds, the tiny beds
so thick upon the plain?
t is daisy in the shortest
a little farther on,
nearest the door to wake the first,
little leontodon
t is iris, sir, and aster,
anemone and bell,
batschia in the blanket red,
and chubby daffodil
meanwhile at many cradles
her busy foot she plied,
humming the quaintest lullaby
that ever rocked a child
hush epigea wakens --
the crocus stirs her lids,
rhodoras cheek is crimson, --
shes dreaming of the woods
then, turning from them, reverent,
their bed-time t is, she said
the bumble-bees will wake them
when april woods are red
my rose
pigmy seraphs gone astray,
velvet people from vevay,
belles from some lost summer day,
bees exclusive coterie
paris could not lay the fold
belted down with emerald
venice could not show a cheek
of a tint so lustrous meek
never such an ambuscade
as of brier and leaf displayed
for my little damask maid
i had rather wear her grace
than an earls distinguished face
i had rather dwell like her
than be duke of exeter
royalty enough for me
to subdue the bumble-bee
the orioles secret
to hear an oriole sing
may be a common thing,
or only a divine
it is not of the bird
who sings the same, unheard,
as unto crowd
the fashion of the ear
attireth that it hear
in dun or fair
so whether it be rune,
or whether it be none,
is of within
the tune is in the tree,
the sceptic showeth me
no, sir in thee
the oriole
one of the ones that midas touched,
who failed to touch us all,
was that confiding prodigal,
the blissful oriole
so drunk, he disavows it
with badinage divine
so dazzling, we mistake him
for an alighting mine
a pleader, a dissembler,
an epicure, a thief, --
betimes an oratorio,
an ecstasy in chief
the jesuit of orchards,
he cheats as he enchants
of an entire attar
for his decamping wants
the splendor of a burmah,
the meteor of birds,
departing like a pageant
of ballads and of bards
i never thought that jason sought
for any golden fleece
but then i am a rural man,
with thoughts that make for peace
but if there were a jason,
tradition suffer me
behold his lost emolument
upon the apple-tree
in shadow
i dreaded that first robin so,
but he is mastered now,
and i m accustomed to him grown, --
he hurts a little, though
i thought if i could only live
till that first shout got by,
not all pianos in the woods
had power to mangle me
i dared not meet the daffodils,
for fear their yellow gown
would pierce me with a fashion
so foreign to my own
i wished the grass would hurry,
so when t was time to see,
he d be too tall, the tallest one
could stretch to look at me
i could not bear the bees should come,
i wished they d stay away
in those dim countries where they go
what word had they for me?
they re here, though not a creature failed,
no blossom stayed away
in gentle deference to me,
the queen of calvary
each one salutes me as he goes,
and i my childish plumes
lift, in bereaved acknowledgment
of their unthinking drums
the humming-bird
a route of evanescence
with a revolving wheel
a resonance of emerald,
a rush of cochineal
and every blossom on the bush
adjusts its tumbled head, --
the mail from tunis, probably,
an easy mornings ride
secrets
the skies cant keep their secret
they tell it to the hills --
the hills just tell the orchards --
and they the daffodils
a bird, by chance, that goes that way
soft overheard the whole
if i should bribe the little bird,
who knows but she would tell?
i think i wont, however,
its finer not to know
if summer were an axiom,
what sorcery had snow?
so keep your secret, father
i would not, if i could,
know what the sapphire fellows do,
in your new-fashioned world
who robbed the woods,
the trusting woods?
the unsuspecting trees
brought out their burrs and mosses
his fantasy to please
he scanned their trinkets, curious,
he grasped, he bore away
what will the solemn hemlock,
what will the fir-tree say?
two voyagers
two butterflies went out at noon
and waltzed above a stream,
then stepped straight through the firmament
and rested on a beam
and then together bore away
upon a shining sea, --
though never yet, in any port,
their coming mentioned be
if spoken by the distant bird,
if met in ether sea
by frigate or by merchantman,
report was not to me
by the sea
i started early, took my dog,
and visited the sea
the mermaids in the basement
came out to look at me,
and frigates in the upper floor
extended hempen hands,
presuming me to be a mouse
aground, upon the sands
but no man moved me till the tide
went past my simple shoe,
and past my apron and my belt,
and past my bodice too,
and made as he would eat me up
as wholly as a dew
upon a dandelions sleeve --
and then i started too
and he -- he followed close behind
i felt his silver heel
upon my ankle, -- then my shoes
would overflow with pearl
until we met the solid town,
no man he seemed to know
and bowing with a mighty look
at me, the sea withdrew
old-fashioned
arcturus is his other name, --
id rather call him star
its so unkind of science
to go and interfere
i pull a flower from the woods, --
a monster with a glass
computes the stamens in a breath,
and has her in a class
whereas i took the butterfly
aforetime in my hat,
he sits erect in cabinets,
the clover-bells forgot
what once was heaven, is zenith now
where i proposed to go
when times brief masquerade was done,
is mapped, and charted too
what if the poles should frisk about
and stand upon their heads
i hope i m ready for the worst,
whatever prank betides
perhaps the kingdom of heaven s changed
i hope the children there
wont be new-fashioned when i come,
and laugh at me, and stare
i hope the father in the skies
will lift his little girl, --
old-fashioned, naughty, everything, --
over the stile of pearl
a tempest
an awful tempest mashed the air,
the clouds were gaunt and few
a black, as of a spectres cloak,
hid heaven and earth from view
the creatures chuckled on the roofs
and whistled in the air,
and shook their fists and gnashed their teeth
and swung their frenzied hair
the morning lit, the birds arose
the monsters faded eyes
turned slowly to his native coast,
and peace was paradise
the sea
an everywhere of silver,
with ropes of sand
to keep it from effacing
the track called land
in the garden
a bird came down the walk
he did not know i saw
he bit an angle-worm in halves
and ate the fellow, raw
and then he drank a dew
from a convenient grass,
and then hopped sidewise to the wall
to let a beetle pass
he glanced with rapid eyes
that hurried all abroad, --
they looked like frightened beads, i thought
he stirred his velvet head
like one in danger cautious,
i offered him a crumb,
and he unrolled his feathers
and rowed him softer home
than oars divide the ocean,
too silver for a seam,
or butterflies, off banks of noon,
leap, plashless, as they swim
the snake
a narrow fellow in the grass
occasionally rides
you may have met him, -- did you not,
his notice sudden is
the grass divides as with a comb,
a spotted shaft is seen
and then it closes at your feet
and opens further on
he likes a boggy acre,
a floor too cool for corn
yet when a child, and barefoot,
i more than once, at morn,
have passed, i thought, a whip-lash
unbraiding in the sun, --
when, stooping to secure it,
it wrinkled, and was gone
several of natures people
i know, and they know me
i feel for them a transport
of cordiality
but never met this fellow,
attended or alone,
without a tighter breathing,
and zero at the bone
the mushroom
the mushroom is the elf of plants,
at evening it is not
at morning in a truffled hut
it stops upon a spot
as if it tarried always
and yet its whole career
is shorter than a snakes delay,
and fleeter than a tare
t is vegetations juggler,
the germ of alibi
doth like a bubble antedate,
and like a bubble hie
i feel as if the grass were pleased
to have it intermit
the surreptitious scion
of summers circumspect
had nature any outcast face,
could she a son contemn,
had nature an iscariot,
that mushroom, -- it is him
the storm
there came a wind like a bugle
it quivered through the grass,
and a green chill upon the heat
so ominous did pass
we barred the windows and the doors
as from an emerald ghost
the dooms electric moccason
that very instant passed
on a strange mob of panting trees,
and fences fled away,
and rivers where the houses ran
the living looked that day
the bell within the steeple wild
the flying tidings whirled
how much can come
and much can go,
and yet abide the world
the spider
a spider sewed at night
without a light
upon an arc of white
if ruff it was of dame
or shroud of gnome,
himself, himself inform
of immortality
his strategy
was physiognomy
i know a place where summer strives
with such a practised frost,
she each year leads her daisies back,
recording briefly, lost
but when the south wind stirs the pools
and struggles in the lanes,
her heart misgives her for her vow,
and she pours soft refrains
into the lap of adamant,
and spices, and the dew,
that stiffens quietly to quartz,
upon her amber shoe
the one that could repeat the summer day
were greater than itself, though he
minutest of mankind might be
and who could reproduce the sun,
at period of going down --
the lingering and the stain, i mean --
when orient has been outgrown,
and occident becomes unknown,
his name remain
the wlnds visit
the wind tapped like a tired man,
and like a host, come in,
i boldly answered entered then
my residence within
a rapid, footless guest,
to offer whom a chair
were as impossible as hand
a sofa to the air
no bone had he to bind him,
his speech was like the push
of numerous humming-birds at once
from a superior bush
his countenance a billow,
his fingers, if he pass,
let go a music, as of tunes
blown tremulous in glass
he visited, still flitting
then, like a timid man,
again he tapped -- t was flurriedly --
and i became alone
nature rarer uses yellow
than another hue
saves she all of that for sunsets, --
prodigal of blue,
spending scarlet like a woman,
yellow she affords
only scantly and selectly,
like a lovers words
gossip
the leaves, like women, interchange
sagacious confidence
somewhat of nods, and somewhat of
portentous inference,
the parties in both cases
enjoining secrecy, --
inviolable compact
to notoriety
simplicity
how happy is the little stone
that rambles in the road alone,
and doesnt care about careers,
and exigencies never fears
whose coat of elemental brown
a passing universe put on
and independent as the sun,
associates or glows alone,
fulfilling absolute decree
in casual simplicity
storm
it sounded as if the streets were running,
and then the streets stood still
eclipse was all we could see at the window,
and awe was all we could feel
by and by the boldest stole out of his covert,
to see if time was there
nature was in her beryl apron,
mixing fresher air
the rat
the rat is the concisest tenant
he pays no rent, --
repudiates the obligation,
on schemes intent
balking our wit
to sound or circumvent,
hate cannot harm
a foe so reticent
neither decree
prohibits him,
lawful as
equilibrium
frequently the woods are pink,
frequently are brown
frequently the hills undress
behind my native town
oft a head is crested
i was wont to see,
and as oft a cranny
where it used to be
and the earth, they tell me,
on its axis turned, --
wonderful rotation
by but twelve performed
a thunder-storm
the wind begun to rock the grass
with threatening tunes and low, --
he flung a menace at the earth,
a menace at the sky
the leaves unhooked themselves from trees
and started all abroad
the dust did scoop itself like hands
and throw away the road
the wagons quickened on the streets,
the thunder hurried slow
the lightning showed a yellow beak,
and then a livid claw
the birds put up the bars to nests,
the cattle fled to barns
there came one drop of giant rain,
and then, as if the hands
that held the dams had parted hold,
the waters wrecked the sky,
but overlooked my fathers house,
just quartering a tree
with flowers
south winds jostle them,
bumblebees come,
hover, hesitate,
drink, and are gone
butterflies pause
on their passage cashmere
i, softly plucking,
present them here
sunset
where ships of purple gently toss
on seas of daffodil,
fantastic sailors mingle,
and then -- the wharf is still
she sweeps with many-colored brooms,
and leaves the shreds behind
oh, housewife in the evening west,
come back, and dust the pond
you dropped a purple ravelling in,
you dropped an amber thread
and now you ve littered all the east
with duds of emerald
and still she plies her spotted brooms,
and still the aprons fly,
till brooms fade softly into stars --
and then i come away
like mighty footlights burned the red
at bases of the trees, --
the far theatricals of day
exhibiting to these
t was universe that did applaud
while, chiefest of the crowd,
enabled by his royal dress,
myself distinguished god
problems
bring me the sunset in a cup,
reckon the mornings flagons up,
and say how many dew
tell me how far the morning leaps,
tell me what time the weaver sleeps
who spun the breadths of blue
write me how many notes there be
in the new robins ecstasy
among astonished boughs
how many trips the tortoise makes,
how many cups the bee partakes, --
the debauchee of dews
also, who laid the rainbows piers,
also, who leads the docile spheres
by withes of supple blue?
whose fingers string the stalactite,
who counts the wampum of the night,
to see that none is due?
who built this little alban house
and shut the windows down so close
my spirit cannot see?
who ll let me out some gala day,
with implements to fly away,
passing pomposity?
the juggler of day
blazing in gold and quenching in purple,
leaping like leopards to the sky,
then at the feet of the old horizon
laying her spotted face, to die
stooping as low as the otters window,
touching the roof and tinting the barn,
kissing her bonnet to the meadow, --
and the juggler of day is gone
my cricket
farther in summer than the birds,
pathetic from the grass,
a minor nation celebrates
its unobtrusive mass
no ordinance is seen,
so gradual the grace,
a pensive custom it becomes,
enlarging loneliness
antiquest felt at noon
when august, burning low,
calls forth this spectral canticle,
repose to typify
remit as yet no grace,
no furrow on the glow,
yet a druidic difference
enhances nature now
as imperceptibly as grief
the summer lapsed away, --
too imperceptible, at last,
to seem like perfidy
a quietness distilled,
as twilight long begun,
or nature, spending with herself
sequestered afternoon
the dusk drew earlier in,
the morning foreign shone, --
a courteous, yet harrowing grace,
as guest who would be gone
and thus, without a wing,
or service of a keel,
our summer made her light escape
into the beautiful
it cant be summer, -- that got through
it s early yet for spring
there s that long town of white to cross
before the blackbirds sing
it cant be dying, -- its too rouge, --
the dead shall go in white
so sunset shuts my question down
with clasps of chrysolite
summers obsequies
the gentian weaves her fringes,
the maples loom is red
my departing blossoms
obviate parade
a brief, but patient illness,
an hour to prepare
and one, below this morning,
is where the angels are
it was a short procession, --
the bobolink was there,
an aged bee addressed us,
and then we knelt in prayer
we trust that she was willing, --
we ask that we may be
summer, sister, seraph,
let us go with thee
in the name of the bee
and of the butterfly
and of the breeze, amen
fringed gentian
god made a little gentian
it tried to be a rose
and failed, and all the summer laughed
but just before the snows
there came a purple creature
that ravished all the hill
and summer hid her forehead,
and mockery was still
the frosts were her condition
the tyrian would not come
until the north evoked it
creator shall i bloom?
november
besides the autumn poets sing,
a few prosaic days
a little this side of the snow
and that side of the haze
a few incisive mornings,
a few ascetic eyes, --
gone mr bryants golden-rod,
and mr thomsons sheaves
still is the bustle in the brook,
sealed are the spicy valves
mesmeric fingers softly touch
the eyes of many elves
perhaps a squirrel may remain,
my sentiments to share
grant me, o lord, a sunny mind,
thy windy will to bear
the snow
it sifts from leaden sieves,
it powders all the wood,
it fills with alabaster wool
the wrinkles of the road
it makes an even face
of mountain and of plain, --
unbroken forehead from the east
unto the east again
it reaches to the fence,
it wraps it, rail by rail,
till it is lost in fleeces
it flings a crystal veil
on stump and stack and stem, --
the summers empty room,
acres of seams where harvests were,
recordless, but for them
it ruffles wrists of posts,
as ankles of a queen, --
then stills its artisans like ghosts,
denying they have been
the blue jay
no brigadier throughout the year
so civic as the jay
a neighbor and a warrior too,
with shrill felicity
pursuing winds that censure us
a february day,
the brother of the universe
was never blown away
the snow and he are intimate
i ve often seen them play
when heaven looked upon us all
with such severity,
i felt apology were due
to an insulted sky,
whose pompous frown was nutriment
to their temerity
the pillow of this daring head
is pungent evergreens
his larder -- terse and militant --
unknown, refreshing things
his character a tonic,
his future a dispute
unfair an immortality
that leaves this neighbor out
iv time and eternity
let down the bars, o death
the tired flocks come in
whose bleating ceases to repeat,
whose wandering is done
thine is the stillest night,
thine the securest fold
too near thou art for seeking thee,
too tender to be told
going to heaven
i dont know when,
pray do not ask me how, --
indeed, i m too astonished
to think of answering you
going to heaven --
how dim it sounds
and yet it will be done
as sure as flocks go home at night
unto the shepherds arm
perhaps you re going too
who knows?
if you should get there first,
save just a little place for me
close to the two i lost
the smallest robe will fit me,
and just a bit of crown
for you know we do not mind our dress
when we are going home
i m glad i dont believe it,
for it would stop my breath,
and i d like to look a little more
at such a curious earth
i am glad they did believe it
whom i have never found
since the mighty autumn afternoon
i left them in the ground
at least to pray is left, is left
o jesus in the air
i know not which thy chamber is, --
i m knocking everywhere
thou stirrest earthquake in the south,
and maelstrom in the sea
say, jesus christ of nazareth,
hast thou no arm for me?
epitaph
step lightly on this narrow spot
the broadest land that grows
is not so ample as the breast
these emerald seams enclose
step lofty for this name is told
as far as cannon dwell,
or flag subsist, or fame export
her deathless syllable
morns like these we parted
noons like these she rose,
fluttering first, then firmer,
to her fair repose
never did she lisp it,
and t was not for me
she was mute from transport,
i, from agony
till the evening, nearing,
one the shutters drew --
quick a sharper rustling
and this linnet flew
a death-blow is a life-blow to some
who, till they died, did not alive become
who, had they lived, had died, but when
they died, vitality begun
i read my sentence steadily,
reviewed it with my eyes,
to see that i made no mistake
in its extremest clause, --
the date, and manner of the shame
and then the pious form
that god have mercy on the soul
the jury voted him
i made my soul familiar
with her extremity,
that at the last it should not be
a novel agony,
but she and death, acquainted,
meet tranquilly as friends,
salute and pass without a hint --
and there the matter ends
i have not told my garden yet,
lest that should conquer me
i have not quite the strength now
to break it to the bee
i will not name it in the street,
for shops would stare, that i,
so shy, so very ignorant,
should have the face to die
the hillsides must not know it,
where i have rambled so,
nor tell the loving forests
the day that i shall go,
nor lisp it at the table,
nor heedless by the way
hint that within the riddle
one will walk to-day
the battle-field
they dropped like flakes, they dropped like stars,
like petals from a rose,
when suddenly across the june
a wind with fingers goes
they perished in the seamless grass, --
no eye could find the place
but god on his repealless list
can summon every face
the only ghost i ever saw
was dressed in mechlin, -- so
he wore no sandal on his foot,
and stepped like flakes of snow
his gait was soundless, like the bird,
but rapid, like the roe
his fashions quaint, mosaic,
or, haply, mistletoe
his conversation seldom,
his laughter like the breeze
that dies away in dimples
among the pensive trees
our interview was transient,--
of me, himself was shy
and god forbid i look behind
since that appalling day
some, too fragile for winter winds,
the thoughtful grave encloses, --
tenderly tucking them in from frost
before their feet are cold
never the treasures in her nest
the cautious grave exposes,
building where schoolboy dare not look
and sportsman is not bold
this covert have all the children
early aged, and often cold, --
sparrows unnoticed by the father
lambs for whom time had not a fold
as by the dead we love to sit,
become so wondrous dear,
as for the lost we grapple,
though all the rest are here, --
in broken mathematics
we estimate our prize,
vast, in its fading ratio,
to our penurious eyes
memorials
death sets a thing significant
the eye had hurried by,
except a perished creature
entreat us tenderly
to ponder little workmanships
in crayon or in wool,
with this was last her fingers did,
industrious until
the thimble weighed too heavy,
the stitches stopped themselves,
and then t was put among the dust
upon the closet shelves
a book i have, a friend gave,
whose pencil, here and there,
had notched the place that pleased him, --
at rest his fingers are
now, when i read, i read not,
for interrupting tears
obliterate the etchings
too costly for repairs
i went to heaven, --
t was a small town,
lit with a ruby,
lathed with down
stiller than the fields
at the full dew,
beautiful as pictures
no man drew
people like the moth,
of mechlin, frames,
duties of gossamer,
and eider names
almost contented
i could be
mong such unique
society
their height in heaven comforts not,
their glory nought to me
t was best imperfect, as it was
i m finite, i cant see
the house of supposition,
the glimmering frontier
that skirts the acres of perhaps,
to me shows insecure
the wealth i had contented me
if t was a meaner size,
then i had counted it until
it pleased my narrow eyes
better than larger values,
however true their show
this timid life of evidence
keeps pleading, i dont know
there is a shame of nobleness
confronting sudden pelf, --
a finer shame of ecstasy
convicted of itself
a best disgrace a brave man feels,
acknowledged of the brave, --
one more ye blessed to be told
but this involves the grave
triumph
triumph may be of several kinds
there s triumph in the room
when that old imperator, death,
by faith is overcome
there s triumph of the finer mind
when truth, affronted long,
advances calm to her supreme,
her god her only throng
a triumph when temptations bribe
is slowly handed back,
one eye upon the heaven renounced
and one upon the rack
severer triumph, by himself
experienced, who can pass
acquitted from that naked bar,
jehovahs countenance
pompless no life can pass away
the lowliest career
to the same pageant wends its way
as that exalted here
how cordial is the mystery
the hospitable pall
a this way beckons spaciously, --
a miracle for all
i noticed people disappeared,
when but a little child, --
supposed they visited remote,
or settled regions wild
now know i they both visited
and settled regions wild,
but did because they died, -- a fact
withheld the little child
following
i had no cause to be awake,
my best was gone to sleep,
and morn a new politeness took,
and failed to wake them up,
but called the others clear,
and passed their curtains by
sweet morning, when i over-sleep,
knock, recollect, for me
i looked at sunrise once,
and then i looked at them,
and wishfulness in me arose
for circumstance the same
t was such an ample peace,
it could not hold a sigh, --
t was sabbath with the bells divorced,
t was sunset all the day
so choosing but a gown
and taking but a prayer,
the only raiment i should need,
i struggled, and was there
if anybodys friend be dead,
it s sharpest of the theme
the thinking how they walked alive,
at such and such a time
their costume, of a sunday,
some manner of the hair, --
a prank nobody knew but them,
lost, in the sepulchre
how warm they were on such a day
you almost feel the date,
so short way off it seems and now,
they re centuries from that
how pleased they were at what you said
you try to touch the smile,
and dip your fingers in the frost
when was it, can you tell,
you asked the company to tea,
acquaintance, just a few,
and chatted close with this grand thing
that dont remember you?
past bows and invitations,
past interview, and vow,
past what ourselves can estimate, --
that makes the quick of woe
the journey
our journey had advanced
our feet were almost come
to that odd fork in beings road,
eternity by term
our pace took sudden awe,
our feet reluctant led
before were cities, but between,
the forest of the dead
retreat was out of hope, --
behind, a sealed route,
eternitys white flag before,
and god at every gate
a country burial
ample make this bed
make this bed with awe
in it wait till judgment break
excellent and fair
be its mattress straight,
be its pillow round
let no sunrise yellow noise
interrupt this ground
going
on such a night, or such a night,
would anybody care
if such a little figure
slipped quiet from its chair,
so quiet, oh, how quiet
that nobody might know
but that the little figure
rocked softer, to and fro?
on such a dawn, or such a dawn,
would anybody sigh
that such a little figure
too sound asleep did lie
for chanticleer to wake it, --
or stirring house below,
or giddy bird in orchard,
or early task to do?
there was a little figure plump
for every little knoll,
busy needles, and spools of thread,
and trudging feet from school
playmates, and holidays, and nuts,
and visions vast and small
strange that the feet so precious charged
should reach so small a goal
essential oils are wrung
the attar from the rose
is not expressed by suns alone,
it is the gift of screws
the general rose decays
but this, in ladys drawer,
makes summer when the lady lies
in ceaseless rosemary
i lived on dread to those who know
the stimulus there is
in danger, other impetus
is numb and vital-less
as t were a spur upon the soul,
a fear will urge it where
to go without the spectres aid
were challenging despair
if i should die,
and you should live,
and time should gurgle on,
and morn should beam,
and noon should burn,
as it has usual done
if birds should build as early,
and bees as bustling go, --
one might depart at option
from enterprise below
t is sweet to know that stocks will stand
when we with daisies lie,
that commerce will continue,
and trades as briskly fly
it makes the parting tranquil
and keeps the soul serene,
that gentlemen so sprightly
conduct the pleasing scene
at length
her final summer was it,
and yet we guessed it not
if tenderer industriousness
pervaded her, we thought
a further force of life
developed from within, --
when death lit all the shortness up,
and made the hurry plain
we wondered at our blindness, --
when nothing was to see
but her carrara guide-post, --
at our stupidity,
when, duller than our dulness,
the busy darling lay,
so busy was she, finishing,
so leisurely were we
ghosts
one need not be a chamber to be haunted,
one need not be a house
the brain has corridors surpassing
material place
far safer, of a midnight meeting
external ghost,
than an interior confronting
that whiter host
far safer through an abbey gallop,
the stones achase,
than, moonless, ones own self encounter
in lonesome place
ourself, behind ourself concealed,
should startle most
assassin, hid in our apartment,
be horrors least
the prudent carries a revolver,
he bolts the door,
oerlooking a superior spectre
more near
vanished
she died, -- this was the way she died
and when her breath was done,
took up her simple wardrobe
and started for the sun
her little figure at the gate
the angels must have spied,
since i could never find her
upon the mortal side
precedence
wait till the majesty of death
invests so mean a brow
almost a powdered footman
might dare to touch it now
wait till in everlasting robes
this democrat is dressed,
then prate about preferment
and station and the rest
around this quiet courtier
obsequious angels wait
full royal is his retinue,
full purple is his state
a lord might dare to lift the hat
to such a modest clay,
since that my lord, the lord of lords
receives unblushingly
gone
went up a year this evening
i recollect it well
amid no bells nor bravos
the bystanders will tell
cheerful, as to the village,
tranquil, as to repose,
chastened, as to the chapel,
this humble tourist rose
did not talk of returning,
alluded to no time
when, were the gales propitious,
we might look for him
was grateful for the roses
in lifes diverse bouquet,
talked softly of new species
to pick another day
beguiling thus the wonder,
the wondrous nearer drew
hands bustled at the moorings --
the crowd respectful grew
ascended from our vision
to countenances new
a difference, a daisy,
is all the rest i knew
requiem
taken from men this morning,
carried by men to-day,
met by the gods with banners
who marshalled her away
one little maid from playmates,
one little mind from school, --
there must be guests in eden
all the rooms are full
far as the east from even,
dim as the border star, --
courtiers quaint, in kingdoms,
our departed are
what inn is this
where for the night
peculiar traveller comes?
who is the landlord?
where the maids?
behold, what curious rooms
no ruddy fires on the hearth,
no brimming tankards flow
necromancer, landlord,
who are these below?
it was not death, for i stood up,
and all the dead lie down
it was not night, for all the bells
put out their tongues, for noon
it was not frost, for on my flesh
i felt siroccos crawl, --
nor fire, for just my marble feet
could keep a chancel cool
and yet it tasted like them all
the figures i have seen
set orderly, for burial,
reminded me of mine,
as if my life were shaven
and fitted to a frame,
and could not breathe without a key
and t was like midnight, some,
when everything that ticked has stopped,
and space stares, all around,
or grisly frosts, first autumn morns,
repeal the beating ground
but most like chaos, -- stopless, cool, --
without a chance or spar,
or even a report of land
to justify despair
till the end
i should not dare to leave my friend,
because -- because if he should die
while i was gone, and i -- too late --
should reach the heart that wanted me
if i should disappoint the eyes
that hunted, hunted so, to see,
and could not bear to shut until
they noticed me -- they noticed me
if i should stab the patient faith
so sure i d come -- so sure i d come,
it listening, listening, went to sleep
telling my tardy name, --
my heart would wish it broke before,
since breaking then, since breaking then,
were useless as next mornings sun,
where midnight frosts had lain
void
great streets of silence led away
to neighborhoods of pause
here was no notice, no dissent,
no universe, no laws
by clocks t was morning, and for night
the bells at distance called
but epoch had no basis here,
for period exhaled
a throe upon the features
a hurry in the breath,
an ecstasy of parting
denominated death, --
an anguish at the mention,
which, when to patience grown,
i ve known permission given
to rejoin its own
saved
of tribulation these are they
denoted by the white
the spangled gowns, a lesser rank
of victors designate
all these did conquer but the ones
who overcame most times
wear nothing commoner than snow,
no ornament but palms
surrender is a sort unknown
on this superior soil
defeat, an outgrown anguish,
remembered as the mile
our panting ankle barely gained
when night devoured the road
but we stood whispering in the house,
and all we said was saved
i think just how my shape will rise
when i shall be forgiven,
till hair and eyes and timid head
are out of sight, in heaven
i think just how my lips will weigh
with shapeless, quivering prayer
that you, so late, consider me,
the sparrow of your care
i mind me that of anguish sent,
some drifts were moved away
before my simple bosom broke, --
and why not this, if they?
and so, until delirious borne
i con that thing, -- forgiven, --
till with long fright and longer trust
i drop my heart, unshriven
the forgotten grave
after a hundred years
nobody knows the place, --
agony, that enacted there,
motionless as peace
weeds triumphant ranged,
strangers strolled and spelled
at the lone orthography
of the elder dead
winds of summer fields
recollect the way, --
instinct picking up the key
dropped by memory
lay this laurel on the one
too intrinsic for renown
laurel veil your deathless tree, --
him you chasten, that is he
poems
by emily dickinson
third series
edited by
mabel loomis todd
its all i have to bring to-day,
this, and my heart beside,
this, and my heart, and all the fields,
and all the meadows wide
be sure you count, should i forget, --
some one the sum could tell, --
this, and my heart, and all the bees
which in the clover dwell
preface
the intellectual activity of emily dickinson was so great that
a large and characteristic choice is still possible among her
literary material, and this third volume of her verses is put
forth in response to the repeated wish of the admirers of her
peculiar genius much of emily dickinsons prose was rhythmic,
--even rhymed, though frequently not set apart in lines
also many verses, written as such, were sent to friends in
letters these were published in , in the volumes of her
letters it has not been necessary, however, to include them in
this series, and all have been omitted, except three or four
exceptionally strong ones, as a book, and with flowers
there is internal evidence that many of the poems were simply
spontaneous flashes of insight, apparently unrelated to outward
circumstance others, however, had an obvious personal origin
for example, the verses i had a guinea golden, which seem to
have been sent to some friend travelling in europe, as a dainty
reminder of letter-writing delinquencies the surroundings in
which any of emily dickinsons verses are known to have been
written usually serve to explain them clearly but in general the
present volume is full of thoughts needing no interpretation to
those who apprehend this scintillating spirit
m l t
amherst, october, 
i life
real riches
t is little i could care for pearls
who own the ample sea
or brooches, when the emperor
with rubies pelteth me
or gold, who am the prince of mines
or diamonds, when i see
a diadem to fit a dome
continual crowning me
superiority to fate
superiority to fate
is difficult to learn
t is not conferred by any,
but possible to earn
a pittance at a time,
until, to her surprise,
the soul with strict economy
subsists till paradise
hope
hope is a subtle glutton
he feeds upon the fair
and yet, inspected closely,
what abstinence is there
his is the halcyon table
that never seats but one,
and whatsoever is consumed
the same amounts remain
forbidden fruit
forbidden fruit a flavor has
that lawful orchards mocks
how luscious lies the pea within
the pod that duty locks
forbidden fruit
heaven is what i cannot reach
the apple on the tree,
provided it do hopeless hang,
that heaven is, to me
the color on the cruising cloud,
the interdicted ground
behind the hill, the house behind, --
there paradise is found
a word
a word is dead
when it is said,
some say
i say it just
begins to live
that day
to venerate the simple days
which lead the seasons by,
needs but to remember
that from you or me
they may take the trifle
termed mortality
to invest existence with a stately air,
needs but to remember
that the acorn there
is the egg of forests
for the upper air
lifes trades
its such a little thing to weep,
so short a thing to sigh
and yet by trades the size of these
we men and women die
drowning is not so pitiful
as the attempt to rise
three times, t is said, a sinking man
comes up to face the skies,
and then declines forever
to that abhorred abode
where hope and he part company, --
for he is grasped of god
the makers cordial visage,
however good to see,
is shunned, we must admit it,
like an adversity
how still the bells in steeples stand,
till, swollen with the sky,
they leap upon their silver feet
in frantic melody
if the foolish call them flowers,
need the wiser tell?
if the savans classify them,
it is just as well
those who read the revelations
must not criticise
those who read the same edition
with beclouded eyes
could we stand with that old moses
canaan denied, --
scan, like him, the stately landscape
on the other side, --
doubtless we should deem superfluous
many sciences
not pursued by learned angels
in scholastic skies
low amid that glad belles lettres
grant that we may stand,
stars, amid profound galaxies,
at that grand right hand
a syllable
could mortal lip divine
the undeveloped freight
of a delivered syllable,
t would crumble with the weight
parting
my life closed twice before its close
it yet remains to see
if immortality unveil
a third event to me,
so huge, so hopeless to conceive,
as these that twice befell
parting is all we know of heaven,
and all we need of hell
aspiration
we never know how high we are
till we are called to rise
and then, if we are true to plan,
our statures touch the skies
the heroism we recite
would be a daily thing,
did not ourselves the cubits warp
for fear to be a king
the inevitable
while i was fearing it, it came,
but came with less of fear,
because that fearing it so long
had almost made it dear
there is a fitting a dismay,
a fitting a despair
tis harder knowing it is due,
than knowing it is here
the trying on the utmost,
the morning it is new,
is terribler than wearing it
a whole existence through
a book
there is no frigate like a book
to take us lands away,
nor any coursers like a page
of prancing poetry
this traverse may the poorest take
without oppress of toll
how frugal is the chariot
that bears a human soul
who has not found the heaven below
will fail of it above
gods residence is next to mine,
his furniture is love
a portrait
a face devoid of love or grace,
a hateful, hard, successful face,
a face with which a stone
would feel as thoroughly at ease
as were they old acquaintances, --
first time together thrown
i had a guinea golden
i had a guinea golden
i lost it in the sand,
and though the sum was simple,
and pounds were in the land,
still had it such a value
unto my frugal eye,
that when i could not find it
i sat me down to sigh
i had a crimson robin
who sang full many a day,
but when the woods were painted
he, too, did fly away
time brought me other robins, --
their ballads were the same, --
still for my missing troubadour
i kept the house at hame
i had a star in heaven
one pleiad was its name,
and when i was not heeding
it wandered from the same
and though the skies are crowded,
and all the night ashine,
i do not care about it,
since none of them are mine
my story has a moral
i have a missing friend, --
pleiad its name, and robin,
and guinea in the sand, --
and when this mournful ditty,
accompanied with tear,
shall meet the eye of traitor
in country far from here,
grant that repentance solemn
may seize upon his mind,
and he no consolation
beneath the sun may find
saturday afternoon
from all the jails the boys and girls
ecstatically leap, --
beloved, only afternoon
that prison doesnt keep
they storm the earth and stun the air,
a mob of solid bliss
alas that frowns could lie in wait
for such a foe as this
few get enough, -- enough is one
to that ethereal throng
have not each one of us the right
to stealthily belong?
upon the gallows hung a wretch,
too sullied for the hell
to which the law entitled him
as natures curtain fell
the one who bore him tottered in,
for this was womans son
t was all i had, she stricken gasped
oh, what a livid boon
the lost thought
i felt a clearing in my mind
as if my brain had split
i tried to match it, seam by seam,
but could not make them fit
the thought behind i strove to join
unto the thought before,
but sequence ravelled out of reach
like balls upon a floor
reticence
the reticent volcano keeps
his never slumbering plan
confided are his projects pink
to no precarious man
if nature will not tell the tale
jehovah told to her,
can human nature not survive
without a listener?
admonished by her buckled lips
let every babbler be
the only secret people keep
is immortality
with flowers
if recollecting were forgetting,
then i remember not
and if forgetting, recollecting,
how near i had forgot
and if to miss were merry,
and if to mourn were gay,
how very blithe the fingers
that gathered these to-day
the farthest thunder that i heard
was nearer than the sky,
and rumbles still, though torrid noons
have lain their missiles by
the lightning that preceded it
struck no one but myself,
but i would not exchange the bolt
for all the rest of life
indebtedness to oxygen
the chemist may repay,
but not the obligation
to electricity
it founds the homes and decks the days,
and every clamor bright
is but the gleam concomitant
of that waylaying light
the thought is quiet as a flake, --
a crash without a sound
how lifes reverberation
its explanation found
on the bleakness of my lot
bloom i strove to raise
late, my acre of a rock
yielded grape and maize
soil of flint if steadfast tilled
will reward the hand
seed of palm by lybian sun
fructified in sand
contrast
a door just opened on a street --
i, lost, was passing by --
an instants width of warmth disclosed,
and wealth, and company
the door as sudden shut, and i,
i, lost, was passing by, --
lost doubly, but by contrast most,
enlightening misery
friends
are friends delight or pain?
could bounty but remain
riches were good
but if they only stay
bolder to fly away,
riches are sad
fire
ashes denote that fire was
respect the grayest pile
for the departed creatures sake
that hovered there awhile
fire exists the first in light,
and then consolidates, --
only the chemist can disclose
into what carbonates
a man
fate slew him, but he did not drop
she felled -- he did not fall --
impaled him on her fiercest stakes --
he neutralized them all
she stung him, sapped his firm advance,
but, when her worst was done,
and he, unmoved, regarded her,
acknowledged him a man
ventures
finite to fail, but infinite to venture
for the one ship that struts the shore
manys the gallant, overwhelmed creature
nodding in navies nevermore
griefs
i measure every grief i meet
with analytic eyes
i wonder if it weighs like mine,
or has an easier size
i wonder if they bore it long,
or did it just begin?
i could not tell the date of mine,
it feels so old a pain
i wonder if it hurts to live,
and if they have to try,
and whether, could they choose between,
they would not rather die
i wonder if when years have piled --
some thousands -- on the cause
of early hurt, if such a lapse
could give them any pause
or would they go on aching still
through centuries above,
enlightened to a larger pain
by contrast with the love
the grieved are many, i am told
the reason deeper lies, --
death is but one and comes but once,
and only nails the eyes
theres grief of want, and grief of cold, --
a sort they call despair
theres banishment from native eyes,
in sight of native air
and though i may not guess the kind
correctly, yet to me
a piercing comfort it affords
in passing calvary,
to note the fashions of the cross,
of those that stand alone,
still fascinated to presume
that some are like my own
i have a king who does not speak
so, wondering, thro the hours meek
i trudge the day away,--
half glad when it is night and sleep,
if, haply, thro a dream to peep
in parlors shut by day
and if i do, when morning comes,
it is as if a hundred drums
did round my pillow roll,
and shouts fill all my childish sky,
and bells keep saying victory
from steeples in my soul
and if i dont, the little bird
within the orchard is not heard,
and i omit to pray,
father, thy will be done to-day,
for my will goes the other way,
and it were perjury
disenchantment
it dropped so low in my regard
i heard it hit the ground,
and go to pieces on the stones
at bottom of my mind
yet blamed the fate that fractured, less
than i reviled myself
for entertaining plated wares
upon my silver shelf
lost faith
to lose ones faith surpasses
the loss of an estate,
because estates can be
replenished, -- faith cannot
inherited with life,
belief but once can be
annihilate a single clause,
and beings beggary
lost joy
i had a daily bliss
i half indifferent viewed,
till sudden i perceived it stir, --
it grew as i pursued,
till when, around a crag,
it wasted from my sight,
enlarged beyond my utmost scope,
i learned its sweetness right
i worked for chaff, and earning wheat
was haughty and betrayed
what right had fields to arbitrate
in matters ratified?
i tasted wheat, -- and hated chaff,
and thanked the ample friend
wisdom is more becoming viewed
at distance than at hand
life, and death, and giants
such as these, are still
minor apparatus, hopper of the mill,
beetle at the candle,
or a fifes small fame,
maintain by accident
that they proclaim
alpine glow
our lives are swiss, --
so still, so cool,
till, some odd afternoon,
the alps neglect their curtains,
and we look farther on
italy stands the other side,
while, like a guard between,
the solemn alps,
the siren alps,
forever intervene
remembrance
remembrance has a rear and front, --
t is something like a house
it has a garret also
for refuse and the mouse,
besides, the deepest cellar
that ever mason hewed
look to it, by its fathoms
ourselves be not pursued
to hang our head ostensibly,
and subsequent to find
that such was not the posture
of our immortal mind,
affords the sly presumption
that, in so dense a fuzz,
you, too, take cobweb attitudes
upon a plane of gauze
the brain
the brain is wider than the sky,
for, put them side by side,
the one the other will include
with ease, and you beside
the brain is deeper than the sea,
for, hold them, blue to blue,
the one the other will absorb,
as sponges, buckets do
the brain is just the weight of god,
for, lift them, pound for pound,
and they will differ, if they do,
as syllable from sound
the bone that has no marrow
what ultimate for that?
it is not fit for table,
for beggar, or for cat
a bone has obligations,
a being has the same
a marrowless assembly
is culpabler than shame
but how shall finished creatures
a function fresh obtain? --
old nicodemus phantom
confronting us again
the past
the past is such a curious creature,
to look her in the face
a transport may reward us,
or a disgrace
unarmed if any meet her,
i charge him, fly
her rusty ammunition
might yet reply
to help our bleaker parts
salubrious hours are given,
which if they do not fit for earth
drill silently for heaven
what soft, cherubic creatures
these gentlewomen are
one would as soon assault a plush
or violate a star
such dimity convictions,
a horror so refined
of freckled human nature,
of deity ashamed, --
its such a common glory,
a fishermans degree
redemption, brittle lady,
be so, ashamed of thee
desire
who never wanted, -- maddest joy
remains to him unknown
the banquet of abstemiousness
surpasses that of wine
within its hope, though yet ungrasped
desires perfect goal,
no nearer, lest reality
should disenthrall thy soul
philosophy
it might be easier
to fail with land in sight,
than gain my blue peninsula
to perish of delight
power
you cannot put a fire out
a thing that can ignite
can go, itself, without a fan
upon the slowest night
you cannot fold a flood
and put it in a drawer, --
because the winds would find it out,
and tell your cedar floor
a modest lot, a fame petite,
a brief campaign of sting and sweet
is plenty is enough
a sailors business is the shore,
a soldiers -- balls who asketh more
must seek the neighboring life
is bliss, then, such abyss
i must not put my foot amiss
for fear i spoil my shoe?
id rather suit my foot
than save my boot,
for yet to buy another pair
is possible
at any fair
but bliss is sold just once
the patent lost
none buy it any more
experience
i stepped from plank to plank
so slow and cautiously
the stars about my head i felt,
about my feet the sea
i knew not but the next
would be my final inch, --
this gave me that precarious gait
some call experience
thanksgiving day
one day is there of the series
termed thanksgiving day,
celebrated part at table,
part in memory
neither patriarch nor pussy,
i dissect the play
seems it, to my hooded thinking,
reflex holiday
had there been no sharp subtraction
from the early sum,
not an acre or a caption
where was once a room,
not a mention, whose small pebble
wrinkled any bay, --
unto such, were such assembly,
t were thanksgiving day
childish griefs
softened by times consummate plush,
how sleek the woe appears
that threatened childhoods citadel
and undermined the years
bisected now by bleaker griefs,
we envy the despair
that devastated childhoods realm,
so easy to repair
ii love
consecration
proud of my broken heart since thou didst break it,
proud of the pain i did not feel till thee,
proud of my night since thou with moons dost slake it,
not to partake thy passion, my humility
loves humility
my worthiness is all my doubt,
his merit all my fear,
contrasting which, my qualities
do lowlier appear
lest i should insufficient prove
for his beloved need,
the chiefest apprehension
within my loving creed
so i, the undivine abode
of his elect content,
conform my soul as t were a church
unto her sacrament
love
love is anterior to life,
posterior to death,
initial of creation, and
the exponent of breath
satisfied
one blessing had i, than the rest
so larger to my eyes
that i stopped gauging, satisfied,
for this enchanted size
it was the limit of my dream,
the focus of my prayer, --
a perfect, paralyzing bliss
contented as despair
i knew no more of want or cold,
phantasms both become,
for this new value in the soul,
supremest earthly sum
the heaven below the heaven above
obscured with ruddier hue
lifes latitude leant over-full
the judgment perished, too
why joys so scantily disburse,
why paradise defer,
why floods are served to us in bowls, --
i speculate no more
with a flower
when roses cease to bloom, dear,
and violets are done,
when bumble-bees in solemn flight
have passed beyond the sun,
the hand that paused to gather
upon this summers day
will idle lie, in auburn, --
then take my flower, pray
song
summer for thee grant i may be
when summer days are flown
thy music still when whippoorwill
and oriole are done
for thee to bloom, ill skip the tomb
and sow my blossoms oer
pray gather me, anemone,
thy flower forevermore
loyalty
split the lark and youll find the music,
bulb after bulb, in silver rolled,
scantily dealt to the summer morning,
saved for your ear when lutes be old
loose the flood, you shall find it patent,
gush after gush, reserved for you
scarlet experiment sceptic thomas,
now, do you doubt that your bird was true?
to lose thee, sweeter than to gain
all other hearts i knew
t is true the drought is destitute,
but then i had the dew
the caspian has its realms of sand,
its other realm of sea
without the sterile perquisite
no caspian could be
poor little heart
did they forget thee?
then dinna care then dinna care
proud little heart
did they forsake thee?
be debonair be debonair
frail little heart
i would not break thee
couldst credit me? couldst credit me?
gay little heart
like morning glory
thoull wilted be thoull wilted be
forgotten
there is a word
which bears a sword
can pierce an armed man
it hurls its barbed syllables,--
at once is mute again
but where it fell
the saved will tell
on patriotic day,
some epauletted brother
gave his breath away
wherever runs the breathless sun,
wherever roams the day,
there is its noiseless onset,
there is its victory
behold the keenest marksman
the most accomplished shot
times sublimest target
is a soul forgot
ive got an arrow here
loving the hand that sent it,
i the dart revere
fell, they will say, in skirmish
vanquished, my soul will know,
by but a simple arrow
sped by an archers bow
the master
he fumbles at your spirit
as players at the keys
before they drop full music on
he stuns you by degrees,
prepares your brittle substance
for the ethereal blow,
by fainter hammers, further heard,
then nearer, then so slow
your breath has time to straighten,
your brain to bubble cool, --
deals one imperial thunderbolt
that scalps your naked soul
heart, we will forget him
you and i, to-night
you may forget the warmth he gave,
i will forget the light
when you have done, pray tell me,
that i my thoughts may dim
haste lest while youre lagging,
i may remember him
father, i bring thee not myself, --
that were the little load
i bring thee the imperial heart
i had not strength to hold
the heart i cherished in my own
till mine too heavy grew,
yet strangest, heavier since it went,
is it too large for you?
we outgrow love like other things
and put it in the drawer,
till it an antique fashion shows
like costumes grandsires wore
not with a club the heart is broken,
nor with a stone
a whip, so small you could not see it
ive known
to lash the magic creature
till it fell,
yet that whips name too noble
then to tell
magnanimous of bird
by boy descried,
to sing unto the stone
of which it died
who?
my friend must be a bird,
because it flies
mortal my friend must be,
because it dies
barbs has it, like a bee
ah, curious friend,
thou puzzlest me
he touched me, so i live to know
that such a day, permitted so,
i groped upon his breast
it was a boundless place to me,
and silenced, as the awful sea
puts minor streams to rest
and now, im different from before,
as if i breathed superior air,
or brushed a royal gown
my feet, too, that had wandered so,
my gypsy face transfigured now
to tenderer renown
dreams
let me not mar that perfect dream
by an auroral stain,
but so adjust my daily night
that it will come again
numen lumen
i live with him, i see his face
i go no more away
for visitor, or sundown
deaths single privacy,
the only one forestalling mine,
and that by right that he
presents a claim invisible,
no wedlock granted me
i live with him, i hear his voice,
i stand alive to-day
to witness to the certainty
of immortality
taught me by time, -- the lower way,
conviction every day, --
that life like this is endless,
be judgment what it may
longing
i envy seas whereon he rides,
i envy spokes of wheels
of chariots that him convey,
i envy speechless hills
that gaze upon his journey
how easy all can see
what is forbidden utterly
as heaven, unto me
i envy nests of sparrows
that dot his distant eaves,
the wealthy fly upon his pane,
the happy, happy leaves
that just abroad his window
have summers leave to be,
the earrings of pizarro
could not obtain for me
i envy light that wakes him,
and bells that boldly ring
to tell him it is noon abroad, --
myself his noon could bring,
yet interdict my blossom
and abrogate my bee,
lest noon in everlasting night
drop gabriel and me
wedded
a solemn thing it was, i said,
a woman white to be,
and wear, if god should count me fit,
her hallowed mystery
a timid thing to drop a life
into the purple well,
too plummetless that it come back
eternity until
iii nature
natures changes
the springtimes pallid landscape
will glow like bright bouquet,
though drifted deep in parian
the village lies to-day
the lilacs, bending many a year,
with purple load will hang
the bees will not forget the tune
their old forefathers sang
the rose will redden in the bog,
the aster on the hill
her everlasting fashion set,
and covenant gentians frill,
till summer folds her miracle
as women do their gown,
or priests adjust the symbols
when sacrament is done
the tulip
she slept beneath a tree
remembered but by me
i touched her cradle mute
she recognized the foot,
put on her carmine suit, --
and see
a light exists in spring
not present on the year
at any other period
when march is scarcely here
a color stands abroad
on solitary hills
that science cannot overtake,
but human nature feels
it waits upon the lawn
it shows the furthest tree
upon the furthest slope we know
it almost speaks to me
then, as horizons step,
or noons report away,
without the formula of sound,
it passes, and we stay
a quality of loss
affecting our content,
as trade had suddenly encroached
upon a sacrament
the waking year
a lady red upon the hill
her annual secret keeps
a lady white within the field
in placid lily sleeps
the tidy breezes with their brooms
sweep vale, and hill, and tree
prithee, my pretty housewives
who may expected be?
the neighbors do not yet suspect
the woods exchange a smile --
orchard, and buttercup, and bird --
in such a little while
and yet how still the landscape stands,
how nonchalant the wood,
as if the resurrection
were nothing very odd
to march
dear march, come in
how glad i am
i looked for you before
put down your hat --
you must have walked --
how out of breath you are
dear march, how are you?
and the rest?
did you leave nature well?
oh, march, come right upstairs with me,
i have so much to tell
i got your letter, and the birds
the maples never knew
that you were coming, -- i declare,
how red their faces grew
but, march, forgive me --
and all those hills
you left for me to hue
there was no purple suitable,
you took it all with you
who knocks? that april
lock the door
i will not be pursued
he stayed away a year, to call
when i am occupied
but trifles look so trivial
as soon as you have come,
that blame is just as dear as praise
and praise as mere as blame
march
we like march, his shoes are purple,
he is new and high
makes he mud for dog and peddler,
makes he forest dry
knows the adders tongue his coming,
and begets her spot
stands the sun so close and mighty
that our minds are hot
news is he of all the others
bold it were to die
with the blue-birds buccaneering
on his british sky
dawn
not knowing when the dawn will come
i open every door
or has it feathers like a bird,
or billows like a shore?
a murmur in the trees to note,
not loud enough for wind
a star not far enough to seek,
nor near enough to find
a long, long yellow on the lawn,
a hubbub as of feet
not audible, as ours to us,
but dapperer, more sweet
a hurrying home of little men
to houses unperceived, --
all this, and more, if i should tell,
would never be believed
of robins in the trundle bed
how many i espy
whose nightgowns could not hide the wings,
although i heard them try
but then i promised neer to tell
how could i break my word?
so go your way and ill go mine, --
no fear youll miss the road
morning is the place for dew,
corn is made at noon,
after dinner light for flowers,
dukes for setting sun
to my quick ear the leaves conferred
the bushes they were bells
i could not find a privacy
from natures sentinels
in cave if i presumed to hide,
the walls began to tell
creation seemed a mighty crack
to make me visible
a rose
a sepal, petal, and a thorn
upon a common summers morn,
a flash of dew, a bee or two,
a breeze
a caper in the trees, --
and im a rose
high from the earth i heard a bird
he trod upon the trees
as he esteemed them trifles,
and then he spied a breeze,
and situated softly
upon a pile of wind
which in a perturbation
nature had left behind
a joyous-going fellow
i gathered from his talk,
which both of benediction
and badinage partook,
without apparent burden,
i learned, in leafy wood
he was the faithful father
of a dependent brood
and this untoward transport
his remedy for care, --
a contrast to our respites
how different we are
cobwebs
the spider as an artist
has never been employed
though his surpassing merit
is freely certified
by every broom and bridget
throughout a christian land
neglected son of genius,
i take thee by the hand
a well
what mystery pervades a well
the water lives so far,
like neighbor from another world
residing in a jar
the grass does not appear afraid
i often wonder he
can stand so close and look so bold
at what is dread to me
related somehow they may be, --
the sedge stands next the sea,
where he is floorless, yet of fear
no evidence gives he
but nature is a stranger yet
the ones that cite her most
have never passed her haunted house,
nor simplified her ghost
to pity those that know her not
is helped by the regret
that those who know her, know her less
the nearer her they get
to make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee, --
one clover, and a bee,
and revery
the revery alone will do
if bees are few
the wind
its like the light, --
a fashionless delight
its like the bee, --
a dateless melody
its like the woods,
private like breeze,
phraseless, yet it stirs
the proudest trees
its like the morning, --
best when its done, --
the everlasting clocks
chime noon
a dew sufficed itself
and satisfied a leaf,
and felt, how vast a destiny
how trivial is life
the sun went out to work,
the day went out to play,
but not again that dew was seen
by physiognomy
whether by day abducted,
or emptied by the sun
into the sea, in passing,
eternally unknown
the woodpecker
his bill an auger is,
his head, a cap and frill
he laboreth at every tree, --
a worm his utmost goal
a snake
sweet is the swamp with its secrets,
until we meet a snake
t is then we sigh for houses,
and our departure take
at that enthralling gallop
that only childhood knows
a snake is summers treason,
and guile is where it goes
could i but ride indefinite,
as doth the meadow-bee,
and visit only where i liked,
and no man visit me,
and flirt all day with buttercups,
and marry whom i may,
and dwell a little everywhere,
or better, run away
with no police to follow,
or chase me if i do,
till i should jump peninsulas
to get away from you, --
i said, but just to be a bee
upon a raft of air,
and row in nowhere all day long,
and anchor off the bar,--
what liberty so captives deem
who tight in dungeons are
the moon
the moon was but a chin of gold
a night or two ago,
and now she turns her perfect face
upon the world below
her forehead is of amplest blond
her cheek like beryl stone
her eye unto the summer dew
the likest i have known
her lips of amber never part
but what must be the smile
upon her friend she could bestow
were such her silver will
and what a privilege to be
but the remotest star
for certainly her way might pass
beside your twinkling door
her bonnet is the firmament,
the universe her shoe,
the stars the trinkets at her belt,
her dimities of blue
the bat
the bat is dun with wrinkled wings
like fallow article,
and not a song pervades his lips,
or none perceptible
his small umbrella, quaintly halved,
describing in the air
an arc alike inscrutable, --
elate philosopher
deputed from what firmament
of what astute abode,
empowered with what malevolence
auspiciously withheld
to his adroit creator
ascribe no less the praise
beneficent, believe me,
his eccentricities
the balloon
youve seen balloons set, havent you?
so stately they ascend
it is as swans discarded you
for duties diamond
their liquid feet go softly out
upon a sea of blond
they spurn the air as t were too mean
for creatures so renowned
their ribbons just beyond the eye,
they struggle some for breath,
and yet the crowd applauds below
they would not encore death
the gilded creature strains and spins,
trips frantic in a tree,
tears open her imperial veins
and tumbles in the sea
the crowd retire with an oath
the dust in streets goes down,
and clerks in counting-rooms observe,
t was only a balloon
evening
the cricket sang,
and set the sun,
and workmen finished, one by one,
their seam the day upon
the low grass loaded with the dew,
the twilight stood as strangers do
with hat in hand, polite and new,
to stay as if, or go
a vastness, as a neighbor, came, --
a wisdom without face or name,
a peace, as hemispheres at home, --
and so the night became
cocoon
drab habitation of whom?
tabernacle or tomb,
or dome of worm,
or porch of gnome,
or some elfs catacomb?
sunset
a sloop of amber slips away
upon an ether sea,
and wrecks in peace a purple tar,
the son of ecstasy
aurora
of bronze and blaze
the north, to-night
so adequate its forms,
so preconcerted with itself,
so distant to alarms, --
an unconcern so sovereign
to universe, or me,
it paints my simple spirit
with tints of majesty,
till i take vaster attitudes,
and strut upon my stem,
disdaining men and oxygen,
for arrogance of them
my splendors are menagerie
but their competeless show
will entertain the centuries
when i am, long ago,
an island in dishonored grass,
whom none but daisies know
the coming of night
how the old mountains drip with sunset,
and the brake of dun
how the hemlocks are tipped in tinsel
by the wizard sun
how the old steeples hand the scarlet,
till the ball is full, --
have i the lip of the flamingo
that i dare to tell?
then, how the fire ebbs like billows,
touching all the grass
with a departing, sapphire feature,
as if a duchess pass
how a small dusk crawls on the village
till the houses blot
and the odd flambeaux no men carry
glimmer on the spot
now it is night in nest and kennel,
and where was the wood,
just a dome of abyss is nodding
into solitude --
these are the visions baffled guido
titian never told
domenichino dropped the pencil,
powerless to unfold
aftermath
the murmuring of bees has ceased
but murmuring of some
posterior, prophetic,
has simultaneous come, --
the lower metres of the year,
when natures laugh is done, --
the revelations of the book
whose genesis is june
iv time and eternity
this world is not conclusion
a sequel stands beyond,
invisible, as music,
but positive, as sound
it beckons and it baffles
philosophies dont know,
and through a riddle, at the last,
sagacity must go
to guess it puzzles scholars
to gain it, men have shown
contempt of generations,
and crucifixion known
we learn in the retreating
how vast an one
was recently among us
a perished sun
endears in the departure
how doubly more
than all the golden presence
it was before
they say that time assuages, --
time never did assuage
an actual suffering strengthens,
as sinews do, with age
time is a test of trouble,
but not a remedy
if such it prove, it prove too
there was no malady
we cover thee, sweet face
not that we tire of thee,
but that thyself fatigue of us
remember, as thou flee,
we follow thee until
thou notice us no more,
and then, reluctant, turn away
to con thee oer and oer,
and blame the scanty love
we were content to show,
augmented, sweet, a hundred fold
if thou wouldst take it now
ending
that is solemn we have ended, --
be it but a play,
or a glee among the garrets,
or a holiday,
or a leaving home or later,
parting with a world
we have understood, for better
still it be unfurled
the stimulus, beyond the grave
his countenance to see,
supports me like imperial drams
afforded royally
given in marriage unto thee,
oh, thou celestial host
bride of the father and the son,
bride of the holy ghost
other betrothal shall dissolve,
wedlock of will decay
only the keeper of this seal
conquers mortality
that such have died enables us
the tranquiller to die
that such have lived, certificate
for immortality
they wont frown always, -- some sweet day
when i forget to tease,
theyll recollect how cold i looked,
and how i just said please
then they will hasten to the door
to call the little child,
who cannot thank them, for the ice
that on her lisping piled
immortality
it is an honorable thought,
and makes one lift ones hat,
as one encountered gentlefolk
upon a daily street,
that weve immortal place,
though pyramids decay,
and kingdoms, like the orchard,
flit russetly away
the distance that the dead have gone
does not at first appear
their coming back seems possible
for many an ardent year
and then, that we have followed them
we more than half suspect,
so intimate have we become
with their dear retrospect
how dare the robins sing,
when men and women hear
who since they went to their account
have settled with the year --
paid all that life had earned
in one consummate bill,
and now, what life or death can do
is immaterial
insulting is the sun
to him whose mortal light,
beguiled of immortality,
bequeaths him to the night
in deference to him
extinct be every hum,
whose garden wrestles with the dew,
at daybreak overcome
death
death is like the insect
menacing the tree,
competent to kill it,
but decoyed may be
bait it with the balsam,
seek it with the knife,
baffle, if it cost you
everything in life
then, if it have burrowed
out of reach of skill,
ring the tree and leave it, --
t is the vermins will
unwarned
t is sunrise, little maid, hast thou
no station in the day?
t was not thy wont to hinder so, --
retrieve thine industry
t is noon, my little maid, alas
and art thou sleeping yet?
the lily waiting to be wed,
the bee, dost thou forget?
my little maid, t is night alas,
that night should be to thee
instead of morning hadst thou broached
thy little plan to me,
dissuade thee if i could not, sweet,
i might have aided thee
each that we lose takes part of us
a crescent still abides,
which like the moon, some turbid night,
is summoned by the tides
not any higher stands the grave
for heroes than for men
not any nearer for the child
than numb three-score and ten
this latest leisure equal lulls
the beggar and his queen
propitiate this democrat
by summers gracious mien
asleep
as far from pity as complaint,
as cool to speech as stone,
as numb to revelation
as if my trade were bone
as far from time as history,
as near yourself to-day
as children to the rainbows scarf,
or sunsets yellow play
to eyelids in the sepulchre
how still the dancer lies,
while colors revelations break,
and blaze the butterflies
the spirit
t is whiter than an indian pipe,
t is dimmer than a lace
no stature has it, like a fog,
when you approach the place
not any voice denotes it here,
or intimates it there
a spirit, how doth it accost?
what customs hath the air?
this limitless hyperbole
each one of us shall be
t is drama, if hypothesis
it be not tragedy
the monument
she laid her docile crescent down,
and this mechanic stone
still states, to dates that have forgot,
the news that she is gone
so constant to its stolid trust,
the shaft that never knew,
it shames the constancy that fled
before its emblem flew
bless god, he went as soldiers,
his musket on his breast
grant, god, he charge the bravest
of all the martial blest
please god, might i behold him
in epauletted white,
i should not fear the foe then,
i should not fear the fight
immortal is an ample word
when what we need is by,
but when it leaves us for a time,
t is a necessity
of heaven above the firmest proof
we fundamental know,
except for its marauding hand,
it had been heaven below
where every bird is bold to go,
and bees abashless play,
the foreigner before he knocks
must thrust the tears away
the grave my little cottage is,
where, keeping house for thee,
i make my parlor orderly,
and lay the marble tea,
for two divided, briefly,
a cycle, it may be,
till everlasting life unite
in strong society
this was in the white of the year,
that was in the green,
drifts were as difficult then to think
as daisies now to be seen
looking back is best that is left,
or if it be before,
retrospection is prospects half,
sometimes almost more
sweet hours have perished here
this is a mighty room
within its precincts hopes have played, --
now shadows in the tomb
me come my dazzled face
in such a shining place
me hear my foreign ear
the sounds of welcome near
the saints shall meet
our bashful feet
my holiday shall be
that they remember me
my paradise, the fame
that they pronounce my name
invisible
from us she wandered now a year,
her tarrying unknown
if wilderness prevent her feet,
or that ethereal zone
no eye hath seen and lived,
we ignorant must be
we only know what time of year
we took the mystery
i wish i knew that womans name,
so, when she comes this way,
to hold my life, and hold my ears,
for fear i hear her say
shes sorry i am dead, again,
just when the grave and i
have sobbed ourselves almost to sleep, --
our only lullaby
trying to forget
bereaved of all, i went abroad,
no less bereaved to be
upon a new peninsula, --
the grave preceded me,
obtained my lodgings ere myself,
and when i sought my bed,
the grave it was, reposed upon
the pillow for my head
i waked, to find it first awake,
i rose, -- it followed me
i tried to drop it in the crowd,
to lose it in the sea,
in cups of artificial drowse
to sleep its shape away, --
the grave was finished, but the spade
remained in memory
i felt a funeral in my brain,
and mourners, to and fro,
kept treading, treading, till it seemed
that sense was breaking through
and when they all were seated,
a service like a drum
kept beating, beating, till i thought
my mind was going numb
and then i heard them lift a box,
and creak across my soul
with those same boots of lead, again
then space began to toll
as all the heavens were a bell,
and being but an ear,
and i and silence some strange race,
wrecked, solitary, here
i meant to find her when i came
death had the same design
but the success was his, it seems,
and the discomfit mine
i meant to tell her how i longed
for just this single time
but death had told her so the first,
and she had hearkened him
to wander now is my abode
to rest, -- to rest would be
a privilege of hurricane
to memory and me
waiting
i sing to use the waiting,
my bonnet but to tie,
and shut the door unto my house
no more to do have i,
till, his best step approaching,
we journey to the day,
and tell each other how we sang
to keep the dark away
a sickness of this world it most occasions
when best men die
a wishfulness their far condition
to occupy
a chief indifference, as foreign
a world must be
themselves forsake contented,
for deity
superfluous were the sun
when excellence is dead
he were superfluous every day,
for every day is said
that syllable whose faith
just saves it from despair,
and whose ill meet you hesitates
if love inquire, where?
upon his dateless fame
our periods may lie,
as stars that drop anonymous
from an abundant sky
so proud she was to die
it made us all ashamed
that what we cherished, so unknown
to her desire seemed
so satisfied to go
where none of us should be,
immediately, that anguish stooped
almost to jealousy
farewell
tie the strings to my life, my lord,
then i am ready to go
just a look at the horses --
rapid that will do
put me in on the firmest side,
so i shall never fall
for we must ride to the judgment,
and its partly down hill
but never i mind the bridges,
and never i mind the sea
held fast in everlasting race
by my own choice and thee
good-by to the life i used to live,
and the world i used to know
and kiss the hills for me, just once
now i am ready to go
the dying need but little, dear, --
a glass of waters all,
a flowers unobtrusive face
to punctuate the wall,
a fan, perhaps, a friends regret,
and certainly that one
no color in the rainbow
perceives when you are gone
dead
theres something quieter than sleep
within this inner room
it wears a sprig upon its breast,
and will not tell its name
some touch it and some kiss it,
some chafe its idle hand
it has a simple gravity
i do not understand
while simple-hearted neighbors
chat of the early dead,
we, prone to periphrasis,
remark that birds have fled
the soul should always stand ajar,
that if the heaven inquire,
he will not be obliged to wait,
or shy of troubling her
depart, before the host has slid
the bolt upon the door,
to seek for the accomplished guest, --
her visitor no more
three weeks passed since i had seen her, --
some disease had vexed
t was with text and village singing
i beheld her next,
and a company -- our pleasure
to discourse alone
gracious now to me as any,
gracious unto none
borne, without dissent of either,
to the parish night
of the separated people
which are out of sight?
i breathed enough to learn the trick,
and now, removed from air,
i simulate the breath so well,
that one, to be quite sure
the lungs are stirless, must descend
among the cunning cells,
and touch the pantomime himself
how cool the bellows feels
i wonder if the sepulchre
is not a lonesome way,
when men and boys, and larks and june
go down the fields to hay
joy in death
if tolling bell i ask the cause
a soul has gone to god,
im answered in a lonesome tone
is heaven then so sad?
that bells should joyful ring to tell
a soul had gone to heaven,
would seem to me the proper way
a good news should be given
if i may have it when its dead
i will contented be
if just as soon as breath is out
it shall belong to me,
until they lock it in the grave,
t is bliss i cannot weigh,
for though they lock thee in the grave,
myself can hold the key
think of it, lover i and thee
permitted face to face to be
after a life, a death well say, --
for death was that, and this is thee
before the ice is in the pools,
before the skaters go,
or any cheek at nightfall
is tarnished by the snow,
before the fields have finished,
before the christmas tree,
wonder upon wonder
will arrive to me
what we touch the hems of
on a summers day
what is only walking
just a bridge away
that which sings so, speaks so,
when theres no one here, --
will the frock i wept in
answer me to wear?
dying
i heard a fly buzz when i died
the stillness round my form
was like the stillness in the air
between the heaves of storm
the eyes beside had wrung them dry,
and breaths were gathering sure
for that last onset, when the king
be witnessed in his power
i willed my keepsakes, signed away
what portion of me i
could make assignable, -- and then
there interposed a fly,
with blue, uncertain, stumbling buzz,
between the light and me
and then the windows failed, and then
i could not see to see
adrift a little boat adrift
and night is coming down
will no one guide a little boat
unto the nearest town?
so sailors say, on yesterday,
just as the dusk was brown,
one little boat gave up its strife,
and gurgled down and down
but angels say, on yesterday,
just as the dawn was red,
one little boat oerspent with gales
retrimmed its masts, redecked its sails
exultant, onward sped
theres been a death in the opposite house
as lately as to-day
i know it by the numb look
such houses have alway
the neighbors rustle in and out,
the doctor drives away
a window opens like a pod,
abrupt, mechanically
somebody flings a mattress out, --
the children hurry by
they wonder if it died on that, --
i used to when a boy
the minister goes stiffly in
as if the house were his,
and he owned all the mourners now,
and little boys besides
and then the milliner, and the man
of the appalling trade,
to take the measure of the house
therell be that dark parade
of tassels and of coaches soon
its easy as a sign, --
the intuition of the news
in just a country town
we never know we go, -- when we are going
we jest and shut the door
fate following behind us bolts it,
and we accost no more
the souls storm
it struck me every day
the lightning was as new
as if the cloud that instant slit
and let the fire through
it burned me in the night,
it blistered in my dream
it sickened fresh upon my sight
with every mornings beam
i thought that storm was brief, --
the maddest, quickest by
but nature lost the date of this,
and left it in the sky
water is taught by thirst
land, by the oceans passed
transport, by throe
peace, by its battles told
love, by memorial mould
birds, by the snow
thirst
we thirst at first, -- t is natures act
and later, when we die,
a little water supplicate
of fingers going by
it intimates the finer want,
whose adequate supply
is that great water in the west
termed immortality
a clock stopped -- not the mantels
genevas farthest skill
cant put the puppet bowing
that just now dangled still
an awe came on the trinket
the figures hunched with pain,
then quivered out of decimals
into degreeless noon
it will not stir for doctors,
this pendulum of snow
the shopman importunes it,
while cool, concernless no
nods from the gilded pointers,
nods from the seconds slim,
decades of arrogance between
the dial life and him
charlotte brontes grave
all overgrown by cunning moss,
all interspersed with weed,
the little cage of currer bell,
in quiet haworth laid
this bird, observing others,
when frosts too sharp became,
retire to other latitudes,
quietly did the same,
but differed in returning
since yorkshire hills are green,
yet not in all the nests i meet
can nightingale be seen
gathered from many wanderings,
gethsemane can tell
through what transporting anguish
she reached the asphodel
soft fall the sounds of eden
upon her puzzled ear
oh, what an afternoon for heaven,
when bronte entered there
a toad can die of light
death is the common right
of toads and men, --
of earl and midge
the privilege
why swagger then?
the gnats supremacy
is large as thine
far from love the heavenly father
leads the chosen child
oftener through realm of briar
than the meadow mild,
oftener by the claw of dragon
than the hand of friend,
guides the little one predestined
to the native land
sleeping
a long, long sleep, a famous sleep
that makes no show for dawn
by stretch of limb or stir of lid, --
an independent one
was ever idleness like this?
within a hut of stone
to bask the centuries away
nor once look up for noon?
retrospect
t was just this time last year i died
i know i heard the corn,
when i was carried by the farms, --
it had the tassels on
i thought how yellow it would look
when richard went to mill
and then i wanted to get out,
but something held my will
i thought just how red apples wedged
the stubbles joints between
and carts went stooping round the fields
to take the pumpkins in
i wondered which would miss me least,
and when thanksgiving came,
if fatherd multiply the plates
to make an even sum
and if my stocking hung too high,
would it blur the christmas glee,
that not a santa claus could reach
the altitude of me?
but this sort grieved myself, and so
i thought how it would be
when just this time, some perfect year,
themselves should come to me
eternity
on this wondrous sea,
sailing silently,
ho pilot, ho
knowest thou the shore
where no breakers roar,
where the storm is oer?
in the silent west
many sails at rest,
their anchors fast
thither i pilot thee, --
land, ho eternity
ashore at last
i do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off
i love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul
i love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body
i love you without knowing how, or when, or from where
i love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride
so i love you because i know no other way
than this where i does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as i fall asleep
i want you to know
one thing
you know how this is
if i look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if i touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me
well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
i shall stop loving you little by little
if suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for i shall already have forgotten you
if you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where i have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
i shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land
but
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine
i crave your mouth, your voice, your hair
silent and starving, i prowl through the streets
bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
i hunt for the liquid measure of your steps
i hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
i want to eat your skin like a whole almond
i want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
i want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,
and i pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of quitratue
every day you play with the light of the universe
subtle visitor, you arrive in the flower and the water,
you are more than this white head that i hold tightly
as a bunch of flowers, every day, between my hands
you are like nobody since i love you
let me spread you out among yellow garlands
who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south?
oh let me remember you as you were before you existed
suddenly the wind howls and bangs at my shut window
the sky is a net crammed with shadowy fish
here all the winds let go sooner or later, all of them
the rain takes off her clothes
the birds go by, fleeing
the wind  the wind
i alone can contend against the power of men
the storm whirls dark leaves
and turns loose all the boats that were moored last night to the sky
you are here  oh, you do not run away
you will answer me to the last cry
curl round me as though you were frightened
even so, a strange shadow once ran through your eyes
now, now too, little one, you bring me honeysuckle,
and even your breasts smell of it
while the sad wind goes slaughtering butterflies
i love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth
how you must have suffered getting accustomed to me,
my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running
so many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes,
and over our heads the grey light unwinds in turning fans
my words rained over you, stroking you
a long time i have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of your body
until i even believe that you own the universe
i will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells, dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses
i want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees
body of a woman, white hills, white thighs,
you look like a world, lying in surrender
my rough peasants body digs in you
and makes the son leap from the depth of the earth
i was lone like a tunnel the birds fled from me,
and nigh swamped me with its crushing invasion
to survive myself i forged you like a weapon,
like an arrow in my bow, a stone in my sling
but the hour of vengeance falls, and i love you
body of skin, of moss, of eager and firm milk
oh the goblets of the breast oh the eyes of absence
oh the roses of the pubis oh your voice, slow and sad
body of my woman, i will persist in your grace
my thirst, my boundless desire, my shifting road
dark river-beds where the eternal thirst flows
and weariness follows, and the infinite ache
drunk as drunk on turpentine
from your open kisses,
your wet body wedged
between my wet body and the strake
of our boat that is made of flowers,
feasted, we guide it - our fingers
like tallows adorned with yellow metal -
over the skys hot rim,
the days last breath in our sails
pinned by the sun between solstice
and equinox, drowsy and tangled together
we drifted for months and woke
with the bitter taste of land on our lips,
eyelids all sticky, and we longed for lime
and the sound of a rope
lowering a bucket down its well then,
we came by night to the fortunate isles,
and lay like fish
under the net of our kisses
i like for you to be still
it is as though you are absent
and you hear me from far away
and my voice does not touch you
it seems as though your eyes had flown away
and it seems that a kiss had sealed your mouth
as all things are filled with my soul
you emerge from the things
filled with my soul
you are like my soul
a butterfly of dream
and you are like the word melancholy
i like for you to be still
and you seem far away
it sounds as though you are lamenting
a butterfly cooing like a dove
and you hear me from far away
and my voice does not reach you
let me come to be still in your silence
and let me talk to you with your silence
that is bright as a lamp
simple, as a ring
you are like the night
with its stillness and constellations
your silence is that of a star
as remote and candid
i like for you to be still
it is as though you are absent
distant and full of sorrow
so you wouldve died
one word then, one smile is enough
and im happy
happy that its not true
i do not love you except because i love you
i go from loving to not loving you,
from waiting to not waiting for you
my heart moves from cold to fire
i love you only because its you the one i love
i hate you deeply, and hating you
bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you
is that i do not see you but love you blindly
maybe january light will consume
my heart with its cruel
ray, stealing my key to true calm
in this part of the story i am the one who
dies, the only one, and i will die of love because i love you,
because i love you, love, in fire and blood
my love, if you die and i dont--,
lets not give grief an even greater field
no expanse is greater than where we live
dust in the wheat, sand in the deserts,
time, wandering water, the vague wind
swept us like sailing seeds
we might not have found one another in time
this meadow where we find ourselves,
o little infinity we give it back
but love, this love has not ended
just as it never had a birth, it has
no death it is like a long river,
only changing lands, and changing lips
when i cannot look at your face
i look at your feet
your feet of arched bone,
your hard little feet
i know that they support you,
and that your sweet weight
rises upon them
your waist and your breasts,
the doubled purple
of your nipples,
the sockets of your eyes
that have just flown away,
your wide fruit mouth,
your red tresses,
my little tower
but i love your feet
only because they walked
upon the earth and upon
the wind and upon the waters,
until they found me
i am not jealous
of what came before me
come with a man
on your shoulders,
come with a hundred men in your hair,
come with a thousand men between your breasts and your feet,
come like a river
full of drowned men
which flows down to the wild sea,
to the eternal surf, to time
bring them all
to where i am waiting for you
we shall always be alone,
we shall always be you and i
alone on earth
to start our life
i can write the saddest poem of all tonight
write, for instance the night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance
the night wind whirls in the sky and sings
i can write the saddest poem of all tonight
i loved her, and sometimes she loved me too
on nights like this, i held her in my arms
i kissed her so many times under the infinite sky
she loved me, sometimes i loved her
how could i not have loved her large, still eyes?
i can write the saddest poem of all tonight
to think i dont have her to feel that ive lost her
to hear the immense night, more immense without her
and the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass
what does it matter that my love couldnt keep her
the night is full of stars and she is not with me
thats all far away, someone sings far away
my soul is lost without her
as if to bring her near, my eyes search for her
my heart searches for her and she is not with me
the same night that whitens the same trees
we, we who were, we are the same no longer
i no longer love her, true, but how much i loved her
my voice searched the wind to touch her ear
someone elses she will be someone elses as she once
belonged to my kisses
her voice, her light body her infinite eyes
i no longer love her, true, but perhaps i love her
love is so short and oblivion so long
because on nights like this i held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her
although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem i write for her
dont go far off, not even for a day
dont go far off, not even for a day,
because i dont know how to say it - a day is long
and i will be waiting for you, as in
an empty station when the trains are
parked off somewhere else, asleep
dont leave me, even for an hour, because then
the little drops of anguish will all run together,
the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift
into me, choking my lost heart
oh, may your silhouette never dissolve
on the beach, may your eyelids never flutter
into the empty distance dont leave me for
a second, my dearest, because in that moment youll
have gone so far ill wander mazily
over all the earth, asking, will you
come back? will you leave me here, dying?
naked you are simple as one of your hands
smooth, earthy, small, transparent, round
youve moon-lines, apple pathways
naked you are slender as a naked grain of wheat
naked you are blue as a night in cuba
youve vines and stars in your hair
naked you are spacious and yellow
as summer in a golden church
naked you are tiny as one of your nails
curved, subtle, rosy, till the day is born
and you withdraw to the underground world
as if down a long tunnel of clothing and of chores
your clear light dims, gets dressed, drops its leaves,
and becomes a naked hand again
tonight i can write the saddest lines
write, for example, the night is starry
and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance
the night wind revolves in the sky and sings
tonight i can write the saddest lines
i loved her, and sometimes she loved me too
through nights like this one i held her in my arms
i kissed her again and again under the endless sky
she loved me, sometimes i loved her too
how could one not have loved her great still eyes
tonight i can write the saddest lines
to think that i do not have her to feel that i have lost her
to hear the immense night, still more immense without her
and the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture
what does it matter that my love could not keep her
the night is starry and she is not with me
this is all in the distance someone is singing in the distance
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her
my sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer
my heart looks for her, and she is not with me
the same night whitening the same trees
we, of that time, are no longer the same
i no longer love her, thats certain, but how i loved her
my voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing
anothers she will be anothers as she was before my kisses
her voice, her bright body her infinite eyes
i no longer love her, thats certain, but maybe i love her
love is so short, forgetting is so long
because through nights like this one i held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her
though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that i write for her
whats wrong with you, with us,
whats happening to us?
ah our love is a harsh cord
that binds us wounding us
and if we want
to leave our wound,
to separate,
it makes a new knot for us and condemns us
to drain our blood and burn together
whats wrong with you? i look at you
and i find nothing in you but two eyes
like all eyes, a mouth
lost among a thousand mouths that i have kissed, more beautiful,
a body just like those that have slipped
beneath my body without leaving any memory
and how empty you went through the world
like a wheat-colored jar
without air, without sound, without substance
i vainly sought in you
depth for my arms
that dig, without cease, beneath the earth
beneath your skin, beneath your eyes,
nothing,
beneath your double breast scarcely
raised
a current of crystalline order
that does not know why it flows singing
why, why, why,
my love, why?
ah vastness of pines, murmur of waves breaking,
slow play of lights, solitary bell,
twilight falling in your eyes, toy doll,
earth-shell, in whom the earth sings
in you the rivers sing and my soul flees in them
as you desire, and you send it where you will
aim my road on your bow of hope
and in a frenzy i will flee my flock of arrows
on all sides i see your waist of fog,
and your silence hunts down my afflicted hours
my kisses anchor, and my moist desire nests
in your arms of transparent stone
ah your mysterious voice that love tolls and darkens
in the resonant and dying evening
thus in the deep hours i have seen, over the fields,
the ears of wheat tolling in the mouth of the wind
you are the daughter of the sea, oreganos first cousin
swimmer, your body is pure as the water
cook, your blood is quick as the soil
everything you do is full of flowers, rich with the earth
your eyes go out toward the water, and the waves rise
your hands go out to the earth and the seeds swell
you know the deep essence of water and the earth,
conjoined in you like a formula for clay
naiad cut your body into turquoise pieces,
they will bloom resurrected in the kitchen
this is how you become everything that lives
and so at last, you sleep, in the circle of my arms
that push back the shadows so that you can rest--
vegetables, seaweed, herbs the foam of your dreams
i dont love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire
i love you as certain dark things are loved,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul
i love you as the plant that doesnt bloom and carries
hidden within itself the light of those flowers,
and thanks to your love, darkly in my body
lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth
i love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
i love you simply, without problems or pride
i love you in this way because i dont know any other way of loving
but this, in which there is no i or you,
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,
so intimate that when i fall asleep it is your eyes that close
the light wraps you in its mortal flame
abstracted pale mourner, standing that way
against the old propellers of the twighlight
that revolves around you
speechless, my friend,
alone in the loneliness of this hour of the dead
and filled with the lives of fire,
pure heir of the ruined day
a bough of fruit falls from the sun on your dark garment
the great roots of night
grow suddenly from your soul,
and the things that hide in you come out again
so that a blue and palled people
your newly born, takes nourishment
oh magnificent and fecund and magnetic slave
of the circle that moves in turn through black and gold
rise, lead and possess a creation
so rich in life that its flowers perish
and it is full of sadness
dont go far off, not even for a day, because --
because -- i dont know how to say it a day is long
and i will be waiting for you, as in an empty station
when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep
dont leave me, even for an hour, because
then the little drops of anguish will all run together,
the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift
into me, choking my lost heart
oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach
may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance
dont leave me for a second, my dearest,
because in that moment youll have gone so far
ill wander mazily over all the earth, asking,
will you come back? will you leave me here, dying?
so that you will hear me
my words
sometimes grow thin
as the tracks of the gulls on the beaches
necklace, drunken bell
for your hands smooth as grapes
and i watch my words from a long way off
they are more yours than mine
they climb on my old suffering like ivy
it climbs the same way on damp walls
you are to blame for this cruel sport
they are fleeing from my dark lair
you fill everything, you fill everything
before you they peopled the solitude that you occupy,
and they are more used to my sadness than you are
now i want them to say what i want to say to you
to make you hear as i want you to hear me
the wind of anguish still hauls on them as usual
sometimes hurricanes of dreams still knock them over
you listen to other voices in my painful voice
lament of old mouths, blood of old supplications
love me, companion dont forsake me follow me
follow me, companion, on this wave of anguish
but my words become stained with your love
you occupy everything, you occupy everything
i am making them into an endless necklace
for your white hands, smooth as grapes
so that you will hear me
my words
sometimes grow thin
as the tracks of the gulls on the beaches
necklace, drunken bell
for your hands smooth as grapes
and i watch my words from a long way off
they are more yours than mine
they climb on my old suffering like ivy
it climbs the same way on damp walls
you are to blame for this cruel sport
they are fleeing from my dark lair
you fill everything, you fill everything
before you they peopled the solitude that you occupy,
and they are more used to my sadness than you are
now i want them to say what i want to say to you
to make you hear as i want you to hear me
the wind of anguish still hauls on them as usual
sometimes hurricanes of dreams still knock them over
you listen to other voices in my painful voice
lament of old mouths, blood of old supplications
love me, companion dont forsake me follow me
follow me, companion, on this wave of anguish
but my words become stained with your love
you occupy everything, you occupy everything
i am making them into an endless necklace
for your white hands, smooth as grapes
it was the twilight of the iguana
from the rainbow-arch of the battlements,
his long tongue like a lance
sank down in the green leaves,
and a swarm of ants, monks with feet chanting,
crawled off into the jungle,
the guanaco, thin as oxygen
in the wide peaks of cloud,
went along, wearing his shoes of gold,
while the llama opened his honest eyes
on the breakable neatness
of a world full of dew
the monkeys braided a sexual
thread that went on and on
along the shores of dawn,
demolishing walls of pollen
and startling the butterflies of muzo
into flying violets
it was the night of the alligators,
the pure night, crawling
with snouts emrging from ooze,
and out the sleepy marshes
the confused noise of scaly plates
returned to the ground where they began
the jaguar brushed the leaves
with a luminous absence,
the puma runs through the branches
like a forest fire,
while the jungles drunken eyes
burn from inside him
the badgers scratch the rivers
feet, scenting the nest
whost throbbing delicacy
they attack with red teeth
and deep in the huge waters
the enormous anaconda lies
like the circle around the earth,
covered with ceremonies of mud,
devouring, religious
leaning into the afternoons,
i cast my sad nets towards your oceanic eyes
there, in the highest blaze my solitude lengthens and flames
its arms turning like a drowning mans
i send out red signals across your absent eyes
that wave like the sea, or the beach by a lighthouse
you keep only darkness my distant female
from your regard sometimes, the coast of dread emerges
leaning into the afternoons,
i fling my sad nets to that sea that is thrashed
by your oceanic eyes
the birds of night peck at the first stars
that flash like my soul when i love you
the night, gallops on its shadowy mare
shedding blue tassels over the land
leaning into the afternoons,
i cast my sad nets towards your oceanic eyes
there, in the highest blaze my solitude lengthens and flames
its arms turning like a drowning mans
i send out red signals across your absent eyes
that wave like the sea, or the beach by a lighthouse
you keep only darkness my distant female
from your regard sometimes, the coast of dread emerges
leaning into the afternoons,
i fling my sad nets to that sea that is thrashed
by your oceanic eyes
the birds of night peck at the first stars
that flash like my soul when i love you
the night, gallops on its shadowy mare
shedding blue tassels over the land
leaning into the afternoons,
i cast my sad nets towards your oceanic eyes
there, in the highest blaze my solitude lengthens and flames
its arms turning like a drowning mans
i send out red signals across your absent eyes
that wave like the sea, or the beach by a lighthouse
you keep only darkness my distant female
from your regard sometimes, the coast of dread emerges
leaning into the afternoons,
i fling my sad nets to that sea that is thrashed
by your oceanic eyes
the birds of night peck at the first stars
that flash like my soul when i love you
the night, gallops on its shadowy mare
shedding blue tassels over the land
the artichoke
of delicate heart
erect
in its battle-dress, builds
its minimal cupola
keeps
stark
in its scallop of
scales
around it,
demoniac vegetables
bristle their thicknesses,
devise
tendrils and belfries,
the bulbs agitations
while under the subsoil
the carrot
sleeps sound in its
rusty mustaches
runner and filaments
bleach in the vineyards,
whereon rise the vines
the sedulous cabbage
arranges its petticoats
oregano
sweetens a world
and the artichoke
dulcetly there in a gardenplot,
armed for a skirmish,
goes proud
in its pomegranate
burnishes
till, on a day,
each by the other,
the artichoke moves
to its dream
of a market place
in the big willow
hoppers
a battle formation
most warlike
of defilades-
with men
in the market stalls,
white shirts
in the soup-greens,
artichoke field marshals,
close-order conclaves,
commands, detonations,
and voices,
a crashing of crate staves
and
maria
come
down
with her hamper
to
make trial
of an artichoke
she reflects, she examines,
she candles them up to the light like an egg,
never flinching
she bargains,
she tumbles her prize
in a market bag
among shoes and a
cabbage head,
a bottle
of vinegar is back
in her kitchen
the artichoke drowns in a pot
so you have it
a vegetable, armed,
a profession
call it an artichoke
whose end
is millennial
we taste of that
sweetness,
dismembering scale after scale
we eat of a halcyon paste
it is green at the artichoke heart
ode to a lemon
out of lemon flowers
loosed
on the moonlight, loves
lashed and insatiable
essences,
sodden with fragrance,
the lemon trees yellow
emerges,
the lemons
move down
from the trees planetarium
delicate merchandise
the harbors are big with it-
bazaars
for the light and the
barbarous gold
we open
the halves
of a miracle,
and a clotting of acids
brims
into the starry
divisions
creations
original juices,
irreducible, changeless,
alive
so the freshness lives on
in a lemon,
in the sweet-smelling house of the rind,
the proportions, arcane and acerb
cutting the lemon
the knife
leaves a little cathedral
alcoves unguessed by the eye
that open acidulous glass
to the light topazes
riding the droplets,
altars,
aromatic facades
so, while the hand
holds the cut of the lemon,
half a world
on a trencher,
the gold of the universe
wells
to your touch
a cup yellow
with miracles,
a breast and a nipple
perfuming the earth
a flashing made fruitage,
the diminutive fire of a planet
ode to a lemon
out of lemon flowers
loosed
on the moonlight, loves
lashed and insatiable
essences,
sodden with fragrance,
the lemon trees yellow
emerges,
the lemons
move down
from the trees planetarium
delicate merchandise
the harbors are big with it-
bazaars
for the light and the
barbarous gold
we open
the halves
of a miracle,
and a clotting of acids
brims
into the starry
divisions
creations
original juices,
irreducible, changeless,
alive
so the freshness lives on
in a lemon,
in the sweet-smelling house of the rind,
the proportions, arcane and acerb
cutting the lemon
the knife
leaves a little cathedral
alcoves unguessed by the eye
that open acidulous glass
to the light topazes
riding the droplets,
altars,
aromatic facades
so, while the hand
holds the cut of the lemon,
half a world
on a trencher,
the gold of the universe
wells
to your touch
a cup yellow
with miracles,
a breast and a nipple
perfuming the earth
a flashing made fruitage,
the diminutive fire of a planet
a dented spider like a snow drop white
on a white heal-all, holding up a moth
like a white piece of lifeless satin cloth -
saw ever curious eye so strange a sight? -
portent in little, assorted death and blight
like the ingredients of a witches broth? -
the beady spider, the flower like a froth,
and the moth carried like a paper kite
what had that flower to do with being white,
the blue prunella every childs delight
what brought the kindred spider to that height?
make we no thesis of the millers plight
what but design of darkness and of night?
design, design do i use the word aright?
anonymous submission
a boundless moment
he halted in the wind, and -- what was that
far in the maples, pale, but not a ghost?
he stood there bringing march against his thought,
and yet too ready to believe the most
oh, thats the paradise-in-bloom, i said
and truly it was fair enough for flowers
had we but in us to assume in march
such white luxuriance of may for ours
we stood a moment so in a strange world,
myself as one his own pretense deceives
and then i said the truth and we moved on
a young beech clinging to its last years leaves
a brook in the city
the farmhouse lingers, though averse to square
with the new city street it has to wear
a number in but what about the brook
that held the house as in an elbow-crook?
i ask as one who knew the brook, its strength
and impulse, having dipped a finger length
and made it leap my knuckle, having tossed
a flower to try its currents where they crossed
the meadow grass could be cemented down
from growing under pavements of a town
the apple trees be sent to hearth-stone flame
is water wood to serve a brook the same?
how else dispose of an immortal force
no longer needed? staunch it at its source
with cinder loads dumped down? the brook was thrown
deep in a sewer dungeon under stone
in fetid darkness still to live and run --
and all for nothing it had ever done
except forget to go in fear perhaps
no one would know except for ancient maps
that such a brook ran water but i wonder
if from its being kept forever under,
the thoughts may not have risen that so keep
this new-built city from both work and sleep
a cliff dwelling
there sandy seems the golden sky
and golden seems the sandy plain
no habitation meets the eye
unless in the horizon rim,
some halfway up the limestone wall,
that spot of black is not a stain
or shadow, but a cavern hole,
where someone used to climb and crawl
to rest from his besetting fears
i see the callus on his soul
the disappearing last of him
and of his race starvation slim,
oh years ago - ten thousand years
a considerable speck
microscopic
a speck that would have been beneath my sight
on any but a paper sheet so white
set off across what i had written there
and i had idly poised my pen in air
to stop it with a period of ink
when something strange about it made me think,
this was no dust speck by my breathing blown,
but unmistakably a living mite
with inclinations it could call its own
it paused as with suspicion of my pen,
and then came racing wildly on again
to where my manuscript was not yet dry
then paused again and either drank or smelt--
with loathing, for again it turned to fly
plainly with an intelligence i dealt
it seemed too tiny to have room for feet,
yet must have had a set of them complete
to express how much it didnt want to die
it ran with terror and with cunning crept
it faltered i could see it hesitate
then in the middle of the open sheet
cower down in desperation to accept
whatever i accorded it of fate
i have none of the tenderer-than-thou
collectivistic regimenting love
with which the modern world is being swept
but this poor microscopic item now
since it was nothing i knew evil of
i let it lie there till i hope it slept
i have a mind myself and recognize
mind when i meet with it in any guise
no one can know how glad i am to find
on any sheet the least display of mind
a dream pang
i had withdrawn in forest, and my song
was swallowed up in leaves that blew alway
and to the forest edge you came one day
this was my dream and looked and pondered long,
but did not enter, though the wish was strong
you shook your pensive head as who should say,
i dare nottoo far in his footsteps stray
he must seek me would he undo the wrong
not far, but near, i stood and saw it all
behind low boughs the trees let down outside
and the sweet pang it cost me not to call
and tell you that i saw does still abide
but tis not true that thus i dwelt aloof,
for the wood wakes, and you are here for proof
a late walk
when i go up through the mowing field,
the headless aftermath,
smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew,
half closes the garden path
and when i come to the garden ground,
the whir of sober birds
up from the tangle of withered weeds
is sadder than any words
a tree beside the wall stands bare,
but a leaf that lingered brown,
disturbed, i doubt not, by my thought,
comes softly rattling down
i end not far from my going forth
by picking the faded blue
of the last remaining aster flower
to carry again to you
a line-storm song
the line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift,
the road is forlorn all day,
where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift,
and the hoof-prints vanish away
the roadside flowers, too wet for the bee,
expend their bloom in vain
come over the hills and far with me,
and be my love in the rain
the birds have less to say for themselves
in the wood-worlds torn despair
than now these numberless years the elves,
although they are no less there
all song of the woods is crushed like some
wild, easily shattered rose
come, be my love in the wet woods come,
where the boughs rain when it blows
there is the gale to urge behind
and bruit our singing down,
and the shallow waters aflutter with wind
from which to gather your gown
what matter if we go clear to the west,
and come not through dry-shod?
for wilding brooch shall wet your breast
the rain-fresh goldenrod
oh, never this whelming east wind swells
but it seems like the seas return
to the ancient lands where it left the shells
before the age of the fern
and it seems like the time when after doubt
our love came back amain
oh, come forth into the storm and rout
and be my love in the rain
a minor bird
i have wished a bird would fly away,
and not sing by my house all day
have clapped my hands at him from the door
when it seemed as if i could bear no more
the fault must partly have been in me
the bird was not to blame for his key
and of course there must be something wrong
in wanting to silence any song
a patch of old snow
theres a patch of old snow in a corner
that i should have guessed
was a blow-away paper the rain
had brought to rest
it is speckled with grime as if
small print overspread it,
the news of a day ive forgotten --
if i ever read it
a prayer in spring
oh, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day
and give us not to think so far away
as the uncertain harvest keep us here
all simply in the springing of the year
oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,
like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night
and make us happy in the happy bees,
the swarm dilating round the perfect trees
and make us happy in the darting bird
that suddenly above the bees is heard,
the meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,
and off a blossom in mid air stands still
for this is love and nothing else is love,
the which it is reserved for god above
to sanctify to what far ends he will,
but which it only needs that we fulfil
a question
a voice said, look me in the stars
and tell me truly, men of earth,
if all the soul-and-body scars
were not too much to pay for birth
a servant to servants
i didnt make you know how glad i was
to have you come and camp here on our land
i promised myself to get down some day
and see the way you lived, but i dont know
with a houseful of hungry men to feed
i guess youd find it seems to me
i cant express my feelings any more
than i can raise my voice or want to lift
my hand oh, i can lift it when i have to
did ever you feel so? i hope you never
its got so i dont even know for sure
whether i am glad, sorry, or anything
theres nothing but a voice-like left inside
that seems to tell me how i ought to feel,
and would feel if i wasnt all gone wrong
you take the lake i look and look at it
i see its a fair, pretty sheet of water
i stand and make myself repeat out loud
the advantages it has, so long and narrow,
like a deep piece of some old running river
cut short off at both ends it lies five miles
straight away through the mountain notch
from the sink window where i wash the plates,
and all our storms come up toward the house,
drawing the slow waves whiter and whiter and whiter
it took my mind off doughnuts and soda biscuit
to step outdoors and take the water dazzle
a sunny morning, or take the rising wind
about my face and body and through my wrapper,
when a storm threatened from the dragons den,
and a cold chill shivered across the lake
i see its a fair, pretty sheet of water,
our willoughby how did you hear of it?
i expect, though, everyones heard of it
in a book about ferns? listen to that
you let things more like feathers regulate
your going and coming and you like it here?
i can see how you might but i dont know
it would be different if more people came,
for then there would be business as it is,
the cottages len built, sometimes we rent them,
sometimes we dont weve a good piece of shore
that ought to be worth something, and may yet
but i dont count on it as much as len
he looks on the bright side of everything,
including me he thinks ill be all right
with doctoring but its not medicine--
lowe is the only doctors dared to say so--
its rest i want--there, i have said it out--
from cooking meals for hungry hired men
and washing dishes after them--from doing
things over and over that just wont stay done
by good rights i ought not to have so much
put on me, but there seems no other way
len says one steady pull more ought to do it
he says the best way out is always through
and i agree to that, or in so far
as that i can see no way out but through--
leastways for me--and then theyll be convinced
its not that len dont want the best for me
it was his plan our moving over in
beside the lake from where that day i showed you
we used to live--ten miles from anywhere
we didnt change without some sacrifice,
but len went at it to make up the loss
his works a mans, of course, from sun to sun,
but he works when he works as hard as i do--
though theres small profit in comparisons
women and men will make them all the same
but work aint all len undertakes too much
hes into everything in town this year
its highways, and hes got too many men
around him to look after that make waste
they take advantage of him shamefully,
and proud, too, of themselves for doing so
we have four here to board, great good-for-nothings,
sprawling about the kitchen with their talk
while i fry their bacon much they care
no more put out in what they do or say
than if i wasnt in the room at all
coming and going all the time, they are
i dont learn what their names are, let alone
their characters, or whether they are safe
to have inside the house with doors unlocked
im not afraid of them, though, if theyre not
afraid of me theres two can play at that
i have my fancies it runs in the family
my fathers brother wasnt right they kept him
locked up for years back there at the old farm
ive been away once--yes, ive been away
the state asylum i was prejudiced
i wouldnt have sent anyone of mine there
you know the old idea--the only asylum
was the poorhouse, and those who could afford,
rather than send their folks to such a place,
kept them at home and it does seem more human
but its not so the place is the asylum
there they have every means proper to do with,
and you arent darkening other peoples lives--
worse than no good to them, and they no good
to you in your condition you cant know
affection or the want of it in that state
ive heard too much of the old-fashioned way
my fathers brother, he went mad quite young
some thought he had been bitten by a dog,
because his violence took on the form
of carrying his pillow in his teeth
but its more likely he was crossed in love,
or so the story goes it was some girl
anyway all he talked about was love
they soon saw he would do someone a mischief
if he want kept strict watch of, and it ended
in fathers building him a sort of cage,
or room within a room, of hickory poles,
like stanchions in the barn, from floor to ceiling,--
a narrow passage all the way around
anything they put in for furniture
hed tear to pieces, even a bed to lie on
so they made the place comfortable with straw,
like a beasts stall, to ease their consciences
of course they had to feed him without dishes
they tried to keep him clothed, but he paraded
with his clothes on his arm--all of his clothes
cruel--it sounds i spose they did the best
they knew and just when he was at the height,
father and mother married, and mother came,
a bride, to help take care of such a creature,
and accommodate her young life to his
that was what marrying father meant to her
she had to lie and hear love things made dreadful
by his shouts in the night hed shout and shout
until the strength was shouted out of him,
and his voice died down slowly from exhaustion
hed pull his bars apart like bow and bow-string,
and let them go and make them twang until
his hands had worn them smooth as any ox-bow
and then hed crow as if he thought that childs play--
the only fun he had ive heard them say, though,
they found a way to put a stop to it
he was before my time--i never saw him
but the pen stayed exactly as it was
there in the upper chamber in the ell,
a sort of catch-all full of attic clutter
i often think of the smooth hickory bars
it got so i would say--you know, half fooling--
its time i took my turn upstairs in jail--
just as you will till it becomes a habit
no wonder i was glad to get away
mind you, i waited till len said the word
i didnt want the blame if things went wrong
i was glad though, no end, when we moved out,
and i looked to be happy, and i was,
as i said, for a while--but i dont know
somehow the change wore out like a prescription
and theres more to it than just window-views
and living by a lake im past such help--
unless len took the notion, which he wont,
and i wont ask him--its not sure enough
i spose ive got to go the road im going
other folks have to, and why shouldnt i?
i almost think if i could do like you,
drop everything and live out on the ground--
but it might be, come night, i shouldnt like it,
or a long rain i should soon get enough,
and be glad of a good roof overhead
ive lain awake thinking of you, ill warrant,
more than you have yourself, some of these nights
the wonder was the tents werent snatched away
from over you as you lay in your beds
i havent courage for a risk like that
bless you, of course, youre keeping me from work,
but the thing of it is, i need to be kept
theres work enough to do--theres always that
but behinds behind the worst that you can do
is set me back a little more behind
i shant catch up in this world, anyway
id rather youd not go unless you must
a soldier
he is that fallen lance that lies as hurled,
that lies unlifted now, come dew, come rust,
but still lies pointed as it plowed the dust
if we who sight along it round the world,
see nothing worthy to have been its mark,
it is because like men we look too near,
forgetting that as fitted to the sphere,
our missiles always make too short an arc
they fall, they rip the grass, they intersect
the curve of earth, and striking, break their own
they make us cringe for metal-point on stone
but this we know, the obstacle that checked
and tripped the body, shot the spirit on
further than target ever showed or shone
a time to talk
when a friend calls to me from the road
and slows his horse to a meaning walk,
i dont stand still and look around
on all the hills i havent hoed,
and shout from where i am, what is it?
no, not as there is a time to talk
i thrust my hoe in the mellow ground,
blade-end up and five feet tall,
and plod i go up to the stone wall
for a friendly visit
acquainted with the night
i have been one acquainted with the night
i have walked out in rain -- and back in rain
i have outwalked the furthest city light
i have looked down the saddest city lane
i have passed by the watchman on his beat
and dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain
i have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
when far away an interrupted cry
came over houses from another street,
but not to call me back or say good-bye
and further still at an unearthly height,
a luminary clock against the sky
proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right
i have been one acquainted with the night
after apple picking
my long two-pointed ladders sticking through a tree
toward heaven still
and theres a barrel that i didnt fill
beside it, and there may be two or three
apples i didnt pick upon some bough
but i am done with apple-picking now
essence of winter sleep is on the night,
the scent of apples i am drowsing off
i cannot shake the shimmer from my sight
i got from looking through a pane of glass
i skimmed this morning from the water-trough,
and held against the world of hoary grass
it melted, and i let it fall and break
but i was well
upon my way to sleep before it fell,
and i could tell
what form my dreaming was about to take
magnified apples appear and reappear,
stem end and blossom end,
and every fleck of russet showing clear
my instep arch not only keeps the ache,
it keeps the pressure of a ladder-round
and i keep hearing from the cellar-bin
that rumbling sound
of load on load of apples coming in
for i have had too much
of apple-picking i am overtired
of the great harvest i myself desired
there were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall,
for all
that struck the earth,
no matter if not bruised, or spiked with stubble,
went surely to the cider-apple heap
as of no worth
one can see what will trouble
this sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is
were he not gone,
the woodchuck could say whether its like his
long sleep, as i describe its coming on,
or just some human sleep
after apple-picking
my long two-pointed ladders sticking through a tree
toward heaven still,
and theres a barrel that i didnt fill
beside it, and there may be two or three
apples i didnt pick upon some bough
but i am done with apple-picking now
essence of winter sleep is on the night,
the scent of apples i am drowsing off
i cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
i got from looking through a pane of glass
i skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
and held against the world of hoary grass
it melted, and i let it fall and break
but i was well
upon my way to sleep before it fell,
and i could tell
what form my dreaming was about to take
magnified apples appear and disappear,
stem end and blossom end,
and every fleck of russet showing clear
my instep arch not only keeps the ache,
it keeps the pressure of a ladder-round
i feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend
and i keep hearing from the cellar bin
the rumbling sound
of load on load of apples coming in
for i have had too much
of apple-picking i am overtired
of the great harvest i myself desired
there were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall
for all
that struck the earth,
no matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
went surely to the cider-apple heap
as of no worth
one can see what will trouble
this sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is
were he not gone,
the woodchuck could say whether its like his
long sleep, as i describe its coming on,
or just some human sleep
an old mans winter night
all out of doors looked darkly in at him
through the thin frost, almost in separate stars,
that gathers on the pane in empty rooms
what kept his eyes from giving back the gaze
was the lamp tilted near them in his hand
what kept him from remembering what it was
that brought him to that creaking room was age
he stood with barrels round him -- at a loss
and having scared the cellar under him
in clomping there, he scared it once again
in clomping off -- and scared the outer night,
which has its sounds, familiar, like the roar
of trees and crack of branches, common things,
but nothing so like beating on a box
a light he was to no one but himself
where now he sat, concerned with he knew what,
a quiet light, and then not even that
he consigned to the moon, such as she was,
so late-arising, to the broken moon
as better than the sun in any case
for such a charge, his snow upon the roof,
his icicles along the wall to keep
and slept the log that shifted with a jolt
once in the stove, disturbed him and he shifted,
and eased his heavy breathing, but still slept
one aged man -- one man -- cant keep a house,
a farm, a countryside, or if he can,
its thus he does it of a winter night
asking for roses
a house that lacks, seemingly, mistress and master,
with doors that none but the wind ever closes,
its floor all littered with glass and with plaster
it stands in a garden of old-fashioned roses
i pass by that way in the gloaming with mary
i wonder, i say, who the owner of those is
oh, no one you know, she answers me airy,
but one we must ask if we want any roses
so we must join hands in the dew coming coldly
there in the hush of the wood that reposes,
and turn and go up to the open door boldly,
and knock to the echoes as beggars for roses
pray, are you within there, mistress who-were-you?
tis mary that speaks and our errand discloses
pray, are you within there? bestir you, bestir you
tis summer again theres two come for roses
a word with you, that of the singer recalling--
old herrick a saying that every maid knows is
a flower unplucked is but left to the falling,
and nothing is gained by not gathering roses
we do not loosen our hands intertwining
not caring so very much what she supposes,
there when she comes on us mistily shining
and grants us by silence the boon of her roses
bereft
where had i heard this wind before
change like this to a deeper roar?
what would it take my standing there for,
holding open a restive door,
looking down hill to a frothy shore?
summer was past and the day was past
sombre clouds in the west were massed
out on the porchs sagging floor,
leaves got up in a coil and hissed,
blindly striking at my knee and missed
something sinister in the tone
told me my secret my be known
word i was in the house alone
somehow must have gotten abroad,
word i was in my life alone,
word i had no one left but god
birches
when i see birches bend to left and right
across the lines of straighter darker trees,
i like to think some boys been swinging them
but swinging doesnt bend them down to stay
ice-storms do that often you must have seen them
loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
after a rain they click upon themselves
as the breeze rises, and turn many-coloured
as the stir cracks and crazes their enamel
soon the suns warmth makes them shed crystal shells
shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust
such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
youd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen
they are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
and they seem not to break though once they are bowed
so low for long, they never right themselves
you may see their trunks arching in the woods
years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground,
like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
before them over their heads to dry in the sun
but i was going to say when truth broke in
with all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm,
i should prefer to have some boy bend them
as he went out and in to fetch the cows--
some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
whose only play was what he found himself,
summer or winter, and could play alone
one by one he subdued his fathers trees
by riding them down over and over again
until he took the stiffness out of them,
and not one but hung limp, not one was left
for him to conquer he learned all there was
to learn about not launching out too soon
and so not carrying the tree away
clear to the ground he always kept his poise
to the top branches, climbing carefully
with the same pains you use to fill a cup
up to the brim, and even above the brim
then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
kicking his way down through the air to the ground
so was i once myself a swinger of birches
and so i dream of going back to be
its when im weary of considerations,
and life is too much like a pathless wood
where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
broken across it, and one eye is weeping
from a twigs having lashed across it open
id like to get away from earth awhile
and then come back to it and begin over
may no fate willfully misunderstand me
and half grant what i wish and snatch me away
not to return earths the right place for love
i dont know where its likely to go better
id like to go by climbing a birch tree
and climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
but dipped its top and set me down again
that would be good both going and coming back
one could do worse than be a swinger of birches
bond and free
love has earth to which she clings
with hills and circling arms about--
wall within wall to shut fear out
but thought has need of no such things,
for thought has a pair of dauntless wings
on snow and sand and turn, i see
where love has left a printed trace
with straining in the worlds embrace
and such is love and glad to be
but thought has shaken his ankles free
thought cleaves the interstellar gloom
and sits in sirius disc all night,
till day makes him retrace his flight
with smell of burning on every plume,
back past the sun to an earthly room
his gains in heaven are what they are
yet some say love by being thrall
and simply staying possesses all
in several beauty that thought fares far
to find fused in another star
but outer space
but outer space,
at least this far,
for all the fuss
of the populace
stays more popular
than populous
come in
as i came to the edge of the woods,
thrush music -- hark
now if it was dusk outside,
inside it was dark
too dark in the woods for a bird
by sleight of wing
to better its perch for the night,
though it still could sing
the last of the light of the sun
that had died in the west
still lived for one song more
in a thrushs breast
far in the pillared dark
thrush music went --
almost like a call to come in
to the dark and lament
but no, i was out for stars
i would not come in
i meant not even if asked
and i hadnt been
desert places
snow falling and night falling fast, oh, fast
in a field i looked into going past,
and the ground almost covered smooth in snow,
but a few weeds and stubble showing last
the woods around it have it - it is theirs
all animals are smothered in their lairs
i am too absent-spirited to count
the loneliness includes me unawares
and lonely as it is, that loneliness
will be more lonely ere it will be less -
a blanker whiteness of benighted snow
with no expression, nothing to express
they cannot scare me with their empty spaces
between stars - on stars where no human race is
i have it in me so much nearer home
to scare myself with my own desert places
design
i found a dimpled spider, fat and white,
on a white heal-all, holding up a moth
like a white piece of rigid satin cloth --
assorted characters of death and blight
mixed ready to begin the morning right,
like the ingredients of a witches broth --
a snow-drop spider, a flower like a froth,
and dead wings carried like a paper kite
what had that flower to do with being white,
the wayside blue and innocent heal-all?
what brought the kindred spider to that height,
then steered the white moth thither in the night?
what but design of darkness to appall?--
if design govern in a thing so small
devotion
the heart can think of no devotion
greater than being shore to ocean -
holding the curve of one position,
counting an endless repetition
dust of snow
the way a crow
shook down on me
the dust of snow
from a hemlock tree
has given my heart
a change of mood
and saved some part
of a day i had rued
evening in a sugar orchard
from where i lingered in a lull in march
outside the sugar-house one night for choice,
i called the fireman with a careful voice
and bade him leave the pan and stoke the arch
o fireman, give the fire another stoke,
and send more sparks up chimney with the smoke
i thought a few might tangle, as they did,
among bare maple boughs, and in the rare
hill atmosphere not cease to glow,
and so be added to the moon up there
the moon, though slight, was moon enough to show
on every tree a bucket with a lid,
and on black ground a bear-skin rug of snow
the sparks made no attempt to be the moon
they were content to figure in the trees
as leo, orion, and the pleiades
and that was what the boughs were full of soon
fire and ice
some say the world will end in fire,
some say in ice
from what ive tasted of desire
i hold with those who favor fire
but if it had to perish twice,
i think i know enough of hate
to say that for destruction ice
is also great
and would suffice
fireflies in the garden
here come real stars to fill the upper skies,
and here on earth come emulating flies,
that though they never equal stars in size,
and they were never really stars at heart
achieve at times a very star-like start
only, of course, they cant sustain the part
flower-gathering
i left you in the morning, and in the morning glow, you walked a way beside me to
make me sad to go do you know me in the gloaming, gaunt and dusty gray with
roaming? are you dumb because you know me not, or dumb because you know? all
for me and not a question for the faded flowers gay that could take me from beside
you for the ages of a day? they are yours, and be the measure of their worth for you
to treasure, the measure of the little while that ive been long away
for once, then something
others taught me with having knelt at well-curbs
always wrong to the light, so never seeing
deeper down in the well than where the water
gives me back in a shining surface picture
me myself in the summer heaven godlike
looking out of a wreath of fern and cloud puffs
once, when trying with chin against a well-curb,
i discerned, as i thought, beyond the picture,
through the picture, a something white, uncertain,
something more of the depths--and then i lost it
water came to rebuke the too clear water
one drop fell from a fern, and lo, a ripple
shook whatever it was lay there at bottom,
blurred it, blotted it out what was that whiteness?
truth? a pebble of quartz? for once, then, something
for once, then, something
others taught me with having knelt at well-curbs
always wrong to the light, so never seeing
deeper down in the well than where the water
gives me back in a shining surface picture
me myself in the summer heaven godlike
looking out of a wreath of fern and cloud puffs
once, when trying with chin against a well-curb,
i discerned, as i thought, beyond the picture,
through the picture, a something white, uncertain,
something more of the depths--and then i lost it
water came to rebuke the too clear water
one drop fell from a fern, and lo, a ripple
shook whatever it was lay there at bottom,
blurred it, blotted it out what was that whiteness?
truth? a pebble of quartz? for once, then, something
fragmentary blue
why make so much of fragmentary blue
in here and there a bird, or butterfly,
or flower, or wearing-stone, or open eye,
when heaven presents in sheets the solid hue?
since earth is earth, perhaps, not heaven as yet--
though some savants make earth include the sky
and blue so far above us comes so high,
it only gives our wish for blue a whet
gathering leaves
spades take up leaves
no better than spoons,
and bags full of leaves
are light as balloons
i make a great noise
of rustling all day
like rabbit and deer
running away
but the mountains i raise
elude my embrace,
flowing over my arms
and into my face
i may load and unload
again and again
till i fill the whole shed,
and what have i then?
next to nothing for weight,
and since they grew duller
from contact with earth,
next to nothing for color
next to nothing for use
but a crop is a crop,
and whos to say where
the harvest shall stop?
ghost house
i dwell in a lonely house i know
that vanished many a summer ago,
and left no trace but the cellar walls,
and a cellar in which the daylight falls,
and the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow
oer ruined fences the grape-vines shield
the woods come back to the mowing field
the orchard tree has grown one copse
of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops
the footpath down to the well is healed
i dwell with a strangely aching heart
in that vanished abode there far apart
on that disused and forgotten road
that has no dust-bath now for the toad
night comes the black bats tumble and dart
the whippoorwill is coming to shout
and hush and cluck and flutter about
i hear him begin far enough away
full many a time to say his say
before he arrives to say it out
it is under the small, dim, summer star
i know not who these mute folk are
who share the unlit place with me--
those stones out under the low-limbed tree
doubtless bear names that the mosses mar
they are tireless folk, but slow and sad,
though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad,--
with none among them that ever sings,
and yet, in view of how many things,
as sweet companions as might be had
going for water
the well was dry beside the door,
and so we went with pail and can
across the fields behind the house
to seek the brook if still it ran
not loth to have excuse to go,
because the autumn eve was fair
though chill, because the fields were ours,
and by the brook our woods were there
we ran as if to meet the moon
that slowly dawned behind the trees,
the barren boughs without the leaves,
without the birds, without the breeze
but once within the wood, we paused
like gnomes that hid us from the moon,
ready to run to hiding new
with laughter when she found us soon
each laid on other a staying hand
to listen ere we dared to look,
and in the hush we joined to make
we heard, we knew we heard the brook
a note as from a single place,
a slender tinkling fall that made
now drops that floated on the pool
like pearls, and now a silver blade
good-bye, and keep cold
this saying good-bye on the edge of the dark
and cold to an orchard so young in the bark
reminds me of all that can happen to harm
an orchard away at the end of the farm
all winter, cut off by a hill from the house
i dont want it girdled by rabbit and mouse,
i dont want it dreamily nibbled for browse
by deer, and i dont want it budded by grouse
if certain it wouldnt be idle to call
id summon grouse, rabbit, and deer to the wall
and warn them away with a stick for a gun
i dont want it stirred by the heat of the sun
we made it secure against being, i hope,
by setting it out on a northerly slope
no orchards the worse for the wintriest storm
but one thing about it, it mustnt get warm
how often already youve had to be told,
keep cold, young orchard good-bye and keep cold
dread fifty above more than fifty below
i have to be gone for a season or so
my business awhile is with different trees,
less carefully nourished, less fruitful than these,
and such as is done to their wood with an axe--
maples and birches and tamaracks
i wish i could promise to lie in the night
and think of an orchards arboreal plight
when slowly and nobody comes with a light
its heart sinks lower under the sod
but something has to be left to god
hannibal
was there even a cause too lost,
ever a cause that was lost too long,
or that showed with the lapse of time to vain
for the generous tears of youth and song?
home burial
he saw her from the bottom of the stairs
before she saw him she was starting down,
looking back over her shoulder at some fear
she took a doubtful step and then undid it
to raise herself and look again he spoke
advancing toward her what is it you see
from up there always? -- for i want to know
she turned and sank upon her skirts at that,
and her face changed from terrified to dull
he said to gain time what is it you see?
mounting until she cowered under him
i will find out now -- you must tell me, dear
she, in her place, refused him any help,
with the least stiffening of her neck and silence
she let him look, sure that he wouldnt see,
blind creature and a while he didnt see
but at last he murmured, oh and again, oh
what is it -- what? she said
just that i see
you dont, she challenged tell me what it is
the wonder is i didnt see at once
i never noticed it from here before
i must be wonted to it -- thats the reason
the little graveyard where my people are
so small the window frames the whole of it
not so much larger than a bedroom, is it?
there are three stones of slate and one of marble,
broad-shouldered little slabs there in the sunlight
on the sidehill we havent to mind those
but i understand it is not the stones,
but the childs mound ----
dont, dont, dont,
dont, she cried
she withdrew, shrinking from beneath his arm
that rested on the banister, and slid downstairs
and turned on him with such a daunting look,
he said twice over before he knew himself
cant a man speak of his own child hes lost?
not you -- oh, wheres my hat? oh, i dont need it
i must get out of here i must get air--
i dont know rightly whether any man can
amy dont go to someone else this time
listen to me i wont come down the stairs
he sat and fixed his chin between his fists
theres something i should like to ask you, dear
you dont know how to ask it
help me, then
her fingers moved the latch for all reply
my words are nearly always an offense
i dont know how to speak of anything
so as to please you but i might be taught,
i should suppose i cant say i see how
a man must partly give up being a man
with womenfolk we could have some arrangement
by which id bind myself to keep hands off
anything special youre a-mind to name
though i dont like such things twixt those that love
two that dont love cant live together without them
but two that do cant live together with them
she moved the latch a little dont -- dont go
dont carry it to someone else this time
tell me about it if its something human
let me into your grief im not so much
unlike other folks as your standing there
apart would make me out give me my chance
i do think, though, you overdo it a little
what was it brought you up to think it the thing
to take your mother-loss of a first child
so inconsolably -- in the face of love
youd think his memory might be satisfied ----
there you go sneering now
im not, im not
you make me angry ill come down to you
god, what a woman and its come to this,
a man cant speak of his own child thats dead
you cant because you dont know how to speak
if you had any feelings, you that dug
with your own hand -- how could you? -- his little grave
i saw you from that very window there,
making the gravel leap and leap in air,
leap up, like that, like that, and land so lightly
and roll back down the mound beside the hole
i thought, who is that man? i didnt know you
and i crept down the stairs and up the stairs
to look again, and still your spade kept lifting
then you came in i heard your rumbling voice
out in the kitchen, and i dont know why,
but i went near to see with my own eyes
you could sit there with the stains on your shoes
of the fresh earth from your own babys grave
and talk about your everyday concerns
you had stood the spade up against the wall
outside there in the entry, for i saw it
i shall laugh the worst laugh i ever laughed
im cursed god, if i dont believe im cursed
i can repeat the very words you were saying
three foggy mornings and one rainy day
will rot the best birch fence a man can build
think of it, talk like that at such a time
what had how long it takes a birch to rot
to do with what was in the darkened parlour?
you couldnt care the nearest friends can go
with anyone to death, comes so far short
they might as well not try to go at all
no, from the time when one is sick to death,
one is alone, and he dies more alone
friends make pretense of following to the grave,
but before one is in it, their minds are turned
and making the best of their way back to life
and living people, and things they understand
but the worlds evil i wont have grief so
if i can change it oh, i wont, i wont
there, you have said it all and you feel better
you wont go now youre crying close the door
the hearts gone out of it why keep it up?
amyl theres someone coming down the road
you -- oh, you think the talk is all i must go --
somewhere out of this house how can i make you ----
if -- you -- do she was opening the door wider
where do you mean to go? first tell me that
ill follow and bring you back by force i will --
hyla brook
by june our brooks run out of song and speed
sought for much after that, it will be found
either to have gone groping underground
and taken with it all the hyla breed
that shouted in the mist a month ago,
like ghost of sleigh-bells in a ghost of snow--
or flourished and come up in jewel-weed,
weak foliage that is blown upon and bent
even against the way its waters went
its bed is left a faded paper sheet
of dead leaves stuck together by the heat--
a brook to none but who remember long
this as it will be seen is other far
than with brooks taken otherwhere in song
we love the things we love for what they are
in a disused graveyard
the living come with grassy tread
to read the gravestones on the hill
the graveyard draws the living still,
but never anymore the dead
the verses in it say and say
the ones who living come today
to read the stones and go away
tomorrow dead will come to stay
so sure of death the marbles rhyme,
yet cant help marking all the time
how no one dead will seem to come
what is it men are shrinking from?
it would be easy to be clever
and tell the stones men hate to die
and have stopped dying now forever
i think they would believe the lie
in a poem
the sentencing goes blithely on its way
and takes the playfully objected rhyme
as surely as it takes the stroke and time
in having its undeviable say
in hardwood groves
the same leaves over and over again they fall from giving shade above to make one
texture of faded brown and fit the earth like a leather glove before the leaves can
mount again to fill the trees with another shade, they must go down past things
coming up they must go down into the dark decayed they must be pierced by
flowers and put beneath the feet of dancing flowers however it is in some other world
i know that this is way in ours
in neglect
they leave us so to the way we took, as two in whom them were proved mistaken,
that we sit sometimes in the wayside nook, with michievous, vagrant, seraphic look,
and try if we cannot feel forsaken
in white
a dented spider like a snow drop white
on a white heal-all, holding up a moth
like a white piece of lifeless satin cloth -
saw ever curious eye so strange a sight? -
portent in little, assorted death and blight
like the ingredients of a witches broth? -
the beady spider, the flower like a froth,
and the moth carried like a paper kite
what had that flower to do with being white,
the blue prunella every childs delight
what brought the kindred spider to that height?
make we no thesis of the millers plight
what but design of darkness and of night?
design, design do i use the word aright?
into my own
one of my wishes is that those dark trees,
so old and firm they scarcely show the breeze,
were not, as twere, the merest mask of gloom,
but stretched away unto the edge of doom
i should not be withheld but that some day
into their vastness i should steal away,
fearless of ever finding open land,
or highway where the slow wheel pours the sand
i do not see why i should eer turn back,
or those should not set forth upon my track
to overtake me, who should miss me here
and long to know if still i held them dear
they would not find me changed from him they knew--
only more sure of all i though was true
leaves compared with flowers
a trees leaves may be ever so good,
so may its bar, so may its wood
but unless you put the right thing to its root
it never will show much flower or fruit
but i may be one who does not care
ever to have tree bloom or bear
leaves for smooth and bark for rough,
leaves and bark may be tree enough
some giant trees have bloom so small
they might as well have none at all
late in life i have come on fern
now lichens are due to have their turn
i bade men tell me which in brief,
which is fairer, flower or leaf
they did not have the wit to say,
leaves by night and flowers by day
leaves and bar, leaves and bark,
to lean against and hear in the dark
petals i may have once pursued
leaves are all my darker mood
love and a question
a stranger came to the door at eve,
and he spoke the bridegroom fair
he bore a green-white stick in his hand,
and, for all burden, care
he asked with the eyes more than the lips
for a shelter for the night,
and he turned and looked at the road afar
without a window light
the bridegroom came forth into the porch
with, let us look at the sky,
and question what of the night to be,
stranger, you and i
the woodbine leaves littered the yard,
the woodbine berries were blue,
autumn, yes, winter was in the wind
stranger, i wish i knew
within, the bride in the dusk alone
bent over the open fire,
her face rose-red with the glowing coal
and the thought of the hearts desire
the bridegroom looked at the weary road,
yet saw but her within,
and wished her heart in a case of gold
and pinned with a silver pin
the bridegroom thought it little to give
a dole of bread, a purse,
a heartfelt prayer for the poor of god,
or for the rich a curse
but whether or not a man was asked
to mar the love of two
by harboring woe in the bridal house,
the bridegroom wished he knew
meeting and passing
as i went down the hill along the wall
there was a gate i had leaned at for the view
and had just turned from when i first saw you
as you came up the hill we met but all
we did that day was mingle great and small
footprints in summer dust as if we drew
the figure of our being less that two
but more than one as yet your parasol
pointed the decimal off with one deep thrust
and all the time we talked you seemed to see
something down there to smile at in the dust
oh, it was without prejudice to me
afterward i went past what you had passed
before we met and you what i had passed
mending wall
something there is that doesnt love a wall,
that sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
and spills the upper boulders in the sun
and makes gaps even two can pass abreast
the work of hunters is another thing
i have come after them and made repair
where they have left not one stone on a stone,
but they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
to please the yelping dogs the gaps i mean,
no one has seen them made or heard them made,
but at spring mending-time we find them there
i let my neighbour know beyond the hill
and on a day we meet to walk the line
and set the wall between us once again
we keep the wall between us as we go
to each the boulders that have fallen to each
and some are loaves and some so nearly balls
we have to use a spell to make them balance
stay where you are until our backs are turned
we wear our fingers rough with handling them
oh, just another kind of out-door game,
one on a side it comes to little more
there where it is we do not need the wall
he is all pine and i am apple orchard
my apple trees will never get across
and eat the cones under his pines, i tell him
he only says, good fences make good neighbours
spring is the mischief in me, and i wonder
if i could put a notion in his head
why do they make good neighbours? isnt it
where there are cows? but here there are no cows
before i built a wall id ask to know
what i was walling in or walling out,
and to whom i was like to give offence
something there is that doesnt love a wall,
that wants it down i could say elves to him,
but its not elves exactly, and id rather
he said it for himself i see him there
bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
in each hand, like an old-stone savage armed
he moves in darkness as it seems to me,
not of woods only and the shade of trees
he will not go behind his fathers saying,
and he likes having thought of it so well
he says again, good fences make good neighbours
mowing
there was never a sound beside the wood but one,
and that was my long scythe whispering to the ground
what was it it whispered? i knew not well myself
perhaps it was something about the heat of the sun,
something, perhaps, about the lack of sound--
and that was why it whispered and did not speak
it was no dream of the gift of idle hours,
or easy gold at the hand of fay or elf
anything more than the truth would have seemed too weak
to the earnest love that laid the swale in rows,
not without feeble-pointed spikes of flowers
pale orchises, and scared a bright green snake
the fact is the sweetest dream that labour knows
my long scythe whispered and left the hay to make
my butterfly
thine emulous fond flowers are dead, too, and the daft sun-assaulter, he that
frightened thee so oft, is fled or dead save only me nor is it sad to thee save only
me there is none left to mourn thee in the fields
my november guest
my sorrow, when shes here with me,
thinks these dark days of autumn rain
are beautiful as days can be
she loves the bare, the withered tree
she walks the sodden pasture lane
her pleasure will not let me stay
she talks and i am fain to list
shes glad the birds are gone away,
shes glad her simple worsted grey
is silver now with clinging mist
the desolate, deserted trees,
the faded earth, the heavy sky,
the beauties she so truly sees,
she thinks i have no eye for these,
and vexes me for reason why
not yesterday i learned to know
the love of bare november days
before the coming of the snow,
but it were vain to tell her so,
and they are better for her praise
neither out far nor in deep
the people along the sand
all turn and look one way
they turn their back on the land
they look at the sea all day
as long as it takes to pass
a ship keeps raising its hull
the wetter ground like glass
reflects a standing gull
the land may vary more
but wherever the truth may be--
the water comes ashore,
and the people look at the sea
they cannot look out far
they cannot look in deep
btu when was that ever a bar
to any watch they keep?
never again would birds song be the same
he would declare and could himself believe
that the birds there in all the garden round
from having heard the daylong voice of eve
had added to their own an oversound,
her tone of meaning but without the words
admittedly an eloquence so soft
could only have had an influence on birds
when call or laughter carried it aloft
be that as may be, she was in their song
moreover her voice upon their voices crossed
had now persisted in the woods so long
that probably it never would be lost
never again would birds song be the same
and to do that to birds was why she came
not to keep
they sent him back to her the letter came
saying and she could have him and before
she could be sure there was no hidden ill
under the formal writing, he was in her sight,
living they gave him back to her alive
how else? they are not known to send the dead
and not disfigured visibly his face?
his hands? she had to look, and ask,
what was it, dear? and she had given all
and still she had all they had they the lucky
wasnt she glad now? everything seemed won,
and all the rest for them permissible ease
she had to ask, what was it, dear?
enough,
yet not enough a bullet through and through,
high in the breast nothing but what good care
and medicine and rest, and you a week,
can cure me of to go again the same
grim giving to do over for them both
she dared no more than ask him with her eyes
how was it with him for a second trial
and with his eyes he asked her not to ask
they had given him back to her, but not to keep
nothing gold can stay
natures first green is gold,
her hardest hue to hold
her early leafs a flower
but only so an hour
then leaf subsides to leaf,
so eden sank to grief,
so dawn goes down to day
nothing gold can stay
now close the windows
now close the windows and hush all the fields
if the trees must, let them silently toss
no bird is singing now, and if there is,
be it my loss
it will be long ere the marshes resume,
i will be long ere the earliest bird
so close the windows and not hear the wind,
but see all wind-stirred
october
o hushed october morning mild, thy leaves have ripened to the fall tomorrows wind,
if it be wild, should waste them all the crows above the forest call tomorrow they
may form and go o hushed october morning mild, begin the hours of this day slow
make the day seem to us less brief hearts not averse to being beguiled, beguile us in
the way you know release one leaf at break of day at noon release another leaf one
from our trees, one far away retard the sun with gentle mist enchant the land with
amethyst slow, slow for the grapes sake, if the were all, whose elaves already are
burnt with frost, whose clustered fruit must else be lost-- for the grapes sake along
the all
on a tree fallen across the road
to hear us talk
the tree the tempest with a crash of wood
throws down in front of us is not bar
our passage to our journeys end for good,
but just to ask us who we think we are
insisting always on our own way so
she likes to halt us in our runner tracks,
and make us get down in a foot of snow
debating what to do without an ax
and yet she knows obstruction is in vain
we will not be put off the final goal
we have it hidden in us to attain,
not though we have to seize earth by the pole
and, tired of aimless circling in one place,
steer straight off after something into space
on looking up by chance at the constellations
youll wait a long, long time for anything much
to happen in heaven beyond the floats of cloud
and the northern lights that run like tingling nerves
the sun and moon get crossed, but they never touch,
nor strike out fire from each other nor crash out loud
the planets seem to interfere in their curves -
but nothing ever happens, no harm is done
we may as well go patiently on with our life,
and look elsewhere than to stars and moon and sun
for the shocks and changes we need to keep us sane
it is true the longest drout will end in rain,
the longest peace in china will end in strife
still it wouldnt reward the watcher to stay awake
in hopes of seeing the calm of heaven break
on his particular time and personal sight
that calm seems certainly safe to last to-night
once by the pacific
the shattered water made a misty din
great waves looked over others coming in,
and thought of doing something to the shore
that water never did to land before
the clouds were low and hairy in the skies,
like locks blown forward in the gleam of eyes
you could not tell, and yet it looked as if
the shore was lucky in being backed by cliff,
the cliff in being backed by continent
it looked as if a night of dark intent
was coming, and not only a night, an age
someone had better be prepared for rage
there would be more than ocean-water broken
before gods last put out the light was spoken
one step backward taken
not only sands and gravels
were once more on their travels,
but gulping muddy gallons
great boulders off their balance
bumped heads together dully
and started down the gully
whole capes caked off in slices
i felt my standpoint shaken
in the universal crisis
but with one step backward taken
i saved myself from going
a world torn loose went by me
then the rain stopped and the blowing,
and the sun came out to dry me
out, out
the buzz-saw snarled and rattled in the yard
and made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it
and from there those that lifted eyes could count
five mountain ranges one behind the other
under the sunset far into vermont
and the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled,
as it ran light, or had to bear a load
and nothing happened day was all but done
call it a day, i wish they might have said
to please the boy by giving him the half hour
that a boy counts so much when saved from work
his sister stood beside them in her apron
to tell them supper at that word, the saw,
as if to prove saws knew what supper meant,
leaped out at the boys hand, or seemed to leap -
he must have given the hand however it was,
neither refused the meeting but the hand
the boys first outcry was a rueful laugh,
as he swung toward them holding up the hand
half in appeal, but half as if to keep
the life from spilling then the boy saw all -
since he was old enough to know, big boy
doing a mans work, though a child at heart -
he saw all spoiled dont let him cut my hand off -
the doctor, when he comes dont let him, sister
so but the hand was gone already
the doctor put him in the dark of ether
he lay and puffed his lips out with his breath
and then - the watcher at his pulse took fright
no one believed they listened at his heart
little - less - nothing - and that ended it
no more to build on there and they, since they
were not the one dead, turned to their affairs
out, out--
the buzz-saw snarled and rattled in the yard
and made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it
and from there those that lifted eyes could count
five mountain ranges one behind the other
under the sunset far into vermont
and the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled,
as it ran light, or had to bear a load
and nothing happened day was all but done
call it a day, i wish they might have said
to please the boy by giving him the half hour
that a boy counts so much when saved from work
his sister stood beside them in her apron
to tell them supper at the word, the saw,
as if to prove saws knew what supper meant,
leaped out at the boys hand, or seemed to leap--
he must have given the hand however it was,
neither refused the meeting but the hand
the boys first outcry was a rueful laugh,
as he swung toward them holding up the hand
half in appeal, but half as if to keep
the life from spilling then the boy saw all--
since he was old enough to know, big boy
doing a mans work, though a child at heart--
he saw all spoiled dont let him cut my hand off--
the doctor, when he comes dont let him, sister
so but the hand was gone already
the doctor put him in the dark of ether
he lay and puffed his lips out with his breath
and then--the watcher at his pulse took fright
no one believed they listened at his heart
little--less--nothing--and that ended it
no more to build on there and they, since they
were not the one dead, turned to their affairs
pan with us
pan came out of the woods one day,-- his skin and his hair and his eyes were gray,
the gray of the moss of walls were they,-- and stood in the sun and looked his fill at
wooded valley and wooded hill
plowmen
a plow, they say, to plow the snow
they cannot mean to plant it, no --
unless in bitterness to mock
at having cultivated rock
provide, provide
the witch that came the withered hag
to wash the steps with pail and rag,
was once the beauty abishag,
the picture pride of hollywood
too many fall from great and good
for you to doubt the likelihood
die early and avoid the fate
or if predestined to die late,
make up your mind to die in state
make the whole stock exchange your own
if need be occupy a throne,
where nobody can call you crone
some have relied on what they knew
others on simply being true
what worked for them might work for you
no memory of having starred
atones for later disregard,
or keeps the end from being hard
better to go down dignified
with boughten friendship at your side
than none at all provide, provide
putting in the seed
you come to fetch me from my work to-night
when suppers on the table, and well see
if i can leave off burying the white
soft petals fallen from the apple tree
soft petals, yes, but not so barren quite,
mingled with these, smooth bean and wrinkled pea
and go along with you ere you lose sight
of what you came for and become like me,
slave to a springtime passion for the earth
how love burns through the putting in the seed
on through the watching for that early birth
when, just as the soil tarnishes with weed,
the sturdy seedling with arched body comes
shouldering its way and shedding the earth crumbs
range-finding
the battle rent a cobweb diamond-strung
and cut a flower beside a ground birds nest
before it stained a single human breast
the stricken flower bent double and so hung
and still the bird revisited her young
a butterfly its fall had dispossessed
a moment sought in air his flower of rest,
then lightly stooped to it and fluttering clung
on the bare upland pasture there had spread
oernight twixt mullein stalks a wheel of thread
and straining cables wet with silver dew
a sudden passing bullet shook it dry
the indwelling spider ran to greet the fly,
but finding nothing, sullenly withdrew
reluctance
out through the fields and the woods and over the walls i have wended i have
climbed the hills of view and looked at the world, and descended i have come by the
highway home, and lo, it is ended the leaves are all dead on the group, save those
that the oak is keeping to ravel them one by one and let them go scraping and
creeping out over the crusted snow, when others are sleeping and the dead leaves
lie huddled and still, no longer blown hither and thither the last long aster is gone
the flowers of the witch-hazel wither the heart is still aching to seek, but the feel
question whither? ah, when to the heart of man was it ever less than a treason to
go with the drift of things, to yield with a grace to reason, and bow and accept the end
of a love or a season?
revelation
we make ourselves a place apart
behind light words that tease and flout,
but oh, the agitated heart
till someone find us really out
tis pity if the case require
or so we say that in the end
we speak the literal to inspire
the understanding of a friend
but so with all, from babes that play
at hide-and-seek to god afar,
so all who hide too well away
must speak and tell us where they are
rose pogonias
a saturated meadow,
sun-shaped and jewel-small,
a circle scarcely wider
than the trees around were tall
where winds were quite excluded,
and the air was stifling sweet
with the breath of many flowers, --
a temple of the heat
there we bowed us in the burning,
as the suns right worship is,
to pick where none could miss them
a thousand orchises
for though the grass was scattered,
yet every second spear
seemed tipped with wings of color,
that tinged the atmosphere
we raised a simple prayer
before we left the spot,
that in the general mowing
that place might be forgot
or if not all so favored,
obtain such grace of hours,
that none should mow the grass there
while so confused with flowers
spring pools
these pools that, though in forests, still reflect
the total sky almost without defect,
and like the flowers beside them, chill and shiver,
will like the flowers beside them soon be gone,
and yet not out by any brook or river,
but up by roots to bring dark foliage on
the trees that have it in their pent-up buds
to darken nature and be summer woods -
let them think twice before they use their powers
to blot out and drink up and sweep away
these flowery waters and these watery flowers
from snow that melted only yesterday
stars
how countlessly they congregate
oer our tumultuous snow,
which flows in shapes as tall as trees
when wintry winds do blow--
as if with keenness for our fate,
our faltering few steps on
to white rest, and a place of rest
invisible at dawn,--
and yet with neither love nor hate,
those stars like some snow-white
minervas snow-white marble eyes
without the gift of sight
stopping by woods on a snowy evening
whose woods these are i think i know
his house is in the village, though
he will not see me stopping here
to watch his woods fill up with snow
my little horse must think it queer
to stop without a farmhouse near
between the woods and frozen lake
the darkest evening of the year
he gives his harness bells a shake
to ask if there is some mistake
the only other sounds the sweep
of easy wind and downy flake
the woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
but i have promises to keep,
and miles to go before i sleep,
and miles to go before i sleep
the aim was song
before man to blow to right
the wind once blew itself untaught,
and did its loudest day and night
in any rough place where it caught
man came to tell it what was wrong
it hadnt found the place to blow
it blew too hard - the aim was song
and listen - how it ought to go
he took a little in his mouth,
and held it long enough for north
to be converted into south,
and then by measure blew it forth
by measure it was word and note,
the wind the wind had meant to be -
a little through the lips and throat
the aim was song - the wind could see
the armful
for every parcel i stoop down to seize
i lose some other off my arms and knees,
and the whole pile is slipping, bottles, buns --
extremes too hard to comprehend at once,
yet nothing i should care to leave behind
with all i have to hold with hand and mind
and heart, if need be, i will do my best
to keep their building balanced at my breast
i crouch down to prevent them as they fall
then sit down in the middle of them all
i had to drop the armful in the road
and try to stack them in a better load
the bear
the bear puts both arms around the tree above her
and draws it down as if it were a lover
and its chokecherries lips to kiss good-by,
then lets it snap back upright in the sky
her next step rocks a boulder on the wall
shes making her cross-country in the fall
her great weight creaks the barbed wire in its staples
as she flings over and off down through the maples,
leaving on one wire tooth a lock of hair
such is the uncaged progress of the bear
the world has room to make a bear feel free
the universe seems cramped to you and me
man acts more like the poor bear in a cage,
that all day fights a nervous inward rage,
his mood rejecting all his mind suggests
he paces back and forth and never rests
the me-nail click and shuffle of his feet,
the telescope at one end of his beat,
and at the other end the microscope,
two instruments of nearly equal hope,
and in conjunction giving quite a spread
or if he rests from scientific tread,
tis only to sit back and sway his head
through ninety-odd degrees of arc, it seems,
between two metaphysical extremes
he sits back on his fundamental butt
with lifted snout and eyes if any shut
he almost looks religious but hes not,
and back and forth he sways from cheek to cheek,
at one extreme agreeing with one greek
at the other agreeing with another greek
which may be thought, but only so to speak
a baggy figure, equally pathetic
when sedentary and when peripatetic
the cow in apple-time
something inspires the only cow of late
to make no more of a wall than an open gate,
and think no more of wall-builders than fools
her face is flecked with pomace and she drools
a cider syrup having tasted fruit,
she scorns a pasture withering to the root
she runs from tree to tree where lie and sweeten
the windfalls spiked with stubble and worm-eaten
she leaves them bitten when she has to fly
she bellows on a knoll against the sky
her udder shrivels and the milk goes dry
the death of the hired man
mary sat musing on the lamp-flame at the table
waiting for warren when she heard his step,
she ran on tip-toe down the darkened passage
to meet him in the doorway with the news
and put him on his guard silas is back
she pushed him outward with her through the door
and shut it after her be kind, she said
she took the market things from warrens arms
and set them on the porch, then drew him down
to sit beside her on the wooden steps
when was i ever anything but kind to him?
but ill not have the fellow back, he said
i told him so last haying, didnt i?
if he left then, i said, that ended it
what good is he? who else will harbour him
at his age for the little he can do?
what help he is theres no depending on
off he goes always when i need him most
he thinks he ought to earn a little pay,
enough at least to buy tobacco with,
so he wont have to beg and be beholden
all right, i say, i cant afford to pay
any fixed wages, though i wish i could
someone else can then someone else will have to
i shouldnt mind his bettering himself
if that was what it was you can be certain,
when he begins like that, theres someone at him
trying to coax him off with pocket-money,--
in haying time, when any help is scarce
in winter he comes back to us im done
sh not so loud hell hear you, mary said
i want him to hell have to soon or late
hes worn out hes asleep beside the stove
when i came up from rowes i found him here,
huddled against the barn-door fast asleep,
a miserable sight, and frightening, too--
you neednt smile--i didnt recognise him--
i wasnt looking for him--and hes changed
wait till you see
where did you say hed been?
he didnt say i dragged him to the house,
and gave him tea and tried to make him smoke
i tried to make him talk about his travels
nothing would do he just kept nodding off
what did he say? did he say anything?
but little
anything? mary, confess
he said hed come to ditch the meadow for me
warren
but did he? i just want to know
of course he did what would you have him say?
surely you wouldnt grudge the poor old man
some humble way to save his self-respect
he added, if you really care to know,
he meant to clear the upper pasture, too
that sounds like something you have heard before?
warren, i wish you could have heard the way
he jumbled everything i stopped to look
two or three times--he made me feel so queer--
to see if he was talking in his sleep
he ran on harold wilson--you remember--
the boy you had in haying four years since
hes finished school, and teaching in his college
silas declares youll have to get him back
he says they two will make a team for work
between them they will lay this farm as smooth
the way he mixed that in with other things
he thinks young wilson a likely lad, though daft
on education--you know how they fought
all through july under the blazing sun,
silas up on the cart to build the load,
harold along beside to pitch it on
yes, i took care to keep well out of earshot
well, those days trouble silas like a dream
you wouldnt think they would how some things linger
harolds young college boys assurance piqued him
after so many years he still keeps finding
good arguments he sees he might have used
i sympathise i know just how it feels
to think of the right thing to say too late
harolds associated in his mind with latin
he asked me what i thought of harolds saying
he studied latin like the violin
because he liked it--that an argument
he said he couldnt make the boy believe
he could find water with a hazel prong--
which showed how much good school had ever done him
he wanted to go over that but most of all
he thinks if he could have another chance
to teach him how to build a load of hay----
i know, thats silas one accomplishment
he bundles every forkful in its place,
and tags and numbers it for future reference,
so he can find and easily dislodge it
in the unloading silas does that well
he takes it out in bunches like big birds nests
you never see him standing on the hay
hes trying to lift, straining to lift himself
he thinks if he could teach him that, hed be
some good perhaps to someone in the world
he hates to see a boy the fool of books
poor silas, so concerned for other folk,
and nothing to look backward to with pride,
and nothing to look forward to with hope,
so now and never any different
part of a moon was falling down the west,
dragging the whole sky with it to the hills
its light poured softly in her lap she saw
and spread her apron to it she put out her hand
among the harp-like morning-glory strings,
taut with the dew from garden bed to eaves,
as if she played unheard the tenderness
that wrought on him beside her in the night
warren, she said, he has come home to die
you neednt be afraid hell leave you this time
home, he mocked gently
yes, what else but home?
it all depends on what you mean by home
of course hes nothing to us, any more
than was the hound that came a stranger to us
out of the woods, worn out upon the trail
home is the place where, when you have to go there,
they have to take you in
i should have called it
something you somehow havent to deserve
warren leaned out and took a step or two,
picked up a little stick, and brought it back
and broke it in his hand and tossed it by
silas has better claim on us you think
than on his brother? thirteen little miles
as the road winds would bring him to his door
silas has walked that far no doubt to-day
why didnt he go there? his brothers rich,
a somebody--director in the bank
he never told us that
we know it though
i think his brother ought to help, of course
ill see to that if there is need he ought of right
to take him in, and might be willing to--
he may be better than appearances
but have some pity on silas do you think
if hed had any pride in claiming kin
or anything he looked for from his brother,
hed keep so still about him all this time?
i wonder whats between them
i can tell you
silas is what he is--we wouldnt mind him--
but just the kind that kinsfolk cant abide
he never did a thing so very bad
he dont know why he isnt quite as good
as anyone he wont be made ashamed
to please his brother, worthless though he is
i cant think si ever hurt anyone
no, but he hurt my heart the way he lay
and rolled his old head on that sharp-edged chair-back
he wouldnt let me put him on the lounge
you must go in and see what you can do
i made the bed up for him there to-night
youll be surprised at him--how much hes broken
his working days are done im sure of it
id not be in a hurry to say that
i havent been go, look, see for yourself
but, warren, please remember how it is
hes come to help you ditch the meadow
he has a plan you mustnt laugh at him
he may not speak of it, and then he may
ill sit and see if that small sailing cloud
will hit or miss the moon
it hit the moon
then there were three there, making a dim row,
the moon, the little silver cloud, and she
warren returned--too soon, it seemed to her,
slipped to her side, caught up her hand and waited
warren, she questioned
dead, was all he answered
the demiurges laugh
it was far in the sameness of the wood
i was running with joy on the demons trail,
though i knew what i hunted was no true god
it was just as the light was beginning to fail
that i suddenly heardall i needed to hear
it has lasted me many and many a year
the sound was behind me instead of before,
a sleepy sound, but mocking half,
as of one who utterly couldnt care
the demon arose from his wallow to laugh,
brushing the dirt from his eye as he went
and well i knew what the demon meant
i shall not forget how his laugh rang out
i felt as a fool to have been so caught,
and checked my steps to make pretence
it was something among the leaves i sought
though doubtful whether he stayed to see
thereafter i sat me against a tree
the exposed nest
you were forever finding some new play
so when i saw you down on hands and knees
i the meadow, busy with the new-cut hay,
trying, i thought, to set it up on end,
i went to show you how to make it stay,
if that was your idea, against the breeze,
and, if you asked me, even help pretend
to make it root again and grow afresh
but twas no make-believe with you today,
nor was the grass itself your real concern,
though i found your hand full of wilted fern,
steel-bright june-grass, and blackening heads of clovers
twas a nest full of young birds on the ground
the cutter-bar had just gone champing over
miraculously without tasking flesh
and left defenseless to the heat and light
you wanted to restore them to their right
of something interposed between their sight
and too much world at once--could means be found
the way the nest-full every time we stirred
stood up to us as to a mother-bird
whose coming home has been too long deferred,
made me ask would the mother-bird return
and care for them in such a change of scene
and might out meddling make her more afraid
that was a thing we could not wait to learn
we saw the risk we took in doing good,
but dared not spare to do the best we could
though harm should come of it so built the screen
you had begun, and gave them back their shade
all this to prove we cared why is there then
no more to tell? we turned to other things
i havent any memory--have you?--
of ever coming to the place again
to see if the birds lived the first night through,
and so at last to learn to use their wings
the flower boat
the fishermans swapping a yarn for a yarn
under the hand of the village barber,
and her in the angle of house and barn
his deep-sea dory has found a harbor
at anchor she rides the sunny sod
as full to the gunnel of flowers growing
as ever she turned her home with cod
from georges bank when winds were blowing
and i judge from that elysian freight
that all they ask is rougher weather,
and dory and master will sail by fate
to seek the happy isles together
the gift outright
the land was ours before we were the lands
she was our land more than a hundred years
before we were her people she was ours
in massachusetts, in virginia,
but we were englands, still colonials,
possessing what we still were unpossessed by,
possessed by what we now no more possessed
something we were withholding made us weak
until we found out that it was ourselves
we were withholding from our land of living,
and forthwith found salvation in surrender
such as we were we gave ourselves outright
the deed of gift was many deeds of war
to the land vaguely realizing westward,
but still unstoried, artless, unenhanced,
such as she was, such as she would become
the gum-gatherer
there overtook me and drew me in
to his down-hill, early-morning stride,
and set me five miles on my road
better than if he had had me ride,
a man with a swinging bag forload
and half the bag wound round his hand
we talked like barking above the din
of water we walked along beside
and for my telling him where id been
and where i lived in mountain land
to be coming home the way i was,
he told me a little about himself
he came from higher up in the pass
where the grist of the new-beginning brooks
is blocks split off the mountain mass --
and hop eless grist enough it looks
ever to grind to soil for grass
the way it is will do for moss
there he had built his stolen shack
it had to be a stolen shack
because of the fears of fire and logs
that trouble the sleep of lumber folk
visions of half the world burned black
and the sun shrunken yellow in smoke
we know who when they come to town
bring berries under the wagon seat,
or a basket of eggs between their feet
what this man brought in a cotton sack
was gum, the gum of the mountain spruce
he showed me lumps of the scented stuff
like uncut jewels, dull and rough
it comes to market golden brown
but turns to pink between the teeth
i told him this is a pleasant life
to set your breast to the bark of trees
that all your days are dim beneath,
and reaching up with a little knife,
to loose the resin and take it down
and bring it to market when you please
the hill wife
it was too lonely for her there,
and too wild,
and since there were but two of them,
and no child
and work was little in the house,
she was free,
and followed where he furrowed field,
or felled log
she rested on a log and tossed
the fresh chips,
with a song only to herself
on her lips
and once she went to break a bough
of black alder
she strayed so far she scarcely heard
when he called her -
and didnt answer - didnt speak -
or return
she stood, and then she ran and hid
in the fern
he never found her, though he looked
everywhere,
and he asked at her mothers house
was she there
sudden and swift and light as that
the ties gave,
and he learned of finalities
besides the grave
the line-gang
here come the line-gang pioneering by,
they throw a forest down less cut than broken
they plant dead trees for living, and the dead
they string together with a living thread
they string an instrument against the sky
wherein words whether beaten out or spoken
will run as hushed as when they were a thought
but in no hush they string it they go past
with shouts afar to pull the cable taught,
to hold it hard until they make it fast,
to ease away -- they have it with a laugh,
an oath of towns that set the wild at naught
they bring the telephone and telegraph
the lockless door
it went many years,
but at last came a knock,
and i thought of the door
with no lock to lock
i blew out the light,
i tip-toed the floor,
and raised both hands
in prayer to the door
but the knock came again
my window was wide
i climbed on the sill
and descended outside
back over the sill
i bade a come in
to whoever the knock
at the door may have been
so at a knock
i emptied my cage
to hide in the world
and alter with age
the need of being versed in country things
the house had gone to bring again
to the midnight sky a sunset glow
now the chimney was all of the house that stood,
like a pistil after the petals go
the barn opposed across the way,
that would have joined the house in flame
had it been the will of the wind, was left
to bear forsaken the places name
no more it opened with all one end
for teams that came by the stony road
to drum on the floor with scurrying hoofs
and brush the mow with the summer load
the birds that came to it through the air
at broken windows flew out and in,
their murmur more like the sigh we sigh
from too much dwelling on what has been
yet for them the lilac renewed its leaf,
and the aged elm, though touched with fire
and the dry pump flung up an awkward arm
and the fence post carried a strand of wire
for them there was really nothing sad
but though they rejoiced in the nest they kept,
one had to be versed in country things
not to believe the phoebes wept
the oven bird
there is a singer eveyone has heard,
loud, a mid-summer and a mid-wood bird,
who makes the solid tree trunks sound again
he says that leaves are old and that for flowers
mid-summer is to spring as one to ten
he says the early petal-fall is past,
when pear and cherry bloom went down in showers
on sunny days a moment overcast
and comes that other fall we name the fall
he says the highway dust is over all
the bird would cease and be as other birds
but that he knows in singing not to sing
the question that he frames in all but words
is what to make of a diminished thing
the pasture
im going out to clean the pasture spring
ill only stop to rake the leaves away
and wait to watch the water clear, i may
i shant be gone long -- you come too
im going out to fetch the little calf
thats standing by the mother its so young,
it totters when she licks it with her tongue
i shant be gone long -- you come too
the road not taken
two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
and sorry i could not travel both
and be one traveler, long i stood
and looked down one as far as i could
to where it bent in the undergrowth
then took the other, just as fair,
and having perhaps the better claim
because it was grassy and wanted wear,
though as for that the passing there
had worn them really about the same,
and both that morning equally lay
in leaves no step had trodden black
oh, i marked the first for another day
yet knowing how way leads on to way
i doubted if i should ever come back
i shall be telling this with a sigh
somewhere ages and ages hence
two roads diverged in a wood, and i,
i took the one less traveled by,
and that has made all the difference
the rose family
the rose is a rose,
and was always a rose
but the theory now goes
that the apples a rose,
and the pear is, and sos
the plum, i suppose
the dear only knows
what will next prove a rose
you, of course, are a rose -
but were always a rose
the secret sits
we dance round in a ring and suppose,
but the secret sits in the middle and knows
the silken tent
she is as in a field of silken tent
at midday when the sunny summer breeze
has dried the dew and all its ropes relent,
so that in guys it gently sways at ease,
and its supporting central cedar pole,
that is its pinnacle to heavenward
and signifies the sureness of the soul,
seems to owe naught to any single cord,
but strictly held by none, is loosely bound
by countless silken ties of love and thought
to every thing on earth the compass round,
and only by ones going slightly taut
in the capriciousness of summer air
is of the slightlest bondage made aware
the soldier
he is that fallen lance that lies as hurled,
that lies unlifted now, come dew, come rust,
but still lies pointed as it ploughed the dust
if we who sight along it round the world,
see nothing worthy to have been its mark,
it is because like men we look too near,
forgetting that as fitted to the sphere,
our missiles always make too short an arc
they fall, they rip the grass, they intersect
the curve of earth, and striking, break their own
they make us cringe for metal-point on stone
but this we know, the obstacle that checked
and tripped the body, shot the spirit on
further than target ever showed or shone
the sound of trees
i wonder about the trees
why do we wish to bear
forever the noise of these
more than another noise
so close to our dwelling place?
we suffer them by the day
till we lose all measure of pace,
and fixity in our joys,
and acquire a listening air
they are that that talks of going
but never gets away
and that talks no less for knowing,
as it grows wiser and older,
that now it means to stay
my feet tug at the floor
and my head sways to my shoulder
sometimes when i watch trees sway,
from the window or the door
i shall set forth for somewhere,
i shall make the reckless choice
some day when they are in voice
and tossing so as to scare
the white clouds over them on
i shall have less to say,
but i shall be gone
the span of life
the old dog barks backwards without getting up
i can remember when he was a pup
anonymous submission
the star splitter
you know orion always comes up sideways
throwing a leg up over our fence of mountains,
and rising on his hands, he looks in on me
busy outdoors by lantern-light with something
i should have done by daylight, and indeed,
after the ground is frozen, i should have done
before it froze, and a gust flings a handful
of waste leaves at my smoky lantern chimney
to make fun of my way of doing things,
or else fun of orions having caught me
has a man, i should like to ask, no rights
these forces are obliged to pay respect to?
so brad mclaughlin mingled reckless talk
of heavenly stars with hugger-mugger farming,
till having failed at hugger-mugger farming
he burned his house down for the fire insurance
and spent the proceeds on a telescope
to satisfy a lifelong curiosity
about our place among the infinities
what do you want with one of those blame things?
i asked him well beforehand dont you get one
dont call it blamed there isnt anything
more blameless in the sense of being less
a weapon in our human fight, he said
ill have one if i sell my farm to buy it
there where he moved the rocks to plow the ground
and plowed between the rocks he couldnt move,
few farms changed hands so rather than spend years
trying to sell his farm and then not selling,
he burned his house down for the fire insurance
and bought the telescope with what it came to
he had been heard to say by several
the best thing that were put here fors to see
the strongest thing thats given us to see withs
a telescope someone in every town
seems to me owes it to the town to keep one
in littleton it might as well be me
after such loose talk it was no surprise
when he did what he did and burned his house down
mean laughter went about the town that day
to let him know we werent the least imposed on,
and he could wait---wed see to him tomorrow
but the first thing next morning we reflected
if one by one we counted people out
for the least sin, it wouldnt take us long
to get so we had no one left to live with
for to be social is to be forgiving
our thief, the one who does our stealing from us,
we dont cut off from coming to church suppers,
but what we miss we go to him and ask for
he promptly gives it back, that is if still
uneaten, unworn out, or undisposed of
it wouldnt do to be too hard on brad
about his telescope beyond the age
of being given one for christmas gift,
he had to take the best way he knew how
to find himself in one well, all we said was
he took a strange thing to be roguish over
some sympathy was wasted on the house,
a good old-timer dating back along
but a house isnt sentient the house
didnt feel anything and if it did,
why not regard it as a sacrifice,
and an old-fashioned sacrifice by fire,
instead of a new-fashioned one at auction?
out of a house and so out of a farm
at one stroke of a match, brad had to turn
to earn a living on the concord railroad,
as under-ticket-agent at a station
where his job, when he wasnt selling tickets,
was setting out, up track and down, not plants
as on a farm, but planets, evening stars
that varied in their hue from red to green
he got a good glass for six hundred dollars
his new job gave him leisure for stargazing
often he bid me come and have a look
up the brass barrel, velvet black inside,
at a star quaking in the other end
i recollect a night of broken clouds
and underfoot snow melted down to ice,
and melting further in the wind to mud
bradford and i had out the telescope
we spread our two legs as we spread its three,
pointed our thoughts the way we pointed it,
and standing at our leisure till the day broke,
said some of the best things we ever said
that telescope was christened the star-splitter,
because it didnt do a thing but split
a star in two or three, the way you split
a globule of quicksilver in your hand
with one stroke of your finger in the middle
its a star-splitter if there ever was one,
and ought to do some good if splitting stars
sa thing to be compared with splitting wood
weve looked and looked, but after all where are we?
do we know any better where we are,
and how it stands between the night tonight
and a man with a smoky lantern chimney?
how different from the way it ever stood?
the telephone
when i was just as far as i could walk from here today, there was an hour all still
when leaning with my head again a flower i heard you talk dont say i didnt, for i
heard you say-- you spoke from that flower on the window sill- do you remember what
it was you said? first tell me what it was you thought you heard having found the
flower and driven a bee away, i leaned on my head and holding by the stalk, i listened
and i thought i caught the word-- what was it? did you call me by my name? or did
you say-- someone said come -- i heard it as i bowed i may have thought as
much, but not aloud well, so i came
the trial by existence
even the bravest that are slain shall not dissemble their surprise on waking to find
valor reign, even as on earth, in paradise and where they sought without the sword
wide fields of asphodel foreer, to find that the utmost reward of daring should be
still to dare
the tuft of flowers
i went to turn the grass once after one
who mowed it in the dew before the sun
the dew was gone that made his blade so keen
before i came to view the levelled scene
i looked for him behind an isle of trees
i listened for his whetstone on the breeze
but he had gone his way, the grass all mown,
and i must be, as he had been,alone,
as all must be, i said within my heart,
whether they work together or apart
but as i said it, swift there passed me by
on noiseless wing a bewildered butterfly,
seeking with memories grown dim over night
some resting flower of yesterdays delight
and once i marked his flight go round and round,
as where some flower lay withering on the ground
and then he flew as far as eye could see,
and then on tremulous wing came back to me
i thought of questions that have no reply,
and would have turned to toss the grass to dry
but he turned first, and led my eye to look
at a tall tuft of flowers beside a brook,
a leaping tongue of bloom the scythe had spared
beside a reedy brook the scythe had bared
i left my place to know them by their name,
finding them butterfly-weed when i came
the mower in the dew had loved them thus,
by leaving them to flourish, not for us,
nor yet to draw one thought of ours to him,
but from sheer morning gladness at the brim
the butterfly and i had lit upon,
nevertheless, a message from the dawn,
that made me hear the wakening birds around,
and hear his long scythe whispering to the ground,
and feel a spirit kindred to my own
so that henceforth i worked no more alone
but glad with him, i worked as with his aid,
and weary, sought at noon with him the shade
and dreaming, as it were, held brotherly speech
with one whose thought i had not hoped to reach
men work together, i told him from the heart,
whether they work together or apart
the vanishing red
he is said to have been the last red man
in action and the miller is said to have laughed--
if you like to call such a sound a laugh
but he gave no one else a laughers license
for he turned suddenly grave as if to say,
whose business,--if i take it on myself,
whose business--but why talk round the barn?--
when its just that i hold with getting a thing done with
you cant get back and see it as he saw it
its too long a story to go into now
youd have to have been there and lived it
they you wouldnt have looked on it as just a matter
of who began it between the two races
some guttural exclamation of surprise
the red man gave in poking about the mill
over the great big thumping shuffling millstone
disgusted the miller physically as coming
from one who had no right to be heard from
come, john, he said, you want to see the wheel-pint?
he took him down below a cramping rafter,
and showed him, through a manhole in the floor,
the water in desperate straits like frantic fish,
salmon and sturgeon, lashing with their tails
the he shut down the trap door with a ring in it
that jangled even above the general noise,
and came upstairs alone--and gave that laugh,
and said something to a man with a meal-sack
that the man with the meal-sack didnt catch--then
oh, yes, he showed john the wheel-pit all right
the vantage point
if tires of trees i seek again mankind, well i know where to hie me--in the dawn, to a
slope where the cattle keep the lawn there amid loggin juniper reclined, myself
unseen, i see in white defined far off the homes of men, and farther still, the graves
of men on an opposing hill, living or dead, whichever are to mind and if by noon i
have too much of these, i have but to turn on my arm, and lo, the sun-burned hillside
sets my face aglow, my breathing shakes the bluet like a breeze, i smell the earth, i
smell the bruisegraved plant, i look into the crater of the ant
the wood-pile
out walking in the frozen swamp one gray day,
i paused and said, i will turn back from here
no, i will go on farther -- and we shall see
the hard snow held me, save where now and then
one foot went through the view was all in lines
straight up and down of tall slim trees
too much alike to mark or name a place by
so as to say for certain i was here
or somewhere else i was just far from home
a small bird flew before me he was careful
to put a tree between us when he lighted,
and say no word to tell me who he was
who was so foolish as to think what he thought
he thought that i was after him for a feather --
the white one in his tail like one who takes
everything said as personal to himself
one flight out sideways would have undeceived him
and then there was a pile of wood for which
i forgot him and let his little fear
carry him off the way i might have gone,
without so much as wishing him good-night
he went behind it to make his last stand
it was a cord of maple, cut and split
and piled -- and measured, four by four by eight
and not another like it could i see
no runner tracks in this years snow looped near it
and it was older sure than this years cutting,
or even last years or the years before
the wood was gray and the bark warping off it
and the pile somewhat sunken clematis
had wound strings round and round it like a bundle
what held it though on one side was a tree
still growing, and on one a stake and prop,
these latter about to fall i thought that only
someone who lived in turning to fresh tasks
could so forget his handiwork on which
he spent himself, the labor of his ax,
and leave it there far from a useful fireplace
to warm the frozen swamp as best it could
with the slow smokeless burning of decay
they were welcome to their belief
grief may have thought it was grief
care may have thought it was care
they were welcome to their belief,
the overimportant pair
no, it took all the snows that clung
to the low roof over his bed,
beginning when he was young,
to induce the one snow on his head
but whenever the roof camme white
the head in the dark below
was a shade less the color of night,
a shade more the color of snow
grief may have thought it was grief
care may have thought it was care
but neither one was the thief
of his raven color of hair
to e t
i slumbered with your poems on my breast
spread open as i dropped them half-read through
like dove wings on a figure on a tomb
to see, if in a dream they brought of you,
i might not have the chance i missed in life
through some delay, and call you to your face
first soldier, and then poet, and then both,
who died a soldier-poet of your race
i meant, you meant, that nothing should remain
unsaid between us, brother, and this remained--
and one thing more that was not then to say
the victory for what it lost and gained
you went to meet the shells embrace of fire
on vimy ridge and when you fell that day
the war seemed over more for you than me,
but now for me than you--the other way
how over, though, for even me who knew
the foe thrust back unsafe beyond the rhine,
if i was not to speak of it to you
and see you pleased once more with words of mine?
to et
i slumbered with your poems on my breast
spread open as i dropped them half-read through
like dove wings on a figure on a tomb
to see, if in a dream they brought of you,
i might not have the chance i missed in life
through some delay, and call you to your face
first soldier, and then poet, and then both,
who died a soldier-poet of your race
i meant, you meant, that nothing should remain
unsaid between us, brother, and this remained--
and one thing more that was not then to say
the victory for what it lost and gained
you went to meet the shells embrace of fire
on vimy ridge and when you fell that day
the war seemed over more for you than me,
but now for me than you--the other way
how over, though, for even me who knew
the foe thrust back unsafe beyond the rhine,
if i was not to speak of it to you
and see you pleased once more with words of mine?
to earthward
love at the lips was touch
as sweet as i could bear
and once that seemed too much
i lived on air
that crossed me from sweet things,
the flow of - was it musk
from hidden grapevine springs
down hill at dusk?
i had the swirl and ache
from sprays of honeysuckle
that when theyre gathered shake
dew on the knuckle
i craved strong sweets, but those
seemed strong when i was young
the petal of the rose
it was that stung
now no joy but lacks salt
that is not dashed with pain
and weariness and fault
i crave the stain
of tears, the aftermark
of almost too much love,
the sweet of bitter bark
and burning clove
when stiff and sore and scarred
i take away my hand
from leaning on it hard
in grass and sand,
the hurt is not enough
i long for weight and strength
to feel the earth as rough
to all my length
to the thawing wind
come with rain o loud southwester bring the singer, bring the nester give the
buried flower a dream make the settled snowbank steam find the brown beneath the
white but whateer you do tonight, bath my window, make it flow, melt it as the ice
will go melt the glass and leave the sticks like a hermits crucifix burst into my
narrow stall swing the picture on the wall run the rattling pages oer scatter poems
on the floor turn the poet out of door
tree at my window
tree at my window, window tree,
my sash is lowered when night comes on
but let there never be curtain drawn
between you and me
vague dream head lifted out of the ground,
and thing next most diffuse to cloud,
not all your light tongues talking aloud
could be profound
but tree, i have seen you taken and tossed,
and if you have seen me when i slept,
you have seen me when i was taken and swept
and all but lost
that day she put our heads together,
fate had her imagination about her,
your head so much concerned with outer,
mine with inner, weather
two look at two
love and forgetting might have carried them
a little further up the mountain side
with night so near, but not much further up
they must have halted soon in any case
with thoughts of a path back, how rough it was
with rock and washout, and unsafe in darkness
when they were halted by a tumbled wall
with barbed-wire binding they stood facing this,
spending what onward impulse they still had
in one last look the way they must not go,
on up the failing path, where, if a stone
or earthslide moved at night, it moved itself
no footstep moved it this is all, they sighed,
good-night to woods but not so there was more
a doe from round a spruce stood looking at them
across the wall, as near the wall as they
she saw them in their field, they her in hers
the difficulty of seeing what stood still,
like some up-ended boulder split in two,
was in her clouded eyes they saw no fear there
she seemed to think that two thus they were safe
then, as if they were something that, though strange,
she could not trouble her mind with too long,
she sighed and passed unscared along the wall
this, then, is all what more is there to ask?
but no, not yet a snort to bid them wait
a buck from round the spruce stood looking at them
across the wall as near the wall as they
this was an antlered buck of lusty nostril,
not the same doe come back into her place
he viewed them quizzically with jerks of head,
as if to ask, why dont you make some motion?
or give some sign of life? because you cant
i doubt if youre as living as you look
thus till he had them almost feeling dared
to stretch a proffering hand -- and a spell-breaking
then he too passed unscared along the wall
two had seen two, whichever side you spoke from
this must be all it was all still they stood,
a great wave from it going over them,
as if the earth in one unlooked-for favour
had made them certain earth returned their love
two tramps in mud time
out of the mud two strangers came
and caught me splitting wood in the yard,
and one of them put me off my aim
by hailing cheerily hit them hard
i knew pretty well why he had dropped behind
and let the other go on a way
i knew pretty well what he had in mind
he wanted to take my job for pay
good blocks of oak it was i split,
as large around as the chopping block
and every piece i squarely hit
fell splinterless as a cloven rock
the blows that a life of self-control
spares to strike for the common good,
that day, giving a loose my soul,
i spent on the unimportant wood
the sun was warm but the wind was chill
you know how it is with an april day
when the sun is out and the wind is still,
youre one month on in the middle of may
but if you so much as dare to speak,
a cloud comes over the sunlit arch,
a wind comes off a frozen peak,
and youre two months back in the middle of march
a bluebird comes tenderly up to alight
and turns to the wind to unruffle a plume,
his song so pitched as not to excite
a single flower as yet to bloom
it is snowing a flake and he half knew
winter was only playing possum
except in color he isnt blue,
but he wouldnt advise a thing to blossom
the water for which we may have to look
in summertime with a witching wand,
in every wheelruts now a brook,
in every print of a hoof a pond
be glad of water, but dont forget
the lurking frost in the earth beneath
that will steal forth after the sun is set
and show on the water its crystal teeth
the time when most i loved my task
the two must make me love it more
by coming with what they came to ask
youd think i never had felt before
the weight of an ax-head poised aloft,
the grip of earth on outspread feet,
the life of muscles rocking soft
and smooth and moist in vernal heat
out of the wood two hulking tramps
from sleeping god knows where last night,
but not long since in the lumber camps
they thought all chopping was theirs of right
men of the woods and lumberjacks,
they judged me by their appropriate tool
except as a fellow handled an ax
they had no way of knowing a fool
nothing on either side was said
they knew they had but to stay their stay
and all their logic would fill my head
as that i had no right to play
with what was another mans work for gain
my right might be love but theirs was need
and where the two exist in twain
theirs was the better right--agreed
but yield who will to their separation,
my object in living is to unite
my avocation and my vocation
as my two eyes make one in sight
only where love and need are one,
and the work is play for mortal stakes,
is the deed ever really done
for heaven and the futures sakes
here in this valley of discrete academies
we have not mountains, but mounts, truncated hillocks
to the adirondacks, to northern monadnock,
themselves mere rocky hillocks to an everest
still, theyre out best mustering of height by
comparison with the sunnken silver-grizzled
back of the connecticut, the river-level
flats of hadley farms, theyre lofty enough
elevations to be called something more than hills
green, wholly green, they stand their knobby spine
against our sky they are what we look southward to
up pleasant street at main poising their shapes
between the snuff and red tar-paper apartments,
they mound a summer coolness in our view
to people who live in the bottom of valleys
a rise in the landscape, hummock or hogback, looks
to be meant for climbing a peculiar logic
in going up for the coming down if the post
we start ats the same post we finish by,
but its the clear conversion at the top can hold
us to the oblique road, in spite of a fitful
wish for even ground, and its the last cliff
ledge will dislodge out cramped concept of space, unwall
horizons beyond vision, spill vision
after the horizons, stretching the narrowed eye
to full capacity we climb to hopes
of such seeing up the leaf-shuttered escarpments,
blindered by green, under a green-grained sky
into the blue tops define themselves as places
where nothing highers to be looked to downward looks
follow the black arrow-backs of swifts on their track
of the air eddies loop and arc though airs at rest
to us, since we see no leaf edge stir high
here on a mount overlaid with leaves the paint-peeled
hundred-year-old hotel sustains its ramshackle
four-way veranda, view-keeping above
the fallen timbers of its once remarkable
funicular railway, witness to gone
time, and to graces gone with the time a state view-
keeper collects half-dollars for the slopes
of state scenery, sells soda, shows off viewpoints
a ruffy skylight oaints the gray oxbow
and paints the rivers pale circumfluent stillness
as roses broach their carmine in a mirror flux
of the desultory currents --- all that unique
stripple of shifting wave-tips is ironed out, lost
in the simplified orderings of sky-
lorded perspectives maplike, the far fields are ruled
by correct green lines and no seedy free-for-all
of asparagus heads cars run their suave
colored beads on the strung roads, and the people stroll
straightforwardly across the springing green
alls peace and discipline down there till lately we
lived under the shadow of hot rooftops
and never saw how coolly we might move for once
a high hush quietens the crickets cry
the smile of iceboxes annihilates me
such blue currents in the veins of my loved one
i hear her great heart purr
from her lips ampersands and percent signs
exit like kisses
it is monday in her mind morals
launder and present themselves
what am i to make of these contradictions?
i wear white cuffs, i bow
is this love then, this red material
issuing from the steele needle that flies so blindingly?
it will make little dresses and coats,
it will cover a dynasty
how her body opens and shuts-
a swiss watch, jeweled in the hinges
o heart, such disorganization
the stars are flashing like terrible numerals
abc, her eyelids say
spry, wry, and gray as these march sticks,
percy bows, in his blue peajacket, among the narcissi
he is recuperating from something on the lung
the narcissi, too, are bowing to some big thing
it rattles their stars on the green hill where percy
nurses the hardship of his stitches, and walks and walks
there is a dignity to this there is a formality-
the flowers vivid as bandages, and the man mending
they bow and stand  they suffer such attacks
and the octogenarian loves the little flocks
he is quite blue the terrible wind tries his breathing
the narcissi look up like children, quickly and whitely
clocks cry stillness is a lie, my dear
the wheels revolve, the universe keeps running
proud you halt upon the spiral stair
the asteroids turn traitor in the air,
and planets plot with old elliptic cunning
clocks cry stillness is a lie, my dear
red the unraveled rose sings in your hair
blood springs eternal if the heart be burning
proud you halt upon the spiral stair
cryptic stars wind up the atmosphere,
in solar schemes the titled suns go turning
clocks cry stillness is a lie, my dear
loud the immortal nightingales declare
love flames forever if the flesh be yearning
proud you halt upon the spiral stair
circling zodiac compels the year
intolerant beauty never will be learning
clocks cry stillness is a lie, my dear
proud you halt upon the spiral stair
love set you going like a fat gold watch
the midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry
took its place among the elements
our voices echo, magnifying your arrival  new statue
in a drafty museum, your nakedness
shadows our safety  we stand round blankly as walls
im no more your mother
than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow
effacement at the winds hand
all night your moth-breath
flickers among the flat pink roses  i wake to listen
a far sea moves in my ear
one cry, and i stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral
in my victorian nightgown
your mouth opens clean as a cats  the window square
whitens and swallows its dull stars  and now you try
your handful of notes
the clear vowels rise like balloons
old man, you surface seldom
then you come in with the tides
coming
when seas wash cold, foam-
capped white hair, white beard,
far-flung,
a dragnet, rising, falling, as waves
crest and trough miles long
extend the radial sheaves
of your spread hair, in which wrin-
kling skeins
knotted, caught, survives
the old myth of orgins
unimaginable you float near
as kneeled ice-mountains
of the north, to be steered clear
of, not fathomed all obscurity
starts with a danger
your dangers are many i
cannot look much but your form
suffers
some strange injury
and seems to die so vapors
ravel to clearness on the dawn sea
the muddy rumors
of your burial move me
to half-believe your reappearance
proves rumors shallow,
for the archaic trenched lines
of your grained face shed time in
runnels
ages beat like rains
on the unbeaten channels
of the ocean such sage humor
and
durance are whirlpools
to make away with the ground-
work of the earth and the skys
ridgepole
waist down, you may wind
one labyrinthine tangle
to root deep among knuckles, shin-
bones,
skulls inscrutable,
below shoulders not once
seen by any man who kept his head,
you defy questions
you defy godhood
i walk dry on your kingdoms border
exiled to no good
your shelled bed i remember
father, this thick air is murderous
i would breathe water
arena dust rusted by four bulls blood to a dull redness,
the afternoon at a bad end under the crowds truculence,
the ritual death each time botched among dropped capes, ill-judged
stabs,
the strongest will seemed a will towards ceremony obese, dark-
faced in his rich yellows, tassels, pompons, braid, the picador
rode out against the fifth bull to brace his pike and slowly bear
down deep into the bent bull-neck cumbrous routine, not artwork
instinct for art began with the bulls horn lofting in the mobs
hush a lumped man-shape the whole act formal, fluent as a dance
blood faultlessly broached redeemed the sullied air, the earths grossness
now coldness comes sifting down, layer after layer,
to our bower at the lily root
overhead the old umbrellas of summer
wither like pithless hands there is little shelter
hourly the eye of the sky enlarges its blank
dominion the stars are no nearer
already frog-mouth and fish-mouth drink
the liquor of indolence, and all thing sink
into a soft caul of forgetfulness
the fugitive colors die
caddis worms drowse in their silk cases,
the lamp-headed nymphs are nodding to sleep like statues
puppets, loosed from the strings of the puppetmaster
wear masks of horn to bed
this is not death, it is something safer
the wingy myths wont tug at us anymore
the molts are tongueless that sang from above the water
of golgotha at the tip of a reed,
and how a god flimsy as a babys finger
shall unhusk himself and steer into the air
he, hunger-strung, hard to slake,
so fitted is for my black luck
with heat such as no man could have
and yet keep kind
that all merits in being meat
seasoned how hed most approve
bloods broth
filched by his hand,
choice wassail makes, cooked hot,
cupped quick to mouth
though prime parts cram each rich meal,
hell not spare
nor scant his want until
sacked larders gone bone-bare
all day she plays at chess with the bones of the world
favored while suddenly the rains begin
beyond the window she lies on cushions curled
and nibbles an occasional bonbon of sin
prim, pink-breasted, feminine, she nurses
chocolate fancies in rose-papered rooms
where polished higboys whisper creaking curses
and hothouse roses shed immortal blooms
the garnets on her fingers twinkle quick
and blood reflects across the manuscript
she muses on the odor, sweet and sick,
of festering gardenias in a crypt,
and lost in subtle metaphor, retreats
from gray child faces crying in the streets
mother, mother, what illbred aunt
or what disfigured and unsightly
cousin did you so unwisely keep
unasked to my christening, that she
sent these ladies in her stead
with heads like darning-eggs to nod
and nod and nod at foot and head
and at the left side of my crib?
mother, who made to order stories
of mixie blackshort the heroic bear,
mother, whose witches always, always,
got baked into gingerbread, i wonder
whether you saw them, whether you said
words to rid me of those three ladies
nodding by night around my bed,
mouthless, eyeless, with stitched bald head
in the hurricane, when fathers twelve
study windows bellied in
like bubbles about to break, you fed
my brother and me cookies and ovaltine
and helped the two of us to choir
thor is angry boom boom boom
thor is angry we dont care
but those ladies broke the panes
when on tiptoe the schoolgirls danced,
blinking flashlights like fireflies
and singing the glowworm song, i could
not lift a foot in the twinkle-dress
but, heavy-footed, stood aside
in the shadow cast by my dismal-headed
godmothers, and you cried and cried
and the shadow stretched, the lights went out
mother, you sent me to piano lessons
and praised my arabesques and trills
although each teacher found my touch
oddly wooden in spite of scales
and the hours of practicing, my ear
tone-deaf and yes, unteachable
i learned, i learned, i learned elsewhere,
from muses unhired by you, dear mother,
i woke one day to see you, mother,
floating above me in bluest air
on a green balloon bright with a million
flowers and bluebirds that never were
never, never, found anywhere
but the little planet bobbed away
like a soap-bubble as you called come here
and i faced my traveling companions
day now, night now, at head, side, feet,
they stand their vigil in gowns of stone,
faces blank as the day i was born,
their shadows long in the setting sun
that never brightens or goes down
and this is the kingdom you bore me to,
mother, mother but no frown of mine
will betray the company i keep
how far is it?
how far is it now?
the gigantic gorilla interior
of the wheels move, they appall me ---
the terrible brains
of krupp, black muzzles
revolving, the sound
punching out absence like cannon
it is russia i have to get across, it is some was or other
i am dragging my body
quietly through the straw of the boxcars
now is the time for bribery
what do wheels eat, these wheels
fixed to their arcs like gods,
the silver leash of the will ----
inexorable and their pride
all the gods know destinations
i am a letter in this slot
i fly to a name, two eyes
will there be fire, will there be bread?
here there is such mud
it is a trainstop, the nurses
undergoing the faucet water, its veils, veils in a nunnery,
touching their wounded,
the men the blood still pumps forward,
legs, arms piled outside
the tent of unending cries ----
a hospital of dolls
and the men, what is left of the men
pumped ahead by these pistons, this blood
into the next mile,
the next hour ----
dynasty of broken arrows
how far is it?
there is mud on my feet,
thick, red and slipping it is adams side,
this earth i rise from, and i in agony
i cannot undo myself, and the train is steaming
steaming and breathing, its teeth
ready to roll, like a devils
there is a minute at the end of it
a minute, a dewdrop
how far is it?
it is so small
the place i am getting to, why are there these obstacles ----
the body of this woman,
charred skirts and deathmask
mourned by religious figures, by garlanded children
and now detonations ----
thunder and guns
the fires between us
is there no place
turning and turning in the middle air,
untouchable and untouchable
the train is dragging itself, it is screaming ----
an animal
insane for the destination,
the bloodspot,
the face at the end of the flare
i shall bury the wounded like pupas,
i shall count and bury the dead
let their souls writhe in like dew,
incense in my track
the carriages rock, they are cradles
and i, stepping from this skin
of old bandages, boredoms, old faces
step up to you from the black car of lethe,
pure as a baby
this is a dark house, very big
i made it myself,
cell by cell from a quiet corner,
chewing at the grey paper,
oozing the glue drops,
whistling, wiggling my ears,
thinking of something else
it has so many cellars,
such eelish delvings
u an round as an owl,
i see by my own light
any day i may litter puppies
or mother a horse my belly moves
i must make more maps
these marrowy tunnels
moley-handed, i eat my way
all-mouth licks up the bushes
and the pots of meat
he lives in an old well,
a stoney hole hes to blame
hes a fat sort
pebble smells, turnipy chambers
small nostrils are breathing
little humble loves
footlings, boneless as noses,
it is warm and tolerable
in the bowel of the root
heres a cuddly mother
always in the middle of a kiss
came the profane stimulus to cough
always from teh pulpit during service
leaned the devil prompting you to laugh
behind mock-ceremony of your grief
lurked the burlesque instinct of the ham
you never altered your amused belief
that life was a mere monumental sham
from the comic accident of birth
to the final grotesque joke of death
your malady of sacrilegious mirth
spread gay contagion with each clever breath
now you must play the straight man for a term
and tolerate the humor of the worm
now we, returning from the vaulted domes
of our colossal sleep, come home to find
a tall metropolis of catacombs
erected down the gangways of our mind
green alleys where we reveled have become
the infernal haunt of demon dangers
both seraph song and violins are dumb
each clock tick consecrates the death of strangers
backward we traveled to reclaim the day
before we fell, like icarus, undone
all we find are altars in decay
and profane words scrawled black across the sun
still, stubbornly we try to crack the nut
in which the riddle of our race is shut
outside in the street i hear
a car door slam voices coming near
incoherent scraps of talk
and high heels clicking up the walk
the doorbell rends the noonday heat
with copper claws
a seconds pause
the dull drums of my pulses beat
against a silence wearing thin
the door now opens from within
oh, hear the clash of people meeting ---
the laughter and the screams of greeting
fat always, and out of breath,
a greasy smack on every cheek
from aunt elizabeth
there, thats the pink, pleased squeak
of cousin jane, out spinster with
the faded eyes
and hands like nervous butterflies
while rough as splintered wood
across them all
rasps the jarring baritone of uncle paul
the youngest nephew gives a fretful whine
and drools at the reception line
like a diver on a lofty spar of land
atop the flight of stairs i stand
a whirlpool leers at me,
i cast off my identity
and make the fatal plunge
the day you died i went into the dirt,
into the lightless hibernaculum
where bees, striped black and gold, sleep out the blizzard
like hieratic stones, and the ground is hard
it was good for twenty years, that wintering -
as if you never existed, as if i came
god-fathered into the world from my mothers belly
her wide bed wore the stain of divinity
i had nothing to do with guilt or anything
when i wormed back under my mothers heart
small as a doll in my dress of innocence
i lay dreaming your epic, image by image
nobody died or withered on that stage
everything took place in a durable whiteness
the day i woke, i woke on churchyard hill
i found your name, i found your bones and all
enlisted in a cramped stone askew by an iron fence
in this charity ward, this poorhouse, where the dead
crowd foot to foot, head to head, no flower
breaks the soil this is azalea path
a field of burdock opens to the south
six feet of yellow gravel cover you
the artificial red sage does not stir
in the basket of plastic evergreens they put
at the headstone next to yours, nor does it rot,
although the rains dissolve a bloody dye
the ersatz petals drip, and they drip red
another kind of redness bothers me
the day your slack sail drank my sisters breath
the flat sea purpled like that evil cloth
my mother unrolled at your last homecoming
i borrow the silts of an old tragedy
the truth is, one late october, at my birth-cry
a scorpion stung its head, an ill-starred thing
my mother dreamed you face down in the sea
the stony actors poise and pause for breath
i brought my love to bear, and then you died
it was the gangrene ate you to the bone
my mother said you died like any man
how shall i age into that state of mind?
i am the ghost of an infamous suicide,
my own blue razor rusting at my throat
o pardon the one who knocks for pardon at
your gate, father - your hound-bitch, daughter, friend
it was my love that did us both to death
how the elements solidify ---
the moonlight, that chalk cliff
in whose rift we lie
back to back i here an owl cry
from its cold indigo
intolerable vowels enter my heart
the child in the white crib revolves and sighs,
opens its mouth now, demanding
his little face is carved in pained, red wood
then there are the stars - ineradicable, hard
one touch  it burns and sickens
i cannot see your eyes
where apple bloom ices the night
i walk in a ring,
a groove of old faults, deep and bitter
love cannot come here
a black gap discloses itself
on the opposite lip
a small white soul is waving, a small white maggot
my limbs, also, have left me
who has dismembered us?
the dark is melting we touch like cripples
what a thrill ---
my thumb instead of an onion
the top quite gone
except for a sort of a hinge
of skin,
a flap like a hat,
dead white
then that red plush
little pilgrim,
the indians axed your scalp
your turkey wattle
carpet rolls
straight from the heart
i step on it,
clutching my bottle
of pink fizz
a celebration, this is
out of a gap
a million soldiers run,
redcoats, every one
whose side are they on?
o my
homunculus, i am ill
i have taken a pill to kill
the thin
papery feeling
saboteur,
kamikaze man ---
the stain on your
gauze ku klux klan
babushka
darkens and tarnishes and when
the balled
pulp of your heart
confronts its small
mill of silence
how you jump ---
trepanned veteran,
dirty girl,
thumb stump
in benidorm there are melons,
whole donkey-carts full
of innumerable melons,
ovals and balls,
bright green and thumpable
laced over with stripes
of turtle-dark green
chooose an egg-shape, a world-shape,
bowl one homeward to taste
in the whitehot noon
cream-smooth honeydews,
pink-pulped whoppers,
bump-rinded cantaloupes
with orange cores
each wedge wears a studding
of blanched seeds or black seeds
to strew like confetti
under the feet of
this market of melon-eating
fiesta-goers
gold mouths cry with the green young
certainty of the bronze boy
remembering a thousand autumns
and how a hundred thousand leaves
came sliding down his shoulder blades
persuaded by his bronze heroic reason
we ignore the coming doom of gold
and we are glad in this bright metal season
even the dead laugh among the goldenrod
the bronze boy stands kneedeep in centuries,
and never grieves,
remembering a thousand autumns,
with sunlight of a thousand years upon his lips
and his eyes gone blind with leaves
thou shalt have an everlasting
monday and stand in the moon
the moons man stands in his shell,
bent under a bundle
of sticks the light falls chalk and cold
upon our bedspread
his teeth are chattering among the leprous
peaks and craters of those extinct volcanoes
he also against black frost
would pick sticks, would not rest
until his own lit room outshone
sundays ghost of sun
now works his hell of mondays in the moons ball,
fireless, seven chill seas chained to his ankle
i have done it again
one year in every ten
i manage it--
a sort of walking miracle, my skin
bright as a nazi lampshade,
my right foot
a paperweight,
my face featureless, fine
jew linen
peel off the napkin
o my enemy
do i terrify?--
the nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
the sour breath
will vanish in a day
soon, soon the flesh
the grave cave ate will be
at home on me
and i a smiling woman
i am only thirty
and like the cat i have nine times to die
this is number three
what a trash
to annihilate each decade
what a million filaments
the peanut-crunching crowd
shoves in to see
them unwrap me hand and foot--
the big strip tease
gentlemen, ladies
these are my hands
my knees
i may be skin and bone,
nevertheless, i am the same, identical woman
the first time it happened i was ten
it was an accident
the second time i meant
to last it out and not come back at all
i rocked shut
as a seashell
they had to call and call
and pick the worms off me like sticky pearls
dying
is an art, like everything else
i do it exceptionally well
i do it so it feels like hell
i do it so it feels real
i guess you could say ive a call
its easy enough to do it in a cell
its easy enough to do it and stay put
its the theatrical
comeback in broad day
to the same place, the same face, the same brute
amused shout
a miracle
that knocks me out
there is a charge
for the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
for the hearing of my heart--
it really goes
and there is a charge, a very large charge
for a word or a touch
or a bit of blood
or a piece of my hair or my clothes
so, so, herr doktor
so, herr enemy
i am your opus,
i am your valuable,
the pure gold baby
that melts to a shriek
i turn and burn
do not think i underestimate your great concern
ash, ash--
you poke and stir
flesh, bone, there is nothing there--
a cake of soap,
a wedding ring,
a gold filling
herr god, herr lucifer
beware
beware
out of the ash
i rise with my red hair
and i eat men like air
viciousness in the kitchen
the potatoes hiss
it is all hollywood, windowless,
the fluorescent light wincing on and off like a terrible migraine,
coy paper strips for doors
stage curtains, a widows frizz
and i, love, am a pathological liar,
and my child look at her, face down on the floor,
little unstrung puppet, kicking to disappear
why she is schizophrenic,
her face is red and white, a panic,
you have stuck her kittens outside your window
in a sort of cement well
where they crap and puke and cry and she cant hear
you say you cant stand her,
the bastards a girl
you who have blown your tubes like a bad radio
clear of voices and history, the staticky
noise of the new
you say i should drown the kittens their smell
you say i should drown my girl
shell cut her throat at ten if shes mad at two
the baby smiles, fat snail,
from the polished lozenges of orange linoleum
you could eat him hes a boy
you say your husband is just no good to you
his jew-mama guards his sweet sex like a pearl
you have one baby, i have two
i should sit on a rock off cornwall and comb my hair
i should wear tiger pants, i should have an affair
we should meet in another life, we should meet in air,
me and you
meanwhile theres a stink of fat and baby crap
im doped and thick from my last sleeping pill
the smog of cooking, the smog of hell
floats our heads, two venemous opposites,
our bones, our hair
i call you orphan, orphan you are ill
the sun gives you ulcers, the wind gives you tb
once you were beautiful
in new york, in hollywood, the men said through?
gee baby, you are rare
you acted, acted for the thrill
the impotent husband slumps out for a coffee
i try to keep him in,
an old pole for the lightning,
the acid baths, the skyfuls off of you
he lumps it down the plastic cobbled hill,
flogged trolley the sparks are blue
the blue sparks spill,
splitting like quartz into a million bits
o jewel o valuable
that night the moon
dragged its blood bag, sick
animal
up over the harbor lights
and then grew normal,
hard and apart and white
the scale-sheen on the sand scared me to death
we kept picking up handfuls, loving it,
working it like dough, a mulatto body,
the silk grits
a dog picked up your doggy husband he went on
now i am silent, hate
up to my neck,
thick, thick
i do not speak
i am packing the hard potatoes like good clothes,
i am packing the babies,
i am packing the sick cats
o vase of acid,
it is love you are full of you know who you hate
he is hugging his ball and chain down by the gate
that opens to the sea
where it drives in, white and black,
then spews it back
every day you fill him with soul-stuff, like a pitcher
you are so exhausted
your voice my ear-ring,
flapping and sucking, blood-loving bat
that is that that is that
you peer from the door,
sad hag every womans a whore
i cant communicate
i see your cute decor
close on you like the fist of a baby
or an anemone, that sea
sweetheart, that kleptomaniac
i am still raw
i say i may be back
you know what lies are for
even in your zen heaven we shant meet
this man makes a pseudonym
and crawls behind it like a worm
this woman on the telephone
says she is a man, not a woman
the mask increases, eats the worm,
stripes for mouth and eyes and nose,
the voice of the woman hollows---
more and more like a dead one,
worms in the glottal stops
she hates
the thought of a baby---
stealer of cells, stealer of beauty---
she would rather be dead than fat,
dead and perfect, like nefertit,
hearing the fierce mask magnify
the silver limbo of each eye
where the child can never swim,
where there is only him and him
pocket watch, i tick well
the streets are lizardy crevices
sheer-sided, with holes where to hide
it is best to meet in a cul-de-sac,
a palace of velvet
with windows of mirrors
there one is safe,
there are no family photographs,
no rings through the nose, no cries
bright fish hooks, the smiles of women
gulp at my bulk
and i, in my snazzy blacks,
mill a litter of breasts like jellyfish
to nourish
the cellos of moans i eat eggs -
eggs and fish, the essentials,
the aphrodisiac squid
my mouth sags,
the mouth of christ
when my engine reaches the end of it
the tattle of my
gold joints, my way of turning
bitches to ripples of silver
rolls out a carpet, a hush
and there is no end, no end of it
i shall never grow old new oysters
shriek in the sea and i
glitter like fontainebleau
gratified,
all the fall of water and eye
over whose pool i tenderly
lean and see me
we came over the moor-top
through air streaming and green-lit,
stone farms foundering in it,
valleys of grass altering
in a light neither dawn
nor nightfall, out hands, faces
lucent as percelain, the earths
claim and weight gone out of them
some such transfiguring moved
the eight pilgrims towards its source--
toward the great jewel shown often,
never given hidden, yet
simultaneously seen
on moor-top, at sea-bottom,
knowable only by light
other than noon, that moon, stars ---
the once-known way becoming
wholly other, and ourselves
estranged, changed, suspended where
angels are rumored, clearly
floating , among the floating
tables and chairs gravitys
lost in the lift and drift of
an easier element
than earth, and there is nothing
so fine we cannot do it
but nearing means distancing
at the common homecoming
light withdraws chairs, tables drop
down the body weighs like stone
it is no night to drown in
a full moon, river lapsing
black beneath bland mirror-sheen,
the blue water-mists dropping
scrim after scrim like fishnets
though fishermen are sleeping,
the massive castle turrets
doubling themselves in a glass
all stillness yet these shapes float
up toward me, troubling the face
of quiet from the nadir
they rise, their limbs ponderous
with richness, hair heavier
than sculptured marble they sing
of a world more full and clear
than can be sisters, your song
bears a burden too weighty
for the whorled ears listening
here, in a well-steered country,
under a balanced ruler
deranging by harmony
beyond the mundane order,
your voices lay siege you lodge
on the pitched reefs of nightmare,
promising sure harborage
by day, descant from borders
of hebetude, from the ledge
also of high windows worse
even than your maddening
song, your silence at the source
of your ice-hearted calling-
drunkenness of the great depths
o river, i see drifting
deep in your flux of silver
those great goddesses of peace
stone, stone, ferry me down there
kindness glides about my house
dame kindness, she is so nice
the blue and red jewels of her rings smoke
in the windows, the mirrors
are filling with smiles
what is so real as the cry of a child?
a rabbits cry may be wilder
but it has no soul
sugar can cure everything, so kindness says
sugar is a necessary fluid,
its crystals a little poultice
o kindness, kindness
sweetly picking up pieces
my japanese silks, desperate butterflies,
may be pinned any minute, anesthetized
and here you come, with a cup of tea
wreathed in steam
the blood jet is poetry,
there is no stopping it
you hand me two children, two roses
a villanelle
the sting of bees took away my father
who walked in a swarming shroud of wings
and scorned the tick of the falling weather
lightning licked in a yellow lather
but missed the mark with snaking fangs
the sting of bees too away my father
trouncing the sea like a ragin bather,
he rode the flood in a pride of prongs
and scorned the tick of the falling weather
a scowl of sun struck down my mother,
tolling her grave with golden gongs,
but the sting of bees took away my father
he counted the guns of god a bother,
laughed at the ambush of angels tongues,
and scorned the tick of the falling weather
o ransack the four winds and find another
man who can mangle the grin of kings
the sting of bees took away my father
who scorned the tick of the falling weather
the night is only a sort of carbon paper,
blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars
letting in the light, peephole after peephole ---
a bonewhite light, like death, behind all things
under the eyes of the stars and the moons rictus
he suffers his desert pillow, sleeplessness
stretching its fine, irritating sand in all directions
over and over the old, granular movie
exposes embarrassments--the mizzling days
of childhood and adolescence, sticky with dreams,
parental faces on tall stalks, alternately stern and tearful,
a garden of buggy rose that made him cry
his forehead is bumpy as a sack of rocks
memories jostle each other for face-room like obsolete film stars
he is immune to pills red, purple, blue ---
how they lit the tedium of the protracted evening
those sugary planets whose influence won for him
a life baptized in no-life for a while,
and the sweet, drugged waking of a forgetful baby
now the pills are worn-out and silly, like classical gods
their poppy-sleepy colors do him no good
his head is a little interior of grey mirrors
each gesture flees immediately down an alley
of diminishing perspectives, and its significance
drains like water out the hole at the far end
he lives without privacy in a lidless room,
the bald slots of his eyes stiffened wide-open
on the incessant heat-lightning flicker of situations
nightlong, in the granite yard, invisible cats
have been howling like women, or damaged instruments
already he can feel daylight, his white disease,
creeping up with her hatful of trivial repetitions
the city is a map of cheerful twitters now,
and everywhere people, eyes mica-silver and blank,
are riding to work in rows, as if recently brainwashed
but i would rather be horizontal
i am not a tree with my root in the soil
sucking up minerals and motherly love
so that each march i may gleam into leaf,
nor am i the beauty of a garden bed
attracting my share of ahs and spectacularly painted,
unknowing i must soon unpetal
compared with me, a tree is immortal
and a flower-head not tall, but more startling,
and i want the ones longevity and the others daring
tonight, in the infinitesimallight of the stars,
the trees and the flowers have been strewing their cool odors
i walk among them, but none of them are noticing
sometimes i think that when i am sleeping
i must most perfectly resemble them--
thoughts gone dim
it is more natural to me, lying down
then the sky and i are in open conversation,
and i shall be useful when i lie down finally
then the trees may touch me for once, and the flowers have time for me
you bring me good news from the clinic,
whipping off your silk scarf, exhibiting the tight white
mummy-cloths, smiling im all right
when i was nine, a lime-green anesthetist
fed me banana gas through a frog-mask the nauseous vault
boomed wild bad dreams and the jovian voices of surgeons
the mother swam up, holding a tin basin
o i was sick
theyve changed all that traveling
nude as cleopatra in my well-boiled hospital shift,
fizzy with sedatives and unusually humorous,
i roll to an anteroom where a kind man
fists my fingers for me he makes me feel something precious
is leaking from the finger-vents at the count of two
darkness wipes me out like chalk on a blackboard
i dont know a thing
for five days i lie in secret,
tapped like a cask, the years draining into my pillow
even my best friend thinks im in the country
skin doesnt have roots, it peels away easy as paper
when i grin, the stitches tauten i grow backward im twenty,
broody and in long skirts on my first husbands sofa, my fingers
buried in the lambswool of the dead poodle
i hadnt a cat yet
now shes done for, the dewlapped lady
i watched settle, line by line, in my mirror ---
old sock-face, sagged on a darning egg
theyve trapped her in some laboratory jar
let her die there, or whither incessantly for the next fifty years,
nodding and rocking and fingering her thin hair
mother to myself, i wake swaddled in gauze,
pink and smooth as a baby
you will be aware of an absence, presently,
growing beside you, like a tree,
a death tree, color gone, an australian gum tree ---
balding, gelded by lightning--an illusion,
and a sky like a pigs backside, an utter lack of attention
but right now you are dumb
and i love your stupidity,
the blind mirror of it i look in
and find no face but my own, and you think thats funny
it is good for me
to have you grab my nose, a ladder rung
one day you may touch whats wrong ---
the small skulls, the smashed blue hills, the godawful hush
till then your smiles are found money
this was the lands end the last fingers, knuckled and rheumatic,
cramped on nothing black
admonitory cliffs, and the sea exploding
with no bottom, or anything on the other side of it,
whitened by the faces of the drowned
now it is only gloomy, a dump of rocks ---
leftover soldiers from old, messy wars
the sea cannons into their ear, but they dont budge
other rocks hide their grudges under the water
the cliffs are edged with trefoils, stars and bells
such as fingers might embroider, close to death,
almost too small for the mists to bother with
the mists are part of the ancient paraphernalia ---
souls, rolled in the doom-noise of the sea
they bruise the rocks out of existence, then resurrect them
they go up without hope, like sighs
i walk among them, and they stuff my mouth with cotton
when they free me, i am beaded with tears
our lady of the shipwrecked is striding toward the horizon,
her marble skirts blown back in two pink wings
a marble sailor kneels at her foot distractedly, and at his foot
a peasant woman in black
is praying to the monument of the sailor praying
our lady of the shipwrecked is three times life size,
her lips sweet with divinity
she does not hear what the sailor or the peasant is saying ---
she is in love with the beautiful formlessness of the sea
gull-colored laces flap in the sea drafts
beside the postcard stalls
the peasants anchor them with conches one is told
these are the pretty trinkets the sea hides,
little shells made up into necklaces and toy ladies
they do not come from with bay of the dead down there,
but from another place, tropical and blue,
we have never been to
these are our crepes eat them before they blow cold
empty, i echo to the least footfall,
museum without statues, grand with pillars, porticoes, rotundas
in my courtyard a fountain leaps and sinks back into itself,
nun-hearted and blind to the world marble lilies
exhale their pallor like scent
i imagine myself with a great public,
mother of a white nike and several bald-eyed apollos
insread, the dead injure me attentions, and nothing can happen
blank-faced and mum as a nurse
a garden of mouthings purple, scarlet-speckled, black
the great corollas dilate, peeling back their silks
their musk encroaches, circle after circle,
a well of scents almost too dense to breathe in
hieratical in your frock coat, maestro of the bees,
you move among the many-breasted hives,
my heart under your foot, sister of a stone
trumpet-throats open to the beaks of birds
the golden rain tree drips its powders down
in these little boudoirs streaked with orange and red
the anthers nod their heads, potent as kings
to father dynasties the air is rich
here is a queenship no mother can contest ---
a fruit thats death to taste dark flesh, dark parings
in burrows narrow as a finger, solitary bees
keep house among the grasses kneeling down
i set my eyes to a hole-mouth and meet an eye
round, green, disconsolate as a tear
father, bridegroom, in this easter egg
under the coronal of sugar roses
the queen bee marries the winter of your year
will they occur,
these people with torso of steel
winged elbows and eyeholes
awaiting masses
of cloud to give them expression,
these super-people -
and my baby a nail
driven, driven in
he shrieks in his grease
bones nosing for distance
and i, nearly extinct,
his three teeth cutting
themselves on my thumb -
and the star,
the old story
in the lane i meet sheep and wagons,
red earth, motherly blood
o you who eat
people like light rays, leave
this one
mirror safe, unredeemed
by the doves annihilation,
the glory
the power, the glory
this wood burns a dark
incense pale moss drips
in elbow-scarves, beards
from the archaic
bones of the great trees
blue mists move over
a lake thick with fish
snails scroll the border
of the glazed water
with coils of rams-horn
out in the open
down there the late year
hammers her rare and
various metals
old pewter roots twist
up from the jet-backed
mirror of water
and while the airs clear
hourglass sifts a
drift of goldpieces
bright waterlights are
sliding their quoits one
after the other
down boles of the fir
in sunless air, under pines
green to the point of blackness, some
founding father set these lobed, warped stones
to loom in the leaf-filtered gloom
black as the charred knuckle-bones
of a giant or extinct
animal, come from another
age, another planet surely flanked
by the orange and fuchsia bonfire
of azaleas, sacrosanct
these stones guard a dark repose
and keep their shapes intact while sun
alters shadows of rose and iris ---
long, short, long --- in the lit garden
and kindles a days-end blaze
colored to dull the pigment
of azaleas, yet burnt out
quick as they to follow the lights tint
and intensity by midnight
by noon and throughout the brunt
of various weathers is
to know the still heart of the stones
stones that take the whole summer to lose
their dream of the winters cold stones
warming at core only as
frost forms no mans crowbar could
uproot them their beards are ever-
green nor do they, once in a hundred
years, go down to drink the river
no thirst disturbs a stones bed
mayday  two came to field in such wise
a daisied mead, each said to each,
so were they one so sought they couch,
across barbed stile, through flocked brown cows
no pitchforked farmer, please, she said
may cockcrow guard us safe, said he
by blackthorn thicket, flower spray
they pitched their coats, come to green bed
below  a fen where water stood
aslant  their hill of stinging nettle
then, honor-bound, mute grazing cattle
above  leaf-wraithed white air, white cloud
all afternoon these lovers lay
until the sun turned pale from warm,
until sweet wind changed tune, blew harm
cruel nettles stung her angles raw
rueful, most vexed, that tender skin
should accept so fell a wound,
he stamped and cracked stalks to the ground
which had caused his dear girl pain
now he goes from his rightful road
and, under honor, will depart
while she stands burning, venom-girt,
in wait for sharper smart to fade
nobody in the lane, and nothing, nothing but blackberries,
blackberries on either side, though on the right mainly,
a blackberry alley, going down in hooks, and a sea
somewhere at the end of it, heaving blackberries
big as the ball of my thumb, and dumb as eyes
ebon in the hedges, fat
with blue-red juices these they squander on my fingers
i had not asked for such a blood sisterhood they must love me
they accommodate themselves to my milkbottle, flattening their sides
overhead go the choughs in black, cacophonous flocks ---
bits of burnt paper wheeling in a blown sky
theirs is the only voice, protesting, protesting
i do not think the sea will appear at all
the high, green meadows are glowing, as if lit from within
i come to one bush of berries so ripe it is a bush of flies,
hanging their bluegreen bellies and their wing panes in a chinese screen
the honey-feast of the berries has stunned them they believe in heaven
one more hook, and the berries and bushes end
the only thing to come now is the sea
from between two hills a sudden wind funnels at me,
slapping its phantom laundry in my face
these hills are too green and sweet to have tasted salt
i follow the sheep path between them a last hook brings me
to the hills northern face, and the face is orange rock
that looks out on nothing, nothing but a great space
of white and pewter lights, and a din like silversmiths
beating and beating at an intractable metal
what is this, behind this veil, is it ugly, is it beautiful?
it is shimmering, has it breasts, has it edges?
i am sure it is unique, i am sure it is what i want
when i am quiet at my cooking i feel it looking, i feel it thinking
is this the one i am too appear for,
is this the elect one, the one with black eye-pits and a scar?
measuring the flour, cutting off the surplus,
adhering to rules, to rules, to rules
is this the one for the annunciation?
my god, what a laugh
but it shimmers, it does not stop, and i think it wants me
i would not mind if it were bones, or a pearl button
i do not want much of a present, anyway, this year
after all i am alive only by accident
i would have killed myself gladly that time any possible way
now there are these veils, shimmering like curtains,
the diaphanous satins of a january window
white as babies bedding and glittering with dead breath o ivory
it must be a tusk there, a ghost column
can you not see i do not mind what it is
can you not give it to me?
do not be ashamed--i do not mind if it is small
do not be mean, i am ready for enormity
let us sit down to it, one on either side, admiring the gleam,
the glaze, the mirrory variety of it
let us eat our last supper at it, like a hospital plate
i know why you will not give it to me,
you are terrified
the world will go up in a shriek, and your head with it,
bossed, brazen, an antique shield,
a marvel to your great-grandchildren
do not be afraid, it is not so
i will only take it and go aside quietly
you will not even hear me opening it, no paper crackle,
no falling ribbons, no scream at the end
i do not think you credit me with this discretion
if you only knew how the veils were killing my days
to you they are only transparencies, clear air
but my god, the clouds are like cotton
armies of them they are carbon monoxide
sweetly, sweetly i breathe in,
filling my veins with invisibles, with the million
probable motes that tick the years off my life
you are silver-suited for the occasion o adding machine-----
is it impossible for you to let something go and have it go whole?
must you stamp each piece purple,
must you kill what you can?
there is one thing i want today, and only you can give it to me
it stands at my window, big as the sky
it breathes from my sheets, the cold dead center
where split lives congeal and stiffen to history
let it not come by the mail, finger by finger
let it not come by word of mouth, i should be sixty
by the time the whole of it was delivered, and to numb to use it
only let down the veil, the veil, the veil
if it were death
i would admire the deep gravity of it, its timeless eyes
i would know you were serious
there would be a nobility then, there would be a birthday
and the knife not carve, but enter
pure and clean as the cry of a baby,
and the universe slide from my side
on the stiff twig up there
hunches a wet black rook
arranging and rearranging its feathers in the rain
i do not expect a miracle
or an accident
to set the sight on fire
in my eye, not seek
any more in the desultory weather some design,
but let spotted leaves fall as they fall,
without ceremony, or portent
although, i admit, i desire,
occasionally, some backtalk
from the mute sky, i cant honestly complain
a certain minor light may still
leap incandescent
out of the kitchen table or chair
as if a celestial burning took
possession of the most obtuse objects now and then ---
thus hallowing an interval
otherwise inconsequent
by bestowing largesse, honor,
one might say love at any rate, i now walk
wary for it could happen
even in this dull, ruinous landscape sceptical,
yet politic ignorant
of whatever angel may choose to flare
suddenly at my elbow i only know that a rook
ordering its black feathers can so shine
as to seize my senses, haul
my eyelids up, and grant
a brief respite from fear
of total neutrality with luck,
trekking stubborn through this season
of fatigue, i shall
patch together a content
of sorts miracles occur,
if you care to call those spasmodic
tricks of radiance miracles the waits begun again,
the long wait for the angel
for that rare, random descent
the black bull bellowed before the sea
the sea, till that day orderly,
hove up against bendylaw
the queen in the mulberry arbor stared
stiff as a queen on a playing card
the king fingered his beard
a blue sea, four horny bull-feet,
a bull-snouted sea that wouldnt stay put,
bucked at the garden gate
along box-lined walks in the florid sun
toward the rowdy bellow and back again
the lords and ladies ran
the great bronze gate began to crack,
the sea broke in at every crack,
pellmell, blueblack
the bull surged up, the bull surged down,
not to be stayed by a daisy chain
nor by any learned man
o the kings tidy acre is under the sea,
and the royal rose in the bulls belly,
and the bull on the kings highway
two, of course there are two
it seems perfectly natural now ---
the one who never looks up, whose eyes are lidded
and balled? like blakes
who exhibits
the birthmarks that are his trademark ---
the scald scar of water,
the nude
verdigris of the condor
i am red meat his beak
claps sidewise i am not his yet
he tells me how badly i photograph
he tells me how sweet
the babies look in their hospital
icebox, a simple
frill at the neck
then the flutings of their ionian
death-gowns
then two little feet
he does not smile or smoke
the other does that
his hair long and plausive
bastard
masturbating a glitter
he wants to be loved
i do not stir
the frost makes a flower,
the dew makes a star,
the dead bell,
the dead bell
somebodys done for
two virtues ride, by stallion, by nag,
to grind our knives and scissors
lantern-jawed reason, squat common sense,
one courting doctors of all sorts,
one, housewives and shopkeepers
the trees are lopped, the poodles trim,
the laborers nails pared level
since those two civil servants set
their whetstone to the blunted edge
and minced the muddling devil
whose owl-eyes in the scraggly wood
scared mothers to miscarry,
drove the dogs to cringe and whine
and turned the farmboys temper wolfish,
the housewifes, desultory
in the rectory garden on his evening walk
paced brisk father shawn a cold day, a sodden one it was
in black novemeber after a sliding rain
dew stood in chill sweat on each stalk,
each thorn spiring from wet earth, a blue haze
hung caught in dark-webbed branches like a fabulous heron
hauled sudden from solitude,
hair prickling on his head,
father shawn perceived a ghost
shaping itself from that mist
how now, father shawn crisply addressed the ghost
wavering there, gauze-edged, smelling of woodsmoke,
what manner of business are you on?
from your blue pallor, id say you inhabited the frozen waste
of hell, and not the fiery part yet to judge by that dazzled look,
that noble mien, perhaps youve late quitted heaven?
in voice furred with frost,
ghost said to priest
neither of those countries do i frequent
earth is my haunt
come, come, father shawn gave an impatient shrug,
i dont ask you to spin some rridiculous fable
of gilded harps or gnawing fire simply tell
after your lifes end, what just epilogue
god ordained to follow up your days is it such trouble
to satisfy the questions of a curious old fool?
in life, love gnawed my skin
to this white bone
what love did then, love does now
gnaws me through
what love, asked father shawn, but too great love
of flawed earth-flesh could cause this sorry pass?
some damned condition you are in
thinking never to have left the world, you grieve
as though alive, shriveling in torment thus
to atone as shade for sin that lured blind man
the day of doom
is not yest come
until that time
a crock of dust is my dear hom
fond phantom, cried shocked father shawn,
can there be such stubbornness--
a soul grown feverish, clutching its dead body-tree
like a last storm-crossed leaf? best get you gone
to judgment in a higher court of grace
repent, depart, before gods trump-crack splits the sky
from that pale mist
ghost swore to priest
there sits no higher court
than mans red heart
the womb
rattles its pod, the moon
discharges itself from the tree with nowhere to go
my landscape is a hand with no lines,
the roads bunched to a knot,
the knot myself,
myself the rose you acheive---
this body,
this ivory
ungodly as a childs shriek
spiderlike, i spin mirrors,
loyal to my image,
uttering nothing but blood---
taste it, dark red
and my forest
my funeral,
and this hill and this
gleaming with the mouths of corpses
an old beast ended in this place
a monster of wood and rusty teeth
fire smelted his eyes to lumps
of pale blue vitreous stuff, opaque
as resin drops oozed from pine bark
the rafters and struts of his body wear
their char of karakul still i cant tell
how long his carcass had foundered under
the rubbish of summers, the black-leaved falls
now little weeds insinuate
soft suede tongues between his bones
his armorplate, his toppled stones
are an esplanade for crickets
i pick and pry like a doctor or
arch?ologist among
iron entrails, enameled bowl,
the coils and pipes that made him run
the small dell eats what ate it once
and yet the ichor of the spring
proceeds clear as it ever did
from the broken throat, that marshy lip
it flows off below the green and white
balustrade of a sag-backed bridge
leaning over, i encounter one
blue and improbable person
framed in a basketwork of cattails
o she is gracious and austere,
seated beneath the toneless water
it is not i, it is not i
no animal spoils on her green doorstep
and we shall never enter there
where the durable ones keep house
the stream that hustles us
neither nourishes nor heals
revolving in oval loops of solar speed,
couched in cauls of clay as in holy robes,
dead men render love and war no heed,
lulled in the ample womb of the full-tilt globe
no spiritual caesars are these dead
they want no proud paternal kingdom come
and when at last they blunder into bed
world-wrecked, they seek only oblivion
rolled round with goodly loam and cradled deep,
these bone shanks will not wake immaculate
to trumpet-toppling dawn of doomstruck day
they loll forever in colossal sleep
nor can gods stern, shocked angels cry them up
from their fond, final, infamous decay
gerd sits spindle-shaped in her dark tent,
lean face gone tawn with seasons ,
skin worn down to the knucklebones
at her tough trade without times taint
the burnished ball hangs fire in her hands, a lens
fusing times three horizons
two enter to tap her sight, a green pair
fresh leaved out in vows come tell
how we shall do together,
well or ill gerd slants a look at each most dear,
each to the other fit fiber for stern weather
slowly she spins the ball
i see two stalwart apple trees
coupled by branches intertwined
and, springing all about,
staunch saplings to this house, thriving days
will bring crops increase, and harvest fruit
follow on kind wind
no hardship then? he asks well take
whatever trials to come, so say true
his bride echoes his word at that,
gerd whirls the ball ablaze rough storm, she grunts,  may wreak
some havoc on tender limb, and yet
strengthen that orchard thereby
their small price paid, these wedded ones
walk forth into sun-moneyed air, quickened
to savor their span of flourishing
aloof, squatting mummy-wise, gerd scans
that clairvoyant quartz which once, at her own wishing,
exacted her first simple sight for this strict second
then, a free-gadding hoyden, gerd had craved
to govern more sight than given to a woman
by wits alone to foresee her lovers faith
and their future lot, she braved
church curse to ken that crooked oath
whereby one hires a demon
a flash like doomcrack rent nights black
gods work stood anchored in that glare
focusing all times day-suns in one
so beggar gerd might aim her look
at gorgon-prospects with power to strike to stone
hearts of those who pierced times core
what gerd saw then engraved her mind ---
plague-pitted as the moon each bud
shriveling to cinders at its source,
each love blazing blind to its gutted end ---
and, fixed in the crystal center, grinning fierce
earths ever-green deaths head
the telegram says you have gone away
and left our bankrupt circus on its town
there is nothing more for me to say
the maestro gives the singing birds their pay
and they buy tickets for the tropic zone
the telegram says you have gone away
the clever wolly dogs have had their day
they shoot the dice for one remaining bone
there is nothing more for me to say
the lion and the tigers turn to clay
and jumbo sadly trumpets into stone
the telegram says you have gone away
the morbid cobras wits have run astray
he rents his poisons out by telegram
there is nothing more for me to say
the colored tenst all topple in the bay
the magic sawdust writes address unknown
the telegram says you have gone away
there is nothing more for me to say
i made a fire being tired
of the white fists of old
letters and their death rattle
when i came too close to the wastebasket
what did they know that i didnt?
grain by grain, they unrolled
sands where a dream of clear water
grinned like a getaway car
i am not subtle
love, love, and well, i was tired
of cardboard cartons the color of cement or a dog pack
holding in its hate
dully, under a pack of men in red jackets,
and the eyes and times of the postmarks
this fire may lick and fawn, but it is merciless
a glass case
my fingers would enter although
they melt and sag, they are told
do not touch
and here is an end to the writing,
the spry hooks that bend and cringe and the smiles, the smiles
and at least it will be a good place now, the attic
at least i wont be strung just under the surface,
dumb fish
with one tin eye,
watching for glints,
riding my arctic
between this wish and that wish
so, i poke at the carbon birds in my housedress
they are more beautiful than my bodiless owl,
they console me--
rising and flying, but blinded
they would flutter off, black and glittering, they would be coal angels
only they have nothing to say but anybody
i have seen to that
with the butt of a rake
i flake up papers that breathe like people,
i fan them out
between the yellow lettuces and the german cabbage
involved in its weird blue dreams
involved in a foetus
and a name with black edges
wilts at my foot,
sinuous orchis
in a nest of root-hairs and boredom--
pale eyes, patent-leather gutturals
warm rain greases my hair, extinguishes nothing
my veins glow like trees
the dogs are tearing a fox this is what it is like
a read burst and a cry
that splits from its ripped bag and does not stop
with that dead eye
and the stuffed expression, but goes on
dyeing the air,
telling the particles of the clouds, the leaves, the water
what immortality is that it is immortal
tell me what you see in it
the pine tree like a rorschach-blot
black against the orange light
plant an orange pumpkin patch
which at twelve will quaintly hatch
nine black mice with ebon coach,
or walk into the orange and make
a devils cataract of black
obscure gods eye with corkscrew fleck
put orange mistress half in sun,
half in shade, until her skin
tattoos black leaves on tangerine
read black magic or holy book
or lyric of love in the orange and black
till dark is conquered by orange cock,
but more pragmatic than all this,
say how crafty the painter was
to make orange and black ambiguous
it is ten years, now, since we rowed to childrens island
the sun flamed straight down that noon on the water off marblehead
that summer we wore black glasses to hide our eyes
we were always crying, in our spare rooms, little put-upon sisters,
in the two, huge, white, handsome houses in swampscott
when the sweetheart from england appeared, with her cream skin and yardley cosmetics,
i had to sleep in the same room with the baby on a too-short cot,
and the seven-year-old wouldnt go out unless his jersey stripes
matched the stripes of his socks
or it was richness --- eleven rooms and a yacht
with a polished mahogany stair to let into the water
and a cabin boy who could decorate cakes in six-colored frosting
but i didnt know how to cook, and babies depressed me
nights, i wrote in my diary spitefully, my fingers red
with triangular scorch marks from ironing tiny ruchings and puffed sleeves
when the sporty wife and her doctor husband went on one of their cruises
they left me a borrowed maid named ellen, for protection,
and a small dalmation
in your house, the main house, you were better off
you had a rose garden and a guest cottage and a model apothecary shop
and a cook and a maid, and knew about the key to the bourbon
i remember you playing ja-da in a pink piqu dress
on the game-room piano, when the big people were out,
and the maid smoked and shot pool under a green shaded lamp
the cook had one walleye and couldnt sleep, she was so nervous
on trial, from ireland, she burned batch after batch of cookies
till she was fired
o what has come over us, my sister
on that day-off the two of us cried so hard to get
we lifted a sugared ham and a pineapple from the grownups icebox
and rented an old green boat i rowed you read
aloud, cross-legged on the stern seat, from the generation of vipers
so we bobbed out to the island it was deserted ---
a gallery of creaking porches and still interiors,
stopped and awful as a photograph of somebody laughing
but ten years dead
the bold gulls dove as if they owned it all
we picked up sticks of driftwood and beat them off,
then stepped down the steep beach shelf and into the water
we kicked and talked the thick salt kept us up
i see us floating there yet, inseparable--two cork dolls
what keyhole have we slipped through, what door has shut?
the shadows of the grasses inched round like hands of a clock,
and from our opposite continents we wave and call
everything has happened
in alicante they bowl the barrels
bumblingly over the nubs of the cobbles
past the yellow-paella eateries,
below the ramshackle back-alley balconies,
while the cocks and hens
in the roofgardens
scuttle repose with crowns and cackles
kumquat-colored trolleys ding as they trundle
passengers under an indigo fizzle
needling spumily down from the wires
alongside the sibliant narhor the lovers
hear loudspeakers boom
from each neon-lit palm
rumbas and sambas no ear-flaps can muffle
o cacophony, goddess of jazz and of quarrels,
crack-throated mistress of bagpipes and cymbals,
let be your con brios, your capricciosos,
crescendos, cadenzas, prestos and pretissimos,
my head on the pillow
piano, pianissimo
lullayed by susurrous lyres and viols
in the archological museum in cambridge is a stone
coffin of the fourth century ad containing the skeletons
of a woman, a mouse and a shrew the ankle-bone of the
woman has been slightly gnawed
rigged poker -stiff on her back
with a granite grin
this antique museum-cased lady
lies, companioned by the gimcrack
relics of a mouse and a shrew
that battened for a day on her ankle-bone
these three, unmasked now, bear
dry witness
to the gross eating game
wed wink at if we didnt hear
stars grinding, crumb by crumb,
our own grist down to its bony face
how they grip us through think and thick,
these barnacle dead
this lady heres no kin
of mine, yet kin she is shell suck
blood and whistle my narrow clean
to prove it as i think now of her hand,
from the mercury-backed glass
mother, grandmother, greatgrandmother
reach hag hands to haul me in,
and an image looms under the fishpond surface
where the daft father went down
with orange duck-feet winnowing this hair ---
all the long gone darlings they
get back, though, soon,
soon be it by wakes, weddings,
childbirths or a family barbecue
any touch, taste, tangs
fit for those outlaws to ride home on,
and to sanctuary usurping the armchair
between tick
and tack of the clock, until we go,
each skulled-and-crossboned gulliver
riddled with ghosts, to lie
deadlocked with them, taking roots as cradles rock
first, are you our sort of a person?
do you wear
a glass eye, false teeth or a crutch,
a brace or a hook,
rubber breasts or a rubber crotch,
stitches to show somethings missing? no, no? then
how can we give you a thing?
stop crying
open your hand
empty? empty here is a hand
to fill it and willing
to bring teacups and roll away headaches
and do whatever you tell it
will you marry it?
it is guaranteed
to thumb shut your eyes at the end
and dissolve of sorrow
we make new stock from the salt
i notice you are stark naked
how about this suit -
black and stiff, but not a bad fit
will you marry it?
it is waterproof, shatterproof, proof
against fire and bombs through the roof
believe me, theyll bury you in it
now your head, excuse me, is empty
i have the ticket for that
come here, sweetie, out of the closet
well, what do you think of that?
naked as paper to start
but in twenty-five years shell be silver,
in fifty, gold
a living doll, everywhere you look
it can sew, it can cook,
it can talk, talk, talk
it works, there is nothing wrong with it
you have a hole, its a poultice
you have an eye, its an image
my boy, its your last resort
will you marry it, marry it, marry it
i ordered this, clean wood box
square as a chair and almost too heavy to lift
i would say it was the coffin of a midget
or a square baby
were there not such a din in it
the box is locked, it is dangerous
i have to live with it overnight
and i cant keep away from it
there are no windows, so i cant see what is in there
there is only a little grid, no exit
i put my eye to the grid
it is dark, dark,
with the swarmy feeling of african hands
minute and shrunk for export,
black on black, angrily clambering
how can i let them out?
it is the noise that appalls me most of all,
the unintelligible syllables
it is like a roman mob,
small, taken one by one, but my god, together
i lay my ear to furious latin
i am not a caesar
i have simply ordered a box of maniacs
they can be sent back
they can die, i need feed them nothing, i am the owner
i wonder how hungry they are
i wonder if they would forget me
if i just undid the locks and stood back and turned into a tree
there is the laburnum, its blond colonnades,
and the petticoats of the cherry
they might ignore me immediately
in my moon suit and funeral veil
i am no source of honey
so why should they turn on me?
tomorrow i will be sweet god, i will set them free
the box is only temporary
all morning in the strawberry field
they talked about the russians
squatted down between the rows
we listened
we heard the head woman say,
bomb them off the map
horseflies buzzed, paused and stung
and the taste of strawberries
turned thick and sour
mary said slowly, ive got a fella
old enough to go
if anything should happen
the sky was high and blue
two children laughed at tag
in the tall grass,
leaping awkward and long-legged
across the rutted road
the fields were full of bronzed young men
hoeing lettuce, weeding celery
the draft is passed, the woman said
we ought to have bombed them long ago
dont, pleaded the little girl
with blond braids
her blue eyes swam with vague terror
she added petishly, i cant see why
youre always talking this way
oh, stop worrying, nelda,
snapped the woman sharply
she stood up, a thin commanding figure
in faded dungarees
businesslike she asked us, how many quarts?
she recorded the total in her notebook,
and we all turned back to picking
kneeling over the rows,
we reached among the leaves
with quick practiced hands,
cupping the berry protectively before
snapping off the stem
between thumb and forefinger
they are the last romantics, these candles
upside-down hearts of light tipping wax fingers,
and the fingers, taken in by their own haloes,
grown milky, almost clear, like the bodies of saints
it is touching, the way theyll ignore
a whole family of prominent objects
simply to plumb the deeps of an eye
in its hollow of shadows, its fringe of reeds,
and the owner past thirty, no beauty at all
daylight would be more judicious,
giving everybody a fair hearing
they should have gone out with the balloon flights and the stereopticon
this is no time for the private point of view
when i light them, my nostrils prickle
their pale, tentative yellows
drag up false, edwardian sentiments,
and i remember my maternal grandmother from vienna
as a schoolgirl she gave roses to franz josef
the burghers sweated and wept the children wore white
and my grandfather moped in the tyrol,
imagining himself a headwaiter in america,
floating in a high-church hush
among ice buckets, frosty napkins
these little globes of light are sweet as pears
kindly with invalids and mawkish women,
they mollify the bald moon
nun-souled, they burn heavenward and never marry
the eyes of the child i nurse are scarcely open
in twenty years i shall be retrograde
as these drafty ephemerids
i watch their spilt tears cloud and dull to pearls
how shall i tell anything at all
to this infant still in a birth-drowse?
tonight, like a shawl, the mild light enfolds her,
the shadows stoop over the guests at a christening
ou do not do, you do not do
any more, black shoe
in which i have lived like a foot
for thirty years, poor and white,
barely daring to breathe or achoo
daddy, i have had to kill you
you died before i had time--
marble-heavy, a bag full of god,
ghastly statue with one gray toe
big as a frisco seal
and a head in the freakish atlantic
where it pours bean green over blue
in the waters off beautiful nauset
i used to pray to recover you
ach, du
in the german tongue, in the polish town
scraped flat by the roller
of wars, wars, wars
but the name of the town is common
my polack friend
says there are a dozen or two
so i never could tell where you
put your foot, your root,
i never could talk to you
the tongue stuck in my jaw
it stuck in a barb wire snare
ich, ich, ich, ich,
i could hardly speak
i thought every german was you
and the language obscene
an engine, an engine
chuffing me off like a jew
a jew to dachau, auschwitz, belsen
i began to talk like a jew
i think i may well be a jew
the snows of the tyrol, the clear beer of vienna
are not very pure or true
with my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck
and my taroc pack and my taroc pack
i may be a bit of a jew
i have always been scared of you,
with your luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo
and your neat mustache
and your aryan eye, bright blue
panzer-man, panzer-man, o you--
not god but a swastika
so black no sky could squeak through
every woman adores a fascist,
the boot in the face, the brute
brute heart of a brute like you
you stand at the blackboard, daddy,
in the picture i have of you,
a cleft in your chin instead of your foot
but no less a devil for that, no not
any less the black man who
bit my pretty red heart in two
i was ten when they buried you
at twenty i tried to die
and get back, back, back to you
i thought even the bones would do
but they pulled me out of the sack,
and they stuck me together with glue
and then i knew what to do
i made a model of you,
a man in black with a meinkampf look
and a love of the rack and the screw
and i said i do, i do
so daddy, im finally through
the black telephones off at the root,
the voices just cant worm through
if ive killed one man, ive killed two--
the vampire who said he was you
and drank my blood for a year,
seven years, if you want to know
daddy, you can lie back now
theres a stake in your fat black heart
and the villagers never liked you
they are dancing and stamping on you
they always knew it was you
daddy, daddy, you bastard, im through
i know the bottom, she says i know it with my great tap root
it is what you fear
i do not fear it i have been there
is it the sea you hear in me,
its dissatisfactions?
or the voice of nothing, that was your madness?
love is a shadow
how you lie and cry after it
listen these are its hooves it has gone off, like a horse
all night i shall gallop thus, impetuously,
till your head is a stone, your pillow a little turf,
echoing, echoing
or shall i bring you the sound of poisons?
this is rain now, this big hush
and this is the fruit of it tin-white, like arsenic
i have suffered the atrocity of sunsets
scorched to the root
my red filaments burn and stand, a hand of wires
now i break up in pieces that fly about like clubs
a wind of such violence
will tolerate no bystanding i must shriek
the moon, also, is merciless she would drag me
cruelly, being barren
her radiance scathes me or perhaps i have caught her
i let her go i let her go
diminished and flat, as after radical surgery
how your bad dreams possess and endow me
i am inhabited by a cry
nightly it flaps out
looking, with its hooks, for something to love
i am terrified by this dark thing
that sleeps in me
all day i feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity
clouds pass and disperse
are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables?
is it for such i agitate my heart?
i am incapable of more knowledge
what is this, this face
so murderous in its strangle of branches? -
its snaky acids hiss
it petrifies the will these are the isolate, slow faults
that kill, that kill, that kill
over your body the clouds go
high, high and icily
and a little flat, as if they
unlike swans,
having no reflections
unlike you,
with no strings attached
all cool, all blue unlike you ---
you, there on your back,
eyes to the sky
the spider-men have caught you,
winding and twining their petty fetters,
their bribes ---
so many silks
how they hate you
they converse in the valley of your fingers, they are inchworms
they would have you sleep in their cabinets,
this tow and that toe, a relic
step off
step off seven leagues, like those distances
that revolve in crivelli, untouchable
let this eye be an eagle,
the shadow of his lip, an abyss
the groundhog on the mountain did not run
but fatly scuttled into the splayed fern
and faced me, back to a ledge of dirt, to rattle
her sallow rodent teeth like castanets
against my leaning down, would not exchange
for that wary clatter sound or gesture
of love  claws braced, at bay, my currency not hers
such meetings never occur in marchen
where love-met groundhogs love one in return,
where straight talk is the rule, whether warm or hostile,
which no gruff animal misinterprets
from what grace am i fallen tongues are strange,
signs say nothing the falcon who spoke clear
to canacee cries gibberish to coarsened ears
irrefutable, beautifully smug
as venus, pedestalled on a half-shell
shawled in blond hair and the salt
scrim of a sea breeze, the women
settle in their belling dresses
over each weighty stomach a face
floats calm as a moon or a cloud
smiling to themselves, they meditate
devoutly as the dutch bulb
forming its twenty petals
the dark still nurses its secret
on the green hill, under the thorn trees,
they listen for the millennium,
the knock of the small, new heart
pink-buttoned infants attend them
looping wool, doing nothing in particular,
they step among the archetypes
dusk hoods them in mary-blue
while far off, the axle of winter
grinds round, bearing down the straw,
the star, the wise grey men
old goatherds swear how all night long they hear
the warning whirr and burring of the bird
who wakes with darkness and till dawn works hard
vampiring dry of milk each great goat udder
moon full, moon dark, the chary dairy farmer
dreams that his fattest cattle dwindle, fevered
by claw-cuts of the goatsucker, alias devil-bird,
its eye, flashlit, a chip of ruby fire
so fables say the goatsucker moves, masked from mens sight
in an ebony air, on wings of witch cloth,
well-named, ill-famed a knavish fly-by-night,
yet it never milked any goat, nor dealt cow death
and shadows only--cave-mouth bristle beset--
cockchafers and the wan, green luna moth
pure? what does it mean?
the tongues of hell
are dull, dull as the triple
tongues of dull, fat cerebus
who wheezes at the gate incapable
of licking clean
the aguey tendon, the sin, the sin
the tinder cries
the indelible smell
of a snuffed candle
love, love, the low smokes roll
from me like isadoras scarves, im in a fright
one scarf will catch and anchor in the wheel
such yellow sullen smokes
make their own element they will not rise,
but trundle round the globe
choking the aged and the meek,
the weak
hothouse baby in its crib,
the ghastly orchid
hanging its hanging garden in the air,
devilish leopard
radiation turned it white
and killed it in an hour
greasing the bodies of adulterers
like hiroshima ash and eating in
the sin the sin
darling, all night
i have been flickering, off, on, off, on
the sheets grow heavy as a lechers kiss
three days three nights
lemon water, chicken
water, water make me retch
i am too pure for you or anyone
your body
hurts me as the world hurts god i am a lantern ---
my head a moon
of japanese paper, my gold beaten skin
infinitely delicate and infinitely expensive
does not my heat astound you and my light
all by myself i am a huge camellia
glowing and coming and going, flush on flush
i think i am going up,
i think i may rise ---
the beads of hot metal fly, and i, love, i
am a pure acetylene
virgin
attended by roses,
by kisses, by cherubim,
by whatever these pink things mean
not you, nor him
not him, nor him
my selves dissolving, old whore petticoats ---
to paradise
enter the chilly no-mans land of about
five oclock in the morning, the no-color void
where the waking head rubbishes out the draggled lot
of sulfurous dreamscapes and obscure lunar conundrums
which seemed, when dreamed, to mean so profoundly much,
gets ready to face the ready-made creation
of chairs and bureaus and sleep-twisted sheets
this is the kingdom of the fading apparition,
the oracular ghost who dwindles on pin-legs
to a knot of laundry, with a classic bunch of sheets
upraised, as a hand, emblematic of farewell
at this joint between two worlds and two entirely
incompatible modes of time, the raw material
of our meat-and-potato thoughts assumes the nimbus
of ambrosial revelation and so departs
chair and bureau are the hieroglyphs
of some godly utterance wakened heads ignore
so these posed sheets, before they thin to nothing,
speak in sign language of a lost otherworld,
a world we lose by merely waking up
trailing its telltale tatters only at the outermost
fringe of mundane vision, this ghost goes
hand aloft, goodbye, goodbye, not down
into the rocky gizzard of the earth,
but toward a region where our thick atmosphere
diminishes, and god knows what is there
a point of exclamation marks that sky
in ringing orange like a stellar carrot
its round period, displaced and green,
suspends beside it the first point, the starting
point of eden, next the new moons curve
go, ghost of our mother and father, ghost of us,
and ghost of our dreams children, in those sheets
which signify our origin and end,
to the cloud-cuckoo land of color wheels
and pristine alphabets and cows that moo
and moo as they jump over moons as new
as that crisp cusp toward which you voyage now
hail and farewell hello, goodbye o keeper
of the profane grail, the dreaming skull
let us go then, you and i,
when the evening is spread out against the sky
like a patient etherized upon a table
let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
the muttering retreats
of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
and sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells
streets that follow like a tedious argument
of insidious intent
to lead you to an overwhelming question 
oh, do not ask, what is it?
let us go and make our visit
in the room the women come and go
talking of michelangelo
the yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
the yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
and seeing that it was a soft october night,
curled once about the house, and fell asleep
and indeed there will be time
for the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
rubbing its back upon the window-panes
there will be time, there will be time
to prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet
there will be time to murder and create,
and time for all the works and days of hands
that lift and drop a question on your plate
time for you and time for me,
and time yet for a hundred indecisions,
and for a hundred visions and revisions,
before the taking of a toast and tea
in the room the women come and go
talking of michelangelo
and indeed there will be time
to wonder, do i dare? and, do i dare?
time to turn back and descend the stair,
with a bald spot in the middle of my hair--
they will say how his hair is growing thin
my morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
my necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin--
they will say but how his arms and legs are thin
do i dare
disturb the universe?
in a minute there is time
for decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse
for i have known them all already, known them all
have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
i have measured out my life with coffee spoons
i know the voices dying with a dying fall
beneath the music from a farther room
so how should i presume?
and i have known the eyes already, known them all--
the eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
and when i am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
when i am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
then how should i begin
to spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
and how should i presume?
and i have known the arms already, known them all--
arms that are braceleted and white and bare
but in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair
is it perfume from a dress
that makes me so digress?
arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl
and should i then presume?
and how should i begin?
shall i say, i have gone at dusk through narrow streets
and watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? 
i should have been a pair of ragged claws
scuttling across the floors of silent seas
  
and the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully
smoothed by long fingers,
asleep  tired  or it malingers,
stretched on the floor, here beside you and me
should i, after tea and cakes and ices,
have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
but though i have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
though i have seen my head grown slightly bald brought in upon a platter,
i am no prophet--and heres no great matter
i have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
and i have seen the eternal footman hold my coat, and snicker,
and in short, i was afraid
and would it have been worth it, after all,
after the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
would it have been worth while,
to have bitten off the matter with a smile,
to have squeezed the universe into a ball
to roll it towards some overwhelming question,
to say i am lazarus, come from the dead,
come back to tell you all, i shall tell you all--
if one, settling a pillow by her head
should say that is not what i meant at all
that is not it, at all
and would it have been worth it, after all,
would it have been worth while,
after the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
after the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor--
and this, and so much more?--
it is impossible to say just what i mean
but as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen
would it have been worth while
if one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
and turning toward the window, should say
that is not it at all,
that is not what i meant, at all
no i am not prince hamlet, nor was meant to be
am an attendant lord, one that will do
to swell a progress, start a scene or two,
advise the prince no doubt, an easy tool,
deferential, glad to be of use,
politic, cautious, and meticulous
full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse
at times, indeed, almost ridiculous--
almost, at times, the fool
i grow old  i grow old 
i shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled
shall i part my hair behind? do i dare to eat a peach?
i shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach
i have heard the mermaids singing, each to each
i do not think that they will sing to me
i have seen them riding seaward on the waves
combing the white hair of the waves blown back
when the wind blows the water white and black
we have lingered in the chambers of the sea
by sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
till human voices wake us, and we drown
they are rattling breakfast plates in basement kitchens,
and along the trampled edges of the street
i am aware of the damp souls of housemaids
sprouting despondently at area gates
the brown waves of fog toss up to me
twisted faces from the bottom of the street,
and tear from a passer-by with muddy skirts
an aimless smile that hovers in the air
and vanishes along the level of the roofs
twelve oclock
along the reaches of the street
held in a lunar synthesis,
whispering lunar incantations
dissolve the floors of memory
and all its clear relations,
its divisions and precisions,
every street lamp that i pass
beats like a fatalistic drum,
and through the spaces of the dark
midnight shakes the memory
as a madman shakes a dead geranium
half-past one,
the street lamp sputtered,
the street lamp muttered,
the street lamp said, regard that woman
who hesitates towards you in the light of the door
which opens on her like a grin
you see the border of her dress
is torn and stained with sand,
and you see the corner of her eye
twists like a crooked pin
the memory throws up high and dry
a crowd of twisted things
a twisted branch upon the beach
eaten smooth, and polished
as if the world gave up
the secret of its skeleton,
stiff and white
a broken spring in a factory yard,
rust that clings to the form that the strength has left
hard and curled and ready to snap
half-past two,
the street lamp said,
remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter,
slips out its tongue
and devours a morsel of rancid butter
so the hand of a child, automatic,
slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay
i could see nothing behind that childs eye
i have seen eyes in the street
trying to peer through lighted shutters,
and a crab one afternoon in a pool,
an old crab with barnacles on his back,
gripped the end of a stick which i held him
half-past three,
the lamp sputtered,
the lamp muttered in the dark
the lamp hummed
regard the moon,
la lune ne garde aucune rancune,
she winks a feeble eye,
she smiles into corners
she smoothes the hair of the grass
the moon has lost her memory
a washed-out smallpox cracks her face,
her hand twists a paper rose,
that smells of dust and old cologne,
she is alone
with all the old nocturnal smells
that cross and cross across her brain
the reminiscence comes
of sunless dry geraniums
and dust in crevices,
smells of chestnuts in the streets,
and female smells in shuttered rooms,
and cigarettes in corridors
and cocktail smells in bars
the lamp said,
four oclock,
here is the number on the door
memory
you have the key,
the little lamp spreads a ring on the stair,
mount
the bed is open the tooth-brush hangs on the wall,
put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life
the last twist of the knife
apeneck sweeney spreads his knees
letting his arms hang down to laugh,
the zebra stripes along his jaw
swelling to maculate giraffe
the circles of the stormy moon
slide westward toward the river plate,
death and the raven drift above
and sweeney guards the horned gate
gloomy orion and the dog
are veiled and hushed the shrunken seas
the person in the spanish cape
tries to sit on sweeneys knees
slips and pulls the table cloth
overturns a coffee-cup,
reorganized upon the floor
she yawns and draws a stocking up
the silent man in mocha brown
sprawls at the window-sill and gapes
the waiter brings in oranges
bananas figs and hothouse grapes
the silent vertebrate in brown
contracts and concentrates, withdraws
rachel ne rabinovitch
tears at the grapes with murderous paws
she and the lady in the cape
are suspect, thought to be in league
therefore the man with heavy eyes
declines the gambit, shows fatigue,
leaves the room and reappears
outside the window, leaning in,
branches of wistaria
circumscribe a golden grin
the host with someone indistinct
converses at the door apart,
the nightingales are singing near
the convent of the sacred heart,
and sang within the bloody wood
when agamemnon cried aloud,
and let their liquid droppings fall
to stain the stiff dishonoured shroud
as she laughed i was aware of becoming involved
in her laughter and being part of it, until her
teeth were only accidental stars with a talent
for squad-drill i was drawn in by short gasps,
inhaled at each momentary recovery, lost finally
in the dark caverns of her throat, bruised by
the ripple of unseen muscles an elderly waiter
with trembling hands was hurriedly spreading
a pink and white checked cloth over the rusty
green iron table, saying if the lady and
gentleman wish to take their tea in the garden,
if the lady and gentleman wish to take their
tea in the garden  i decided that if the
shaking of her breasts could be stopped, some of
the fragments of the afternoon might be collected,
and i concentrated my attention with careful
subtlety to this end
the broad-backed hippopotamus
rests on his belly in the mud
although he seems so firm to us
he is merely flesh and blood
flesh-and-blood is weak and frail,
susceptible to nervous shock
while the true church can never fail
for it is based upon a rock
the hippos feeble steps may err
in compassing material ends,
while the true church need never stir
to gather in its dividends
the potamus can never reach
the mango on the mango-tree
but fruits of pomegranate and peach
refresh the church from over sea
at mating time the hippos voice
betrays inflexions hoarse and odd,
but every week we hear rejoice
the church, at being one with god
the hippopotamuss day
is passed in sleep at night he hunts
god works in a mysterious way--
the church can sleep and feed at once
i saw the potamus take wing
ascending from the damp savannas,
and quiring angels round him sing
the praise of god, in loud hosannas
blood of the lamb shall wash him clean
and him shall heavenly arms enfold,
among the saints he shall be seen
performing on a harp of gold
he shall be washed as white as snow,
by all the martyrd virgins kist,
while the true church remains below
wrapt in the old miasmal mist
mistah kurtzhe dead
a penny for the old guy
we are the hollow men
we are the stuffed men
leaning together
headpiece filled with straw alas
our dried voices, when
we whisper together
are quiet and meaningless
as wind in dry grass
or rats feet over broken glass
in our dry cellar
shape without form, shade without colour,
paralysed force, gesture without motion
those who have crossed
with direct eyes, to deaths other kingdom
remember usif at allnot as lost
violent souls, but only
as the hollow men
the stuffed men
eyes i dare not meet in dreams
in deaths dream kingdom
these do not appear
there, the eyes are
sunlight on a broken column
there, is a tree swinging
and voices are
in the winds singing
more distant and more solemn
than a fading star
let me be no nearer
in deaths dream kingdom
let me also wear
such deliberate disguises
rats coat, crowskin, crossed staves
in a field
behaving as the wind behaves
no nearer
not that final meeting
in the twilight kingdom
this is the dead land
this is cactus land
here the stone images
are raised, here they receive
the supplication of a dead mans hand
under the twinkle of a fading star
is it like this
in deaths other kingdom
waking alone
at the hour when we are
trembling with tenderness
lips that would kiss
form prayers to broken stone
the eyes are not here
there are no eyes here
in this valley of dying stars
in this hollow valley
this broken jaw of our lost kingdoms
in this last of meeting places
we grope together
and avoid speech
gathered on this beach of the tumid river
sightless, unless
the eyes reappear
as the perpetual star
multifoliate rose
of deaths twilight kingdom
the hope only
of empty men
here we go round the prickly pear
prickly pear prickly pear
here we go round the prickly pear
at five oclock in the morning
between the idea
and the reality
between the motion
and the act
falls the shadow
for thine is the kingdom
between the conception
and the creation
between the emotion
and the response
falls the shadow
life is very long
between the desire
and the spasm
between the potency
and the existence
between the essence
and the descent
falls the shadow
for thine is the kingdom
for thine is
life is
for thine is the
this is the way the world ends
this is the way the world ends
this is the way the world ends
not with a bang but a whimper
starting from fish-shape paumanok, where i was born,
well-begotten, and raised by a perfect mother
after roaming many lands--lover of populous pavements
dweller in mannahatta, city of ships, my city,--or on southern savannas
or a soldier camped, or carrying my knapsack and gun--or a miner in
california
or rude in my home in dakotahs woods, my diet meat, my drink from the
spring
or withdrawn to muse and meditate in some deep recess,
far from the clank of crowds, intervals passing, rapt and happy
aware of the fresh free giver, the flowing missouri--aware of mighty
niagara
aware of the buffalo herds, grazing the plains--the hirsute and strong-
breasted bull
of earths, rocks, fifth-month flowers, experienced--stars, rain, snow, my
amaze
having studied the mocking-birds tones, and the mountain hawks,
and heard at dusk the unrivalled one, the hermit thrush, from the
swamp-cedars,
solitary, singing in the west, i strike up for a new world
victory, union, faith, identity, time,
yourself, the present and future lands, the indissoluble compacts, riches,
mystery,
eternal progress, the kosmos, and the modern reports
this, then, is life
here is what has come to the surface after so many throes and convulsions
how curious how real
under foot the divine soil--over head the sun
see, revolving, the globe
the ancestor-continents, away, grouped together
the present and future continents, north and south, with the isthmus
between
see, vast trackless spaces
as in a dream, they change, they swiftly fill
countless masses debouch upon them
they are now covered with the foremost people, arts, institutions, known
see, projected through time,
for me an audience interminable
with firm and regular step they wend--they never stop,
successions of men, americanos, a hundred millions
one generation playing its part, and passing on,
another generation playing its part, and passing on in its turn,
with faces turned sideways or backward towards me, to listen,
with eyes retrospective towards me
americanos conquerors marches humanitarian
foremost century marches libertad masses
for you a programme of chants
chants of the prairies
chants of the long-running mississippi, and down to the mexican sea
chants of ohio, indiana, illinois, iowa, wisconsin, and minnesota
chants going forth from the centre, from kansas, and thence, equidistant,
shooting in pulses of fire, ceaseless, to vivify all
in the year  of the states,
my tongue, every atom of my blood, formed from this soil, this air,
born here of parents born here, from parents the same, and their parents
the same,
i, now thirty-six years old, in perfect health begin,
hoping to cease not till death
creeds and schools in abeyance,
retiring back a while, sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten
i harbour, for good or bad--i permit to speak, at every hazard--
nature now without check, with original energy
take my leaves, america take them south, and take them north
make welcome for them everywhere, for they are your own offspring
surround them, east and west for they would surround you
and you precedents connect lovingly with them, for they connect lovingly
with you
i conned old times
i sat studying at the feet of the great masters
now, if eligible, o that the great masters might return and study me
in the name of these states, shall i scorn the antique?
why, these are the children of the antique, to justify it
dead poets, philosophs, priests,
martyrs, artists, inventors, governments long since,
language-shapers on other shores,
nations once powerful, now reduced, withdrawn, or desolate,
i dare not proceed till i respectfully credit what you have left, wafted
hither
i have perused it--own it is admirable, moving awhile among it
think nothing can ever be greater--nothing can ever deserve more than it
deserves
regarding it all intently a long while, then dismissing it,
i stand in my place, with my own day, here
here lands female and male
here the heirship and heiress-ship of the world--here the flame of
materials
here spirituality, the translatress, the openly-avowed,
the ever-tending, the finale of visible forms
the satisfier, after due long-waiting, now advancing,
yes, here comes my mistress, the soul
the soul
for ever and for ever--longer than soil is brown and solid--longer than
water ebbs and flows
i will make the poems of materials, for i think they are to be the most
spiritual poems
and i will make the poems of my body and of mortality,
for i think i shall then supply myself with the poems of my soul, and of
immortality
i will make a song for these states, that no one state may under any
circumstances be subjected to another state
and i will make a song that there shall be comity by day and by night
between all the states, and between any two of them
and i will make a song for the ears of the president, full of weapons with
menacing points,
and behind the weapons countless dissatisfied faces
and a song make i, of the one formed out of all
the fanged and glittering one whose head is over all
resolute, warlike one, including and over all
however high the head of any else, that head is over all
i will acknowledge contemporary lands
i will trail the whole geography of the globe, and salute courteously every
city large and small
and employments i will put in my poems, that with you is heroism, upon
land and sea--and i will report all heroism from an american point
of view
and sexual organs and acts do you concentrate in me--for i am determined
to tell you with courageous clear voice, to prove you illustrious
i will sing the song of companionship
i will show what alone must finally compact these
i believe these are to found their own ideal of manly love, indicating it
in me
i will therefore let flame from me the burning fires that were threatening
to consume me
i will lift what has too long kept down those smouldering fires
i will give them complete abandonment
i will write the evangel-poem of comrades and of love
for who but i should understand love, with all its sorrow and joy?
and who but i should be the poet of comrades?
i am the credulous man of qualities, ages, races
i advance from the people en masse in their own spirit
here is what sings unrestricted faith
omnes omnes let others ignore what they may
i make the poem of evil also--i commemorate that part also
i am myself just as much evil as good, and my nation is--and i say there is
in fact no evil,
or if there is, i say it is just as important to you, to the land, or to
me, as anything else
i too, following many, and followed by many, inaugurate a religion--i too
go to the wars
it may be i am destined to utter the loudest cries thereof, the winners
pealing shouts
who knows? they may rise from me yet, and soar above everything
each is not for its own sake
i say the whole earth, and all the stars in the sky, are for religions
sake
i say no man has ever yet been half devout enough
none has ever yet adored or worshipped half enough
none has begun to think how divine he himself is, and how certain the
future is
i say that the real and permanent grandeur of these states must be their
religion
otherwise there is no real and permanent grandeur
nor character, nor life worthy the name, without religion
nor land, nor man or woman, without religion
what are you doing, young man?
are you so earnest--so given up to literature, science, art, amours?
these ostensible realities, politics, points?
your ambition or business, whatever it may be?
it is well--against such i say not a word--i am their poet also
but behold such swiftly subside--burnt up for religions sake
for not all matter is fuel to heat, impalpable flame, the essential life of
the earth,
any more than such are to religion
what do you seek, so pensive and silent?
what do you need, camerado?
dear son do you think it is love?
listen, dear son--listen, america, daughter or son
it is a painful thing to love a man or woman to excess--and yet it
satisfies--it is great
but there is something else very great--it makes the whole coincide
it, magnificent, beyond materials, with continuous hands, sweeps and
provides for all
know you to drop in the earth the germs of a greater religion,
the following chants, each for its kind, i sing
my comrade
for you, to share with me, two greatnesses--and a third one, rising
inclusive and more resplendent,
the greatness of love and democracy--and the greatness of religion
mlange mine own the unseen and the seen
mysterious ocean where the streams empty
prophetic spirit of materials shifting and flickering around me
living beings, identities, now doubtless near us in the air, that we know
not of
contact daily and hourly that will not release me
these selecting--these, in hints, demanded of me
not he with a daily kiss onward from childhood kissing me
has winded and twisted around me that which holds me to him,
any more than i am held to the heavens, to the spiritual world,
and to the identities of the gods, my lovers, faithful and true,
after what they have done to me, suggesting themes
o such themes equalities
o amazement of things o divine average
o warblings under the sun--ushered, as now, or at noon, or setting
o strain, musical, flowing through ages--now reaching hither,
i take to your reckless and composite chords--i add to them, and cheerfully
pass them forward
as i have walked in alabama my morning walk,
i have seen where the she-bird, the mocking-bird, sat on her nest in the
briars, hatching her brood
i have seen the he-bird also
i have paused to hear him, near at hand, inflating his throat, and joyfully
singing
and while i paused, it came to me that what he really sang for was not
there only,
nor for his mate nor himself only, nor all sent back by the echoes
but subtle, clandestine, away beyond,
a charge transmitted, and gift occult, for those being born
democracy
near at hand to you a throat is now inflating itself and joyfully singing
ma femme
for the brood beyond us and of us,
for those who belong here, and those to come,
i, exultant, to be ready for them, will now shake out carols stronger and
haughtier than have ever yet been heard upon earth
i will make the songs of passion, to give them their way,
and your songs, outlawed offenders--for i scan you with kindred eyes, and
carry you with me the same as any
i will make the true poem of riches,--
to earn for the body and the mind whatever adheres, and goes forward, and
is not dropped by death
i will effuse egotism, and show it underlying all--and i will be the bard
of personality
and i will show of male and female that either is but the equal of the
other
and i will show that there is no imperfection in the present--and can be
none in the future
and i will show that, whatever happens to anybody, it may be turned to
beautiful results--and i will show that nothing can happen more beautiful
than death
and i will thread a thread through my poems that time and events are
compact,
and that all the things of the universe are perfect miracles, each as
profound as any
i will not make poems with reference to parts
but i will make leaves, poems, poemets, songs, says, thoughts, with
reference to ensemble
and i will not sing with reference to a day, but with reference to all
days
and i will not make a poem, nor the least part of a poem, but has reference
to the soul
because, having looked at the objects of the universe, i find there is no
one, nor any particle of one, but has reference to the soul
was somebody asking to see the soul?
see your own shape and countenance--persons, substances, beasts, the
trees, the running rivers, the rocks and sands
all hold spiritual joys, and afterwards loosen them
how can the real body ever die, and be buried?
of your real body, and any mans or womans real body,
item for item, it will elude the hands of the corpse-cleaners, and pass to
fitting spheres,
carrying what has accrued to it from the moment of birth to the moment of
death
not the types set up by the printer return their impression, the meaning,
the main concern,
any more than a mans substance and life, or a womans substance and life,
return in the body and the soul,
indifferently before death and after death
behold the body includes and is the meaning, the main concern--and
includes and is the soul
whoever you are how superb and how divine is your body, or any part of it
whoever you are to you endless announcements
daughter of the lands, did you wait for your poet?
did you wait for one with a flowing mouth and indicative hand?
toward the male of the states, and toward the female of the states,
live words--words to the lands
o the lands interlinked, food-yielding lands
land of coal and iron land of gold lands of cotton, sugar, rice
land of wheat, beef, pork land of wool and hemp land of the apple and
grape
land of the pastoral plains, the grass-fields of the world land of those
sweet-aired interminable plateaus
land of the herd, the garden, the healthy house of adobie
lands where the north-west columbia winds, and where the south-west
colorado winds
land of the eastern chesapeake land of the delaware
land of ontario, erie, huron, michigan
land of the old thirteen massachusetts land land of vermont and
connecticut
land of the ocean shores land of sierras and peaks
land of boatmen and sailors fishermens land
inextricable lands the clutched together the passionate ones
the side by side the elder and younger brothers the bony-limbed
the great womens land the feminine the experienced sisters and the
inexperienced sisters
far-breathed land arctic-braced mexican-breezed the diverse the
compact
the pennsylvanian the virginian the double carolinian
o all and each well-loved by me my intrepid nations o i at any rate
include you all with perfect love
i cannot be discharged from you--not from one, any sooner than another
o death o--for all that, i am yet of you unseen, this hour, with
irrepressible love,
walking new england, a friend, a traveller,
splashing my bare feet in the edge of the summer ripples, on paumanoks
sands,
crossing the prairies--dwelling again in chicago--dwelling in every town,
observing shows, births, improvements, structures, arts,
listening to the orators and the oratresses in public halls,
of and through the states, as during life--each man and woman my
neighbour,
the louisianian, the georgian, as near to me, and i as near to him and her,
the mississippian and arkansian yet with me--and i yet with any of them
yet upon the plains west of the spinal river--yet in my house of adobie,
yet returning eastward--yet in the sea-side state, or in maryland,
yet canadian cheerily braving the winter--the snow and ice welcome to me,
or mounting the northern pacific, to sitka, to aliaska
yet a true son either of maine, or of the granite state, or of the
narragansett bay state, or of the empire state
yet sailing to other shores to annex the same--yet welcoming every new
brother
hereby applying these leaves to the new ones, from the hour they unite with
the old ones
coming among the new ones myself, to be their companion and equal--coming
personally to you now
enjoining you to acts, characters, spectacles, with me
with me, with firm holding--yet haste, haste on
for your life, adhere to me
of all the men of the earth, i only can unloose you and toughen you
i may have to be persuaded many times before i consent to give myself to
you--but what of that?
must not nature be persuaded many times?
no dainty dolce affettuoso i
bearded, sunburnt, gray-necked, forbidding, i have arrived,
to be wrestled with as i pass, for the solid prizes of the universe
for such i afford whoever can persevere to win them
on my way a moment i pause
here for you and here for america
still the present i raise aloft--still the future of the states i harbinge,
glad and sublime
and for the past, i pronounce what the air holds of the red aborigines
the red aborigines
leaving natural breaths, sounds of rain and winds, calls as of birds and
animals in the woods, syllabled to us for names
okonee, koosa, ottawa, monongahela, sauk, natchez, chattahoochee, kaqueta,
oronoco, wabash, miami, saginaw, chippewa, oshkosh, walla-walla
leaving such to the states, they melt, they depart, charging the water and
the land with names
o expanding and swift o henceforth,
elements, breeds, adjustments, turbulent, quick, and audacious
a world primal again--vistas of glory, incessant and branching
a new race, dominating previous ones, and grander far, with new contests,
new politics, new literatures and religions, new inventions and arts
these my voice announcing--i will sleep no more, but arise
you oceans that have been calm within me how i feel you, fathomless,
stirring, preparing unprecedented waves and storms
see steamers steaming through my poems
see in my poems immigrants continually coming and landing
see in arriere, the wigwam, the trail, the hunters hut, the flat-boat, the
maize-leaf, the claim, the rude fence, and the backwoods village
see, on the one side the western sea, and on the other the eastern sea, how
they advance and retreat upon my poems, as upon their own shores
see pastures and forests in my poems--see animals, wild and tame--see,
beyond the kanzas, countless herds of buffalo, feeding on short
curly grass
see, in my poems, cities, solid, vast, inland, with paved streets, with
iron and stone edifices, ceaseless vehicles, and commerce
see the many-cylindered steam printing-press--see the electric telegraph,
stretching across the continent, from the western sea to manhattan
see, through atlanticas depths, pulses american, europe reaching--pulses
of europe, duly returned
see the strong and quick locomotive, as it departs, panting, blowing the
steam-whistle
see ploughmen, ploughing farms--see miners, digging mines--see the
numberless factories
see mechanics, busy at their benches, with tools--see, from among them,
superior judges, philosophs, presidents, emerge, dressed in working
dresses
see, lounging through the shops and fields of the states, me, well-beloved,
close-held by day and night
hear the loud echoes of my songs there read the hints come at last
o camerado close
o you and me at last--and us two only
o a word to clear ones path ahead endlessly
o something ecstatic and undemonstrable o music wild
o now i triumph--and you shall also
o hand in hand--o wholesome pleasure--o one more desirer and lover
o to haste, firm holding--to haste, haste on, with me
footnote  paumanok is the native name of long island, state of new york
it presents a fish-like shape on the map
footnote  mannahatta, or manhattan, is as many readers will know new
york
footnote  
footnote  the poet here contemplates himself as yet living spiritually
and in his poems after the death of the body, still a friend and brother to
all present and future american lands and persons
footnote  new hampshire
footnote  new york state
american feuillage
america always
always our own feuillage
always floridas green peninsula always the priceless delta of louisiana
always the cotton-fields of alabama and texas
always californias golden hills and hollows--and the silver mountains of
new mexico always soft-breathed cuba
always the vast slope drained by the southern sea--inseparable with the
slopes drained 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, travellers, canada,
the snows
always these compact lands--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 mannahattas 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 labour 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 sailed--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 all 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, festooned with tylandria--the pines and cypresses,
growing out of the white sand that spreads far and flat
rude boats descending the big pedee--climbing plants, parasites, with
coloured 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 waggoners, just after dark--the supper-fires, and the
cooking and eating by whites and negroes,
thirty or forty great waggons--the mules, cattle, horses, feeding from
troughs,
the shadows, gleams, up under the leaves of the old sycamore-trees--the
flames--also the black smoke from the pitch-pine, curling and
rising
southern fishermen fishing--the sounds and inlets of north carolinas
coast--the shad-fishery and the herring-fishery--the large sweep-
seines--the windlasses on shore worked 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 covered 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 planters son returning after a long absence, joyfully
welcomed and kissed by the aged mulatto nurse
on rivers, boatmen safely moored 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 odour, 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 fathers 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 eye around
california life--the miner, bearded, dressed in his rude costume--the
staunch california friendship--the sweet air--the graves one, in
passing, meets, solitary, just aside the horse-path
down in texas, the cotton-field, the negro-cabins--drivers driving mules or
oxen before rude carts--cotton-bales piled on banks and wharves
encircling all, vast-darting, up and wide, the american soul, with equal
hemispheres--one love, one dilation or pride
--in arriere, the peace-talk with the iroquois, the aborigines--the
calumet, the pipe of good-will, arbitration, and endorsement,
the sachem blowing the smoke first toward the sun and then toward the
earth,
the drama of the scalp-dance enacted with painted faces and guttural
exclamations,
the setting-out of the war-party--the long and stealthy march,
the single-file--the swinging hatchets--the surprise and slaughter of
enemies
--all the acts, scenes, ways, persons, attitudes, of these states--
reminiscences, all institutions,
all these states, compact--every square mile of these states, without
excepting a particle--you also--me also
me pleased, rambling in lanes and country fields, paumanoks fields,
me, observing the spiral flight of two little yellow butterflies, shuffling
between each other, ascending high in the air
the darting swallow, the destroyer of insects--the fall-traveller
southward, but returning northward early in the spring
the country boy at the close of the day, driving the herd of cows, and
shouting to them as they loiter to browse by the roadside
the city wharf--boston, philadelphia, baltimore, charleston, new orleans,
san francisco,
the departing ships, when the sailors heave at the capstan
evening--me in my room--the setting sun,
the setting summer sun shining in my open window, showing the swarm of
flies, suspended, balancing in the air in the centre of the room,
darting athwart, up and down, casting swift shadows in specks on
the opposite wall, where the shine is
the athletic american matron speaking in public to crowds of listeners
males, females, immigrants, combinations--the copiousness--the
individuality of the states, each for itself--the money-makers
factories, machinery, the mechanical forces--the windlass, lever, pulley--
all certainties,
the certainty of space, increase, freedom, futurity
in space, the sporades, the scattered islands, the stars--on the firm
earth, the lands, my lands
o lands o all so dear to me--what you are whatever it is, i become a
part of that, whatever it is
southward there, i screaming, with wings slow-flapping, with the myriads of
gulls wintering along the coasts of florida--or in louisiana, with
pelicans breeding,
otherways, there, atwixt the banks of the arkansaw, the rio grande, the
nueces, the brazos, the tombigbee, the red river, the saskatchewan,
or the osage, i with the spring waters laughing and skipping and
running
northward, on the sands, on some shallow bay of paumanok, i, with parties
of snowy herons wading in the wet to seek worms and aquatic plants
retreating, triumphantly twittering, the king-bird, from piercing the crow
with its bill, for amusement--and i triumphantly twittering
the migrating flock of wild geese alighting in autumn to refresh
themselves--the body of the flock feed--the sentinels outside move
around with erect heads watching, and are from time to time
relieved by other sentinels--and i feeding and taking turns with
the rest
in canadian forests, the moose, large as an ox, cornered by hunters, rising
desperately on his hind-feet, and plunging with his fore-feet, the
hoofs as sharp as knives--and i plunging at the hunters, cornered
and desperate
in the mannahatta, streets, piers, shipping, store-houses, and the
countless workmen working in the shops,
and i too of the mannahatta, singing thereof--and no less in myself than
the whole of the mannahatta in itself,
singing the song of these, my ever-united lands--my body no more inevitably
united part to part, and made one identity, any more than my lands
are inevitably united, and made one identity
nativities, climates, the grass of the great pastoral plains,
cities, labours, death, animals, products, good and evil--these me,--
these affording, in all their particulars, endless feuillage to me and to
america, how can i do less than pass the clue of the union of them, to
afford the like to you?
whoever you are how can i but offer you divine leaves, that you also be
eligible as i am?
how can i but, as here, chanting, invite you for yourself to collect
bouquets of the incomparable feuillage of these states?
footnote  -
the past-present
i was looking a long while for the history of the past for myself, and for
these chants--and now i have found it
it is not in those paged fables in the libraries, them i neither accept
nor reject
it is no more in the legends than in all else
it is in the present--it is this earth to-day
it is in democracy--in this america--the old world also
it is the life of one man or one woman to-day, the average man of to-day
it is languages, social customs, literatures, arts
it is the broad show of artificial things, ships, machinery, politics,
creeds, modern improvements, and the interchange of nations,
all for the average man of to-day
years of the unperformed
years of the unperformed your horizon rises--i see it part away for more
august dramas
i see not america only--i see not only libertys nation but other nations
embattling
i see tremendous entrances and exits--i see new combinations--i see the
solidarity of races
i see that force advancing with irresistible power on the worlds stage
have the old forces played their parts? are the acts suitable to them
closed?
i see freedom, completely armed, and victorious, and very haughty, with law
by her side, both 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
never were such sharp questions asked as this day
never was average man, his soul, more energetic, more like a god
lo how he urges and urges, leaving the masses no rest
his daring foot is on land and sea everywhere--he colonises the pacific,
the archipelagoes
with the steam-ship, the electric telegraph, the newspaper, the wholesale
engines of war,
with these, and the world-spreading factories, he interlinks all geography,
all lands
--what whispers are these, o lands, running ahead of you, passing under the
seas?
are all nations communing? is there going to be but one heart to the globe?
is humanity forming en masse?--for lo tyrants tremble, crowns grow dim
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
years prophetical the space ahead as i walk, as i vainly try to pierce it,
is full of phantoms
unborn deeds, things soon to be, project their shapes around me
this incredible rush and heat--this strange ecstatic fever of dreams, o
years
your dreams, o years, how they penetrate through me i know not whether i
sleep or wake
the performed america and europe grow dim, retiring in shadow behind me,
the unperformed, more gigantic than ever, advance, advance upon me
flux
of these years i sing,
how they pass through convulsed pains, as through parturitions
how america illustrates birth, gigantic youth, the promise, the sure
fulfilment, despite of people--illustrates evil as well as good
how many hold despairingly yet to the models departed, caste, myths,
obedience, compulsion, and to infidelity
how few see the arrived models, the athletes, the states--or see freedom or
spirituality--or hold any faith in results
but i see the athletes--and i see the results glorious and inevitable--and
they again leading to other results
how the great cities appear--how the democratic masses, turbulent, wilful,
as i love them,
how the whirl, the contest, the wrestle of evil with good, the sounding and
resounding, keep on and on
how society waits unformed, and is between things ended and things begun
how america is the continent of glories, and of the triumph of freedom, and
of the democracies, and of the fruits of society, and of all that
is begun
and how the states are complete in themselves--and how all triumphs and
glories are complete in themselves, to lead onward,
and how these of mine, and of the states, will in their turn be convulsed,
and serve other parturitions and transitions
and how all people, sights, combinations, the democratic masses, too,
serve--and how every fact serves,
and how now, or at any time, each serves the exquisite transition of death
to working men
come closer to me
push close, my lovers, and take the best i possess
yield closer and closer, and give me the best you possess
this is unfinished business with me--how is it with you?
i was chilled with the cold types, cylinder, wet paper between us
male and female
i pass so poorly with paper and types, i must pass with the contact of
bodies and souls
american masses
i do not thank you for liking me as i am, and liking the touch of me--i
know that it is good for you to do so
this is the poem of occupations
in the labour of engines and trades, and the labour of fields, i find the
developments,
and find the eternal meanings
workmen and workwomen
were all educations, practical and ornamental, well displayed out of me,
what would it amount to?
were i as the head teacher, charitable proprietor, wise statesman, what
would it amount to?
were i to you as the boss employing and paying you, would that satisfy you?
the learned, virtuous, benevolent, and the usual terms
a man like me, and never the usual terms
neither a servant nor a master am i
i take no sooner a large price than a small price--i will have my own,
whoever enjoys me
i will be even with you, and you shall be even with me
if you stand at work in a shop, i stand as nigh as the nighest in the same
shop
if you bestow gifts on your brother or dearest friend, i demand as good as
your brother or dearest friend
if your lover, husband, wife, is welcome by day or night, i must be
personally as welcome
if you become degraded, criminal, ill, then i become so for your sake
if you remember your foolish and outlawed deeds, do you think i cannot
remember my own foolish and outlawed deeds?
if you carouse at the table, i carouse at the opposite side of the table
if you meet some stranger in the streets, and love him or her--why i often
meet strangers in the street, and love them
why, what have you thought of yourself?
is it you then that thought yourself less?
is it you that thought the president greater than you?
or the rich better off than you? or the educated wiser than you?
because you are greasy or pimpled, or that you was once drunk, or a thief,
or diseased, or rheumatic, or a prostitute, or are so now
or from frivolity or impotence, or that you are no scholar, and never saw
your name in print,
do you give in that you are any less immortal?
souls of men and women it is not you i call unseen, unheard, untouchable
and untouching
it is not you i go argue pro and con about, and to settle whether you are
alive or no
i own publicly who you are, if nobody else owns
grown, half-grown, and babe, of this country and every country, indoors and
outdoors, one just as much as the other, i see,
and all else behind or through them
the wife--and she is not one jot less than the husband
the daughter--and she is just as good as the son
the mother--and she is every bit as much as the father
offspring of ignorant and poor, boys apprenticed to trades,
young fellows working on farms, and old fellows working on farms,
sailor-men, merchant-men, coasters, immigrants,
all these i see--but nigher and farther the same i see
none shall escape me, and none shall wish to escape me
i bring what you much need, yet always have,
not money, amours, dress, eating, but as good
i send no agent or medium, offer no representative of value, but offer the
value itself
there is something that comes home to one now and perpetually
it is not what is printed, preached, discussed--it eludes discussion and
print
it is not to be put in a book--it is not in this book
it is for you, whoever you are--it is no farther from you than your hearing
and sight are from you
it is hinted by nearest, commonest, readiest--it is ever provoked by them
you may read in many languages, yet read nothing about it
you may read the presidents message, and read nothing about it there
nothing in the reports from the state department or treasury department, or
in the daily papers or the weekly papers,
or in the census or revenue returns, prices current, or any accounts of
stock
the sun and stars that float in the open air
the apple-shaped earth, and we upon it--surely the drift of them is
something grand
i do not know what it is, except that it is grand, and that it is
happiness,
and that the enclosing purport of us here is not a speculation, or bon-mot,
or reconnoissance,
and that it is not something which by luck may turn out well for us, and
without luck must be a failure for us,
and not something which may yet be retracted in a certain contingency
the light and shade, the curious sense of body and identity, the greed that
with perfect complaisance devours all things, the endless pride and
outstretching of man, unspeakable joys and sorrows,
the wonder every one sees in every one else he sees, and the wonders that
fill each minute of time for ever,
what have you reckoned them for, camerado?
have you reckoned them for a trade, or farm-work? or for the profits of a
store?
or to achieve yourself a position? or to fill a gentlemans leisure, or a
ladys leisure?
have you reckoned the landscape took substance and form that it might be
painted in a picture?
or men and women that they might be written of, and songs sung?
or the attraction of gravity, and the great laws and harmonious
combinations, and the fluids of the air, as subjects for the
savans?
or the brown land and the blue sea for maps and charts?
or the stars to be put in constellations and named fancy names?
or that the growth of seeds is for agricultural tables, or agriculture
itself?
old institutions--these arts, libraries, legends, collections, and the
practice handed along in manufactures--will we rate them so high?
will we rate our cash and business high?--i have no objection
i rate them as high as the highest--then a child born of a woman and man i
rate beyond all rate
we thought our union grand, and our constitution grand
i do not say they are not grand and good, for they are
i am this day just as much in love with them as you
then i am in love with you, and with all my fellows upon the earth
we consider bibles and religions divine--i do not say they are not divine
i say they have all grown out of you, and may grow out of you still
it is not they who give the life--it is you who give the life
leaves are not more shed from the trees, or trees from the earth, than they
are shed out of you
when the psalm sings, instead of the singer
when the script preaches, instead of the preacher
when the pulpit descends and goes, instead of the carver that carved the
supporting desk
when i can touch the body of books, by night or by day, and when they touch
my body back again
when a university course convinces, like a slumbering woman and child
convince
when the minted gold in the vault smiles like the night-watchmans
daughter
when warrantee deeds loafe in chairs opposite, and are my friendly
companions
i intend to reach them my hand, and make as much of them as i do of men and
women like you
the sum of all known reverence i add up in you, whoever you are
the president is there in the white house for you--it is not you who are
here for him
the secretaries act in their bureaus for you--not you here for them
the congress convenes every twelfth month for you
laws, courts, the forming of states, the charters of cities, the going and
coming of commerce and mails, are all for you
list close, my scholars dear
all doctrines, all politics and civilisation, exsurge from you
all sculpture and monuments, and anything inscribed anywhere, are tallied
in you
the gist of histories and statistics, as far back as the records reach, is
in you this hour, and myths and tales the same
if you were not breathing and walking here, where would they all be?
the most renowned poems would be ashes, orations and plays would be
vacuums
all architecture is what you do to it when you look upon it
did you think it was in the white or grey stone? or the lines of the arches
and cornices?
all music is what awakes from you, when you are reminded by the
instruments
it is not the violins and the cornets--it is not the oboe nor the beating
drums, nor the score of the baritone singer singing his sweet
romanza--nor that of the mens chorus, nor that of the womens
chorus,
it is nearer and farther than they
will the whole come back then?
can each see signs of the best by a look in the looking-glass? is there
nothing greater or more?
does all sit there with you, with the mystic, unseen soul?
strange and hard that paradox true i give
objects gross and the unseen soul are one
house-building, measuring, sawing the boards
blacksmithing, glass-blowing, nail-making, coopering, tin-roofing, shingle-
dressing,
ship-joining, dock-building, fish-curing, ferrying, flagging of side-walks
by flaggers,
the pump, the pile-driver, the great derrick, the coal-kiln and brick-kiln,
coal-mines, and all that is down there,--the lamps in the darkness, echoes,
songs, what meditations, what vast native thoughts looking through
smutched faces,
ironworks, forge-fires in the mountains, or by the river-banks--men around
feeling the melt with huge crowbars--lumps of ore, the due
combining of ore, limestone, coal--the blast-furnace and the
puddling-furnace, the loup-lump at the bottom of the melt at last--
the rolling-mill, the stumpy bars of pig-iron, the strong, clean
shaped t-rail for railroads
oilworks, silkworks, white-lead-works, the sugar-house, steam-saws, the
great mills and factories
stone-cutting, shapely trimmings for faades, or window or door lintels--
the mallet, the tooth-chisel, the jib to protect the thumb, oakum,
the oakum-chisel, the caulking-iron--the kettle of boiling vault-
cement, and the fire under the kettle,
the cotton-bale, the stevedores hook, the saw and buck of the sawyer, the
mould of the moulder, the working knife of the butcher, the ice-
saw, and all the work with ice,
the implements for daguerreotyping--the tools of the rigger, grappler,
sail-maker, block-maker,
goods of gutta-percha, papier-mch, colours, brushes, brush-making,
glaziers implements,
the veneer and glue-pot, the confectioners ornaments, the decanter and
glasses, the shears and flat-iron,
the awl and knee-strap, the pint measure and quart measure, the counter and
stool, the writing-pen of quill or metal--the making of all sorts
of edged tools,
the brewery, brewing, the malt, the vats, everything that is done by
brewers, also by wine-makers, also vinegar-makers,
leather-dressing, coach-making, boiler-making, rope-twisting, distilling,
sign-painting, lime-burning, cotton-picking--electro-plating,
electrotyping, stereotyping,
stave-machines, planing-machines, reaping-machines,
ploughing-machines, thrashing-machines, steam waggons,
the cart of the carman, the omnibus, the ponderous dray
pyrotechny, letting off coloured fireworks at night, fancy figures and
jets,
beef on the butchers stall, the slaughter-house of the butcher, the
butcher in his killing-clothes,
the pens of live pork, the killing-hammer, the hog-hook, the scalders tub,
gutting, the cutters cleaver, the packers maul, and the plenteous
winter-work of pork-packing,
flour-works, grinding of wheat, rye, maize, rice--the barrels and the half
and quarter barrels, the loaded barges, the high piles on wharves
and levees,
the men, and the work of the men, on railroads, coasters, fish-boats,
canals
the daily routine of your own or any mans life--the shop, yard, store, or
factory
these shows all near you by day and night-workmen whoever you are, your
daily life
in that and them the heft of the heaviest--in them far more than you
estimated, and far less also
in them realities for you and me--in them poems for you and me
in them, not yourself--you and your soul enclose all things, regardless of
estimation
in them the development good--in them, all themes and hints
i do not affirm what you see beyond is futile--i do not advise you to stop
i do not say leadings you thought great are not great
but i say that none lead to greater than those lead to
will you seek afar off? you surely come back at last,
in things best known to you finding the best, or as good as the best,
in folks nearest to you finding the sweetest, strongest, lovingest
happiness, knowledge, not in another place, but this place--not for another
hour, but this hour
man in the first you see or touch--always in friend, brother, nighest
neighbour--woman in mother, sister, wife
the popular tastes and employments taking precedence in poems or anywhere,
you workwomen and workmen of these states having your own divine and strong
life,
and all else giving place to men and women like you
song of the broad-axe
weapon, shapely, naked, wan
head from the mothers bowels drawn
wooded flesh and metal bone limb only one, and lip only one
grey-blue leaf by red-heat grown helve produced from a little seed sown
resting the grass amid and upon,
to be leaned, and to lean on
strong shapes, and attributes of strong shapes--masculine trades, sights
and sounds
long varied train of an emblem, dabs of music
fingers of the organist skipping staccato over the keys of the great organ
welcome are all earths lands, each for its kind
welcome are lands of pine and oak
welcome are lands of the lemon and fig
welcome are lands of gold
welcome are lands of wheat and maize--welcome those of the grape
welcome are lands of sugar and rice
welcome are cotton-lands--welcome those of the white potato and sweet
potato
welcome are mountains, flats, sands, forests, prairies
welcome the rich borders of rivers, table-lands, openings,
welcome the measureless grazing-lands--welcome the teeming soil of
orchards, flax, honey, hemp
welcome just as much the other more hard-faced lands
lands rich as lands of gold, or wheat and fruit lands
lands of mines, lands of the manly and rugged ores
lands of coal, copper, lead, tin, zinc
lands of iron lands of the make of the axe
the log at the wood-pile, the axe supported by it
the sylvan hut, the vine over the doorway, the space cleared for a garden,
the irregular tapping of rain down on the leaves, after the storm is
lulled,
the wailing and moaning at intervals, the thought of the sea,
the thought of ships struck in the storm, and put on their beam-ends, and
the cutting away of masts
the sentiment of the huge timbers of old-fashioned houses and barns
the remembered print or narrative, the voyage at a venture of men,
families, goods,
the disembarkation, the founding of a new city,
the voyage of those who sought a new england and found it--the outset
anywhere,
the settlements of the arkansas, colorado, ottawa, willamette,
the slow progress, the scant fare, the axe, rifle, saddle-bags
the beauty of all adventurous and daring persons,
the beauty of wood-boys and wood-men, with their clear untrimmed faces,
the beauty of independence, departure, actions that rely on themselves,
the american contempt for statutes and ceremonies, the boundless impatience
of restraint,
the loose drift of character, the inkling through random types, the
solidification
the butcher in the slaughter-house, the hands aboard schooners and sloops,
the raftsman, the pioneer,
lumbermen in their winter camp, daybreak in the woods, stripes of snow on
the limbs of trees, the occasional snapping,
the glad clear sound of ones own voice, the merry song, the natural life
of the woods, the strong days work,
the blazing fire at night, the sweet taste of supper, the talk, the bed of
hemlock boughs, and the bearskin
--the house-builder at work in cities or anywhere,
the preparatory jointing, squaring, sawing, mortising,
the hoist-up of beams, the push of them in their places, laying them
regular, setting the studs by their tenons in the mortises,
according as they were prepared,
the blows of mallets and hammers, the attitudes of the men, their curved
limbs,
bending, standing, astride the beams, driving in pins, holding on by posts
and braces,
the hooked arm over the plate, the other arm wielding the axe,
the floor-men forcing the planks close, to be nailed,
their postures bringing their weapons downward on the bearers,
the echoes resounding through the vacant building
the huge store-house carried up in the city, well under way,
the six framing men, two in the middle, and two at each end, carefully
bearing on their shoulders a heavy stick for a cross-beam,
the crowded line of masons with trowels in their right hands, rapidly
laying the long side-wall, two hundred feet from front to rear,
the flexible rise and fall of backs, the continual click of the trowels
striking the bricks,
the bricks, one after another, each laid so workmanlike in its place, and
set with a knock of the trowel-handle,
the piles of materials, the mortar on the mortar-boards, and the steady
replenishing by the hod-men
--spar-makers in the spar-yard, the swarming row of well-grown apprentices,
the swing of their axes on the square-hewed log, shaping it toward the
shape of a mast,
the brisk short crackle of the steel driven slantingly into the pine,
the butter-coloured chips flying off in great flakes and slivers,
the limber motion of brawny young arms and hips in easy costumes
the constructor of wharves, bridges, piers, bulk-heads, floats, stays
against the sea
--the city fireman--the fire that suddenly bursts forth in the close-packed
square,
the arriving engines, the hoarse shouts, the nimble stepping and daring,
the strong command through the fire-trumpets, the falling in line, the rise
and fall of the arms forcing the water,
the slender, spasmic blue-white jets--the bringing to bear of the hooks and
ladders, and their execution,
the crash and cut-away of connecting woodwork, or through floors, if the
fire smoulders under them,
the crowd with their lit faces, watching--the glare and dense shadows
--the forger at his forge-furnace, and the user of iron after him,
the maker of the axe large and small, and the welder and temperer,
the chooser breathing his breath on the cold steel, and trying the edge
with his thumb,
the one who clean-shapes the handle and sets it firmly in the socket
the shadowy processions of the portraits of the past users also,
the primal patient mechanics, the architects and engineers,
the far-off assyrian edifice and mizra edifice,
the roman lictors preceding the consuls,
the antique european warrior with his axe in combat,
the uplifted arm, the clatter of blows on the helmeted head,
the death-howl, the limpsey tumbling body, the rush of friend and foe
thither,
the siege of revolted lieges determined for liberty,
the summons to surrender, the battering at castle-gates, the truce and
parley
the sack of an old city in its time,
the bursting in of mercenaries and bigots tumultuously and disorderly,
roar, flames, blood, drunkenness, madness,
goods freely rifled from houses and temples, screams of women in the gripe
of brigands,
craft and thievery of camp-followers, men running, old persons despairing,
the hell of war, the cruelties of creeds,
the list of all executive deeds and words, just or unjust,
the power of personality, just or unjust
muscle and pluck for ever
what invigorates life invigorates death,
and the dead advance as much as the living advance,
and the future is no more uncertain than the present,
and the roughness of the earth and of man encloses as
much as the delicatesse of the earth and of man,
and nothing endures but personal qualities
what do you think endures?
do you think the great city endures?
or a teeming manufacturing state? or a prepared constitution? or the best-
built steamships?
or hotels of granite and iron? or any chefs-doeuvre of engineering,
forts, armaments?
away these are not to be cherished for themselves
they fill their hour, the dancers dance, the musicians play
for them
the show passes, all does well enough of course,
all does very well till one flash of defiance
the great city is that which has the greatest man or woman
if it be a few ragged huts, it is still the greatest city in the
whole world
the place where the great city stands is not the place of
stretched wharves, docks, manufactures, deposits of produce,
nor the place of ceaseless salutes of new-comers, or the
anchor-lifters of the departing,
nor the place of the tallest and costliest buildings, or shops
selling goods from the rest of the earth,
nor the place of the best libraries and schools--nor the place where money
is plentiest,
nor the place of the most numerous population
where the city stands with the brawniest breed of orators and bards
where the city stands that is beloved by these, and loves them in return,
and understands them
where no monuments exist to heroes but in the common words and deeds
where thrift is in its place, and prudence is in its place
where the men and women think lightly of the laws
where the slave ceases, and the master of slaves ceases
where the populace rise at once against the never-ending audacity of
elected persons
where fierce men and women pour forth, as the sea to the whistle of death
pours its sweeping and unripped waves
where outside authority enters always after the precedence of inside
authority
where the citizen is always the head and ideal--and president, mayor,
governor, and what not, are agents for pay
where children are taught to be laws to themselves, and to depend on
themselves
where equanimity is illustrated in affairs
where speculations on the soul are encouraged
where women walk in public processions in the streets, the same as the men
where they enter the public assembly and take places the same as the men
where the city of the faithfullest friends stands
where the city of the cleanliness of the sexes stands
where the city of the healthiest fathers stands
where the city of the best-bodied mothers stands,--
there the great city stands
how beggarly appear arguments before a defiant deed
how the floridness of the materials of cities shrivels before a mans or
womans look
all waits, or goes by default, till a strong being appears
a strong being is the proof of the race, and of the ability of the
universe
when he or she appears, materials are overawed,
the dispute on the soul stops,
the old customs and phrases are confronted, turned back, or laid away
what is your money-making now? what can it do now?
what is your respectability now?
what are your theology, tuition, society, traditions, statute-books, now?
where are your jibes of being now?
where are your cavils about the soul now?
was that your best? were those your vast and solid?
riches, opinions, politics, institutions, to part obediently from the path
of one man or woman
the centuries, and all authority, to be trod under the foot-soles of one
man or woman
a sterile landscape covers the ore--there is as good as the best, for all
the forbidding appearance
there is the mine, there are the miners
the forge-furnace is there, the melt is accomplished the hammersmen are at
hand with their tongs and hammers
what always served and always serves is at hand
than this nothing has better served--it has served all
served the fluent-tongued and subtle-sensed greek, and long ere the greek
served in building the buildings that last longer than any
served the hebrew, the persian, the most ancient hindostanee
served the mound-raiser on the mississippi--served those whose relics
remain in central america
served albic temples in woods or on plains, with unhewn pillars, and the
druids
served the artificial clefts, vast, high, silent, on the snow-covered hills
of scandinavia
served those who, time out of mind, made on the granite walls rough
sketches of the sun, moon, stars, ships, ocean-waves
served the paths of the irruptions of the goths--served the pastoral tribes
and nomads
served the long long distant kelt--served the hardy pirates of the baltic
served, before any of those, the venerable and harmless men of ethiopia
served the making of helms for the galleys of pleasure, and the making of
those for war
served all great works on land, and all great works on the sea
for the mediaeval ages, and before the mediaeval ages
served not the living only, then as now, but served the dead
i see the european headsman
he stands masked, clothed in red, with huge legs and strong naked arms,
and leans on a ponderous axe
whom have you slaughtered lately, european headsman?
whose is that blood upon you, so wet and sticky?
i see the clear sunsets of the martyrs
i see from the scaffolds the descending ghosts,
ghosts of dead lords, uncrowned ladies, impeached ministers, rejected
kings,
rivals, traitors, poisoners, disgraced chieftains, and the rest
i see those who in any land have died for the good cause
the seed is spare, nevertheless the crop shall never run out
mind you, o foreign kings, o priests, the crop shall never run out
i see the blood washed entirely away from the axe
both blade and helve are clean
they spirt no more the blood of european nobles--they clasp no more the
necks of queens
i see the headsman withdraw and become useless
i see the scaffold untrodden and mouldy--i see no longer any axe upon it
i see the mighty and friendly emblem of the power of my own race--the
newest, largest race
america i do not vaunt my love for you
i have what i have
the axe leaps
the solid forest gives fluid utterances
they tumble forth, they rise and form,
hut, tent, landing, survey,
flail, plough, pick, crowbar, spade,
shingle, rail, prop, wainscot, jamb, lath, panel, gable,
citadel, ceiling, saloon, academy, organ, exhibition house, library,
cornice, trellis, pilaster, balcony, window, shutter, turret, porch,
hoe, rake, pitchfork, pencil, waggon, staff, saw, jack-plane, mallet,
wedge, rounce,
chair, tub, hoop, table, wicket, vane, sash, floor,
work-box, chest, stringed instrument, boat, frame, and what not,
capitols of states, and capitol of the nation of states,
long stately rows in avenues, hospitals for orphans, or for the poor or
sick,
manhattan steamboats and clippers, taking the measure of all seas
the shapes arise
shapes of the using of axes anyhow, and the users, and all that neighbours
them,
cutters-down of wood, and haulers of it to the penobscot or kennebec,
dwellers in cabins among the californian mountains, or by the little lakes,
or on the columbia,
dwellers south on the banks of the gila or rio grande--friendly gatherings,
the characters and fun,
dwellers up north in minnesota and by the yellowstone river--dwellers on
coasts and off coasts,
seal-fishers, whalers, arctic seamen breaking passages through the ice
the shapes arise
shapes of factories, arsenals, foundries, markets
shapes of the two-threaded tracks of railroads
shapes of the sleepers of bridges, vast frameworks, girders, arches
shapes of the fleets of barges, tows, lake craft, river craft
the shapes arise
shipyards and dry-docks along the eastern and western seas, and in many a
bay and by-place,
the live-oak kelsons, the pine-planks, the spars, the hackmatack-roots for
knees,
the ships themselves on their ways, the tiers of scaffolds, the workmen
busy outside and inside,
the tools lying around, the great auger and little auger, the adze, bolt,
line, square, gouge, and bead-plane
the shapes arise
the shape measured, sawed, jacked, joined, stained,
the coffin-shape for the dead to lie within in his shroud
the shape got out in posts, in the bedstead posts, in the posts of the
brides bed
the shape of the little trough, the shape of the rockers beneath, the shape
of the babes cradle
the shape of the floor-planks, the floor-planks for dancers feet
the shape of the planks of the family home, the home of the friendly
parents and children,
the shape of the roof of the home of the happy young man and woman, the
roof over the well-married young man and woman,
the roof over the supper joyously cooked by the chaste wife, and joyously
eaten by the chaste husband, content after his days work
the shapes arise
the shape of the prisoners place in the court-room, and of him or her
seated in the place
the shape of the liquor-bar leaned against by the young rum-drinker and the
old rum-drinker
the shape of the shamed and angry stairs, trod, by sneaking footsteps
the shape of the sly settee, and the adulterous unwholesome couple
the shape of the gambling-board with its devilish winnings and losings
the shape of the step-ladder for the convicted and sentenced murderer, the
murderer with haggard face and pinioned arms,
the sheriff at hand with his deputies, the silent and white-lipped crowd,
the sickening dangling of the rope
the shapes arise
shapes of doors giving many exits and entrances
the door passing the dissevered friend, flushed and in haste
the door that admits good news and bad news
the door whence the son left home, confident and puffed up
the door he entered again from a long and scandalous absence, diseased,
broken down, without innocence, without means
her shape arises,
she less guarded than ever, yet more guarded than ever
the gross and soiled she moves among do not make her gross and soiled
she knows the thoughts as she passes--nothing is concealed from her
she is none the less considerate or friendly therefor
she is the best beloved--it is without exception--she has no reason to
fear, and she does not fear
oaths, quarrels, hiccupped songs, smutty expressions, are idle to her as
she passes
she is silent--she is possessed of herself--they do not offend her
she receives them as the laws of nature receive them--she is strong,
she too is a law of nature--there is no law stronger than she is
the main shapes arise
shapes of democracy, total result of centuries
shapes, ever projecting other shapes
shapes of a hundred free states, begetting another hundred
shapes of turbulent manly cities
shapes of the women fit for these states,
shapes of the friends and home-givers of the whole earth,
shapes bracing the earth, and braced with the whole earth
antecedents
with antecedents
with my fathers and mothers, and the accumulations of past ages
with all which, had it not been, i would not now be here, as i am
with egypt, india, phoenicia, greece, and rome
with the kelt, the scandinavian, the alb, and the saxon
with antique maritime ventures,--with laws, artisanship, wars, and
journeys
with the poet, the skald, the saga, the myth, and the oracle
with the sale of slaves--with enthusiasts--with the troubadour, the
crusader, and the monk
with those old continents whence we have come to this new continent
with the fading kingdoms and kings over there
with the fading religions and priests
with the small shores we look back to from our own large and present
shores
with countless years drawing themselves onward, and arrived at these years
you and me arrived--america arrived, and making this year
this year sending itself ahead countless years to come
o but it is not the years--it is i--it is you
we touch all laws, and tally all antecedents
we are the skald, the oracle, the monk, and the knight--we easily include
them, and more
we stand amid time, beginningless and endless--we stand amid evil and good
all swings around us--there is as much darkness as light
the very sun swings itself and its system of planets around us
its sun, and its again, all swing around us
as for me, torn, stormy, even as i, amid these vehement days
i have the idea of all, and am all, and believe in all
i believe materialism is true, and spiritualism is true--i reject no part
have i forgotten any part?
come to me, whoever and whatever, till i give you recognition
i respect assyria, china, teutonia, and the hebrews
i adopt each theory, myth, god, and demi-god
i see that the old accounts, bibles, genealogies, are true, without
exception
i assert that all past days were what they should have been
and that they could nohow have been better than they were,
and that to-day is what it should be--and that america is,
and that to-day and america could nohow be better than they are
in the name of these states, and in your and my name, the past,
and in the name of these states, and in your and my name, the present time
i know that the past was great, and the future will be great,
and i know that both curiously conjoint in the present time,
for the sake of him i typify--for the common average mans sake--your sake,
if you are he
and that where i am, or you are, this present day, there is the centre of
all days, all races,
and there is the meaning, to us, of all that has ever come of races and
days, or ever will come
salut au monde
o take my hand, walt whitman
such gliding wonders such sights and sounds
such joined unended links, each hooked to the next
each answering all--each sharing the earth with all
what widens within you, walt whitman?
what waves and soils exuding?
what climes? what persons and lands are here?
who are the infants? some playing, some slumbering?
who are the girls? who are the married women?
who are the three old men going slowly with their arms about each others
necks?
what rivers are these? what forests and fruits are these?
what are the mountains called that rise so high in the mists?
what myriads of dwellings are they, filled with dwellers?
within me latitude widens, longitude lengthens
asia, africa, europe, are to the east--america is provided for in the west
banding the bulge of the earth winds the hot equator,
curiously north and south turn the axis-ends
within me is the longest day--the sun wheels in slanting rings--it does not
set for months
stretched in due time within me the midnight sun just rises above the
horizon, and sinks again
within me zones, seas, cataracts, plants, volcanoes, groups,
malaysia, polynesia, and the great west indian islands
what do you hear, walt whitman?
i hear the workman singing, and the farmers wife singing
i hear in the distance the sounds of children, and of animals early in the
day
i hear quick rifle-cracks from the riflemen of east tennessee and kentucky,
hunting on hills
i hear emulous shouts of australians, pursuing the wild horse
i hear the spanish dance, with castanets, in the chestnut shade, to the
rebeck and guitar
i hear continual echoes from the thames
i hear fierce french liberty songs
i hear of the italian boat-sculler the musical recitative of old poems
i hear the virginian plantation chorus of negroes, of a harvest night, in
the glare of pine-knots
i hear the strong barytone of the long-shore-men of mannahatta
i hear the stevedores unlading the cargoes, and singing
i hear the screams of the water-fowl of solitary north-west lakes
i hear the rustling pattering of locusts, as they strike the grain and
grass with the showers of their terrible clouds
i hear the coptic refrain, toward sundown, pensively falling on the breast
of the black venerable vast mother, the nile
i hear the bugles of raft-tenders on the streams of canada
i hear the chirp of the mexican muleteer, and the bells of the mule
i hear the arab muezzin, calling from the top of the mosque
i hear the christian priests at the altars of their churches--i hear the
responsive bass and soprano
i hear the wail of utter despair of the white-haired irish grandparents,
when they learn the death of their grandson
i hear the cry of the cossack, and the sailors voice, putting to sea at
okotsk
i hear the wheeze of the slave-coffle, as the slaves march on--as the husky
gangs pass on by twos and threes, fastened together with wrist-
chains and ankle-chains
i hear the entreaties of women tied up for punishment--i hear the sibilant
whisk of thongs through the air
i hear the hebrew reading his records and psalms
i hear the rhythmic myths of the greeks, and the strong legends of the
romans
i hear the tale of the divine life and bloody death of the beautiful god,
the christ
i hear the hindoo teaching his favourite pupil the loves, wars, adages,
transmitted safely to this day from poets who wrote three thousand
years ago
what do you see, walt whitman?
who are they you salute, and that one after another salute you?
i see a great round wonder rolling through the air
i see diminute farms, hamlets, ruins, grave-yards, jails, factories,
palaces, hovels, huts of barbarians, tents of nomads, upon the
surface
i see the shaded part on one side, where the sleepers are sleeping--and the
sun-lit part on the other side
i see the curious silent change of the light and shade
i see distant lands, as real and near to the inhabitants of them as my land
is to me
i see plenteous waters
i see mountain-peaks--i see the sierras of andes and alleghanies, where
they range
i see plainly the himalayas, chian shahs, altays, ghauts
i see the rocky mountains, and the peak of winds
i see the styrian alps, and the karnac alps
i see the pyrenees, balks, carpathians--and to the north the dofrafields,
and off at sea mount hecla
i see vesuvius and etna--i see the anahuacs
i see the mountains of the moon, and the snow mountains, and the red
mountains of madagascar
i see the vermont hills, and the long string of cordilleras
i see the vast deserts of western america
i see the libyan, arabian, and asiatic deserts
i see huge dreadful arctic and anarctic icebergs
i see the superior oceans and the inferior ones--the atlantic and pacific,
the sea of mexico, the brazilian sea, and the sea of peru,
the japan waters, those of hindostan, the china sea, and the gulf of
guinea,
the spread of the baltic, caspian, bothnia, the british shores, and the bay
of biscay,
the clear-sunned mediterranean, and from one to another of its islands,
the inland fresh-tasted seas of north america,
the white sea, and the sea around greenland
i behold the mariners of the world
some are in storms--some in the night, with the watch on the look-out
some drifting helplessly--some with contagious diseases
i behold the sail and steam ships of the world, some in clusters in port,
some on their voyages
some double the cape of storms--some cape verde,--others cape guardafui,
bon, or bajadore
others dondra head--others pass the straits of sunda--others cape lopatka--
others behrings straits
others cape horn--others the gulf of mexico, or along cuba or hayti--others
hudsons bay or baffins bay
others pass the straits of dover--others enter the wash--others the firth
of solway--others round cape clear--others the lands end
others traverse the zuyder zee, or the scheld
others add to the exits and entrances at sandy hook
others to the comers and goers at gibraltar, or the dardanelles
others sternly push their way through the northern winter-packs
others descend or ascend the obi or the lena
others the niger or the congo--others the indus, the burampooter and
cambodia
others wait at the wharves of manhattan, steamed up, ready to start
wait, swift and swarthy, in the ports of australia
wait at liverpool, glasgow, dublin, marseilles, lisbon, naples, hamburg,
bremen, bordeaux, the hague, copenhagen
wait at valparaiso, rio janeiro, panama
wait at their moorings at boston, philadelphia, baltimore, charleston, new
orleans, galveston, san francisco
i see the tracks of the railroads of the earth
i see them welding state to state, city to city, through north america
i see them in great britain, i see them in europe
i see them in asia and in africa
i see the electric telegraphs of the earth
i see the filaments of the news of the wars, deaths, losses, gains,
passions, of my race
i see the long river-stripes of the earth
i see where the mississippi flows--i see where the columbia flows
i see the great river, and the falls of niagara
i see the amazon and the paraguay
i see the four great rivers of china, the amour, the yellow river, the
yiang-tse, and the pearl
i see where the seine flows, and where the loire, the rhone, and the
guadalquivir flow
i see the windings of the volga, the dnieper, the oder
i see the tuscan going down the arno, and the venetian along the po
i see the greek seaman sailing out of egina bay
i see the site of the old empire of assyria, and that of persia, and that
of india
i see the falling of the ganges over the high rim of saukara
i see the place of the idea of the deity incarnated by avatars in human
forms
i see the spots of the successions of priests on the earth--oracles,
sacrificers, brahmins, sabians, lamas, monks, muftis, exhorters
i see where druids walked the groves of mona--i see the mistletoe and
vervain
i see the temples of the deaths of the bodies of gods--i see the old
signifiers
i see christ once more eating the bread of his last supper, in the midst of
youths and old persons
i see where the strong divine young man, the hercules, toiled faithfully
and long, and then died
i see the place of the innocent rich life and hapless fate of the beautiful
nocturnal son, the full-limbed bacchus
i see kneph, blooming, drest in blue, with the crown of feathers on his
head
i see hermes, unsuspected, dying, well-beloved, saying to the people, do
not weep for me,
this is not my true country, i have lived banished from my true country--i
now go back there,
i return to the celestial sphere, where every one goes in his turn
i see the battlefields of the earth--grass grows upon them, and blossoms
and corn
i see the tracks of ancient and modern expeditions
i see the nameless masonries, venerable messages of the unknown events,
heroes, records of the earth
i see the places of the sagas
i see pine-trees and fir-frees torn by northern blasts
i see granite boulders and cliffs--i see green meadows and lakes
i see the burial-cairns of scandinavian warriors
i see them raised high with stones, by the marge of restless oceans, that
the dead mens spirits, when they wearied of their quiet graves,
might rise up through the mounds, and gaze on the tossing billows,
and be refreshed by storms, immensity, liberty, action
i see the steppes of asia
i see the tumuli of mongolia--i see the tents of kalmucks and baskirs
i see the nomadic tribes, with herds of oxen and cows
i see the table-lands notched with ravines--i see the jungles and deserts
i see the camel, the wild steed, the bustard, the fat-tailed sheep, the
antelope, and the burrowing-wolf
i see the highlands of abyssinia
i see flocks of goats feeding, and see the fig-tree, tamarind, date,
and see fields of teff-wheat, and see the places of verdure and gold
i see the brazilian vaquero
i see the bolivian ascending mount sorata
i see the wacho crossing the plains--i see the incomparable rider of horses
with his lasso on his arm
i see over the pampas the pursuit of wild cattle for their hides
i see little and large sea-dots, some inhabited, some uninhabited
i see two boats with nets, lying off the shore of paumanok, quite still
i see ten fishermen waiting--they discover now a thick school of
mossbonkers--they drop the joined sein-ends in the water,
the boats separate--they diverge and row off, each on its rounding course
to the beach, enclosing the mossbonkers
the net is drawn in by a windlass by those who stop ashore,
some of the fishermen lounge in their boats--others stand negligently
ankle-deep in the water, poised on strong legs
the boats are partly drawn up--the water slaps against them
on the sand, in heaps and winrows, well out from the  water, lie the green-
backed spotted mossbonkers
i see the despondent red man in the west, lingering about the banks of
moingo, and about lake pepin
he has heard the quail and beheld the honey-bee, and sadly prepared to
depart
i see the regions of snow and ice
i see the sharp-eyed samoiede and the finn
i see the seal-seeker in his boat, poising his lance
i see the siberian on his slight-built sledge, drawn by dogs
i see the porpess-hunters--i see the whale-crews of the south pacific and
the north atlantic
i see the cliffs, glaciers, torrents, valleys, of switzerland--i mark the
long winters, and the isolation
i see the cities of the earth, and make myself at random a part of them
i am a real parisian
i am a habitant of vienna, st petersburg, berlin, constantinople
i am of adelaide, sidney, melbourne
i am of london, manchester, bristol, edinburgh, limerick,
i am of madrid, cadiz, barcelona, oporto, lyons, brussels, berne,
frankfort, stuttgart, turin, florence
i belong in moscow, cracow, warsaw--or northward in christiania or
stockholm--or in siberian irkutsk--or in some street in iceland
i descend upon all those cities, and rise from them again
i see vapours exhaling from unexplored countries
i see the savage types, the bow and arrow, the poisoned splint, the fetish,
and the obi
i see african and asiatic towns
i see algiers, tripoli, derne, mogadore, timbuctoo, monrovia
i see the swarms of pekin, canton, benares, delhi, calcutta, yedo
i see the kruman in his hut, and the dahoman and ashantee-man in their
huts
i see the turk smoking opium in aleppo
i see the picturesque crowds at the fairs of khiva, and those of herat
i see teheran--i see muscat and medina, and the intervening sands--i see
the caravans toiling onward
i see egypt and the egyptians--i see the pyramids and obelisks
i look on chiselled histories, songs, philosophies, cut in slabs of
sandstone or on granite blocks
i see at memphis mummy-pits, containing mummies, embalmed, swathed in linen
cloth, lying there many centuries
i look on the fallen theban, the large-balled eyes, the side-drooping neck,
the hands folded across the breast
i see the menials of the earth, labouring
i see the prisoners in the prisons
i see the defective human bodies of the earth
i see the blind, the deaf and dumb, idiots, hunchbacks, lunatics
i see the pirates, thieves, betrayers, murderers, slave-makers of the
earth
i see the helpless infants, and the helpless old men and women
i see male and female everywhere
i see the serene brotherhood of philosophs
i see the constructiveness of my race
i see the results of the perseverance and industry of my race
i see ranks, colours, barbarisms, civilisations--i go among them--i mix
indiscriminately,
and i salute all the inhabitants of the earth
you, where you are
you daughter or son of england
you of the mighty slavic tribes and empires you russ in russia
you dim-descended, black, divine-souled african, large, fine-headed,
nobly-formed, superbly destined, on equal terms with me
you norwegian swede dane icelander you prussian
you spaniard of spain you portuguese
you frenchwoman and frenchman of france
you belge you liberty-lover of the netherlands
you sturdy austrian you lombard hun bohemian farmer of styria
you neighbour of the danube
you working-man of the rhine, the elbe, or the weser you working-woman
too
you sardinian you bavarian swabian saxon wallachian bulgarian
you citizen of prague roman neapolitan greek
you lithe matador in the arena at seville
you mountaineer living lawlessly on the taurus or caucasus
you bokh horse-herd, watching your mares and stallions feeding
you beautiful-bodied persian, at full speed in the saddle shooting arrows
to the mark
you chinaman and chinawoman of china you tartar of tartary
you women of the earth subordinated at your tasks
you jew journeying in your old age through every risk, to stand once on
syrian ground
you other jews waiting in all lands for your messiah
you thoughtful armenian, pondering by some stream of the euphrates you
peering amid the ruins of nineveh you ascending mount ararat
you foot-worn pilgrim welcoming the far-away sparkle of the minarets of
mecca
you sheiks along the stretch from suez to babelmandeb, ruling your families
and tribes
you olive-grower tending your fruit on fields of nazareth, damascus, or
lake tiberias
you thibet trader on the wide inland, or bargaining in the shops of lassa
you japanese man or woman you liver in madagascar, ceylon, sumatra,
borneo
all you continentals of asia, africa, europe, australia, indifferent of
place
all you on the numberless islands of the archipelagoes of the sea
and you of centuries hence, when you listen to me
and you, each and everywhere, whom i specify not, but include just the
same
health to you goodwill to you all--from me and america sent
each of us inevitable
each of us limitless--each of us with his or her right upon the earth
each of us allowed the eternal purports of the earth
each of us here as divinely as any is here
you hottentot with clicking palate you woolly-haired hordes
you owned persons, dropping sweat-drops or blood-drops
you human forms with the fathomless ever-impressive countenances of brutes
i dare not refuse you--the scope of the world, and of time and space, are
upon me
you poor koboo whom the meanest of the rest look down upon, for all your
glimmering language and spirituality
you low expiring aborigines of the hills of utah, oregon, california
you dwarfed kamtschatkan, greenlander, lap
you austral negro, naked, red, sooty, with protrusive lip, grovelling,
seeking your food
you caffre, berber, soudanese
you haggard, uncouth, untutored bedowee
you plague-swarms in madras, nankin, kaubul, cairo
you bather bathing in the ganges
you benighted roamer of amazonia you patagonian you fejee-man
you peon of mexico you slave of carolina, texas, tennessee
i do not prefer others so very much before you either
i do not say one word against you, away back there, where you stand
you will come forward in due time to my side
my spirit has passed in compassion and determination around the whole
earth
i have looked for equals and lovers, and found them ready for me in all
lands
i think some divine rapport has equalised me with them
o vapours i think i have risen with you, and moved away to distant
continents, and fallen down there, for reasons
i think i have blown with you, o winds
o waters, i have fingered every shore with you
i have run through what any river or strait of the globe has run through
i have taken my stand on the bases of peninsulas, and on the highest
embedded rocks, to cry thence
salut au monde
what cities the light or warmth penetrates, i penetrate those cities
myself
all islands to which birds wing their way, i wing my way myself
toward all
i raise high the perpendicular hand--i make the signal,
to remain after me in sight for ever,
for all the haunts and homes of men
a broadway pageant
reception of the japanese embassy, june , 
over sea, hither from niphon,
courteous, the princes of asia, swart-cheeked princes,
first-comers, guests, two-sworded princes,
lesson-giving princes, leaning back in their open barouches, bare-headed,
impassive,
this day they ride through manhattan
libertad
i do not know whether others behold what i behold,
in the procession, along with the princes of asia, the errand-bearers,
bringing up the rear, hovering above, around, or in the ranks marching
but i will sing you a song of what i behold, libertad
when million-footed manhattan, unpent, descends to its pavements
when the thunder-cracking guns arouse me with the proud roar i love
when the round-mouthed guns, out of the smoke and smell i love, spit their
salutes
when the fire-flashing guns have fully alerted me--when heaven-clouds
canopy my city with a delicate thin haze
when, gorgeous, the countless straight stems, the forests at the wharves,
thicken with colours
when every ship, richly dressed, carries her flag at the peak
when pennants trail, and street-festoons hang from the windows
when broadway is entirely given up to foot-passengers and foot-standers--
when the mass is densest
when the faades of the houses are alive with people--when eyes gaze,
riveted, tens of thousands at a time
when the guests from the islands advance--when the pageant moves forward,
visible
when the summons is made--when the answer, that waited thousands of years,
answers
i too, arising, answering, descend to the pavements, merge with the crowd,
and gaze with them
superb-faced manhattan
comrade americanos--to us, then, at last, the orient comes
to us, my city,
where our tall-topped marble and iron beauties range on opposite sides--to
walk in the space between,
to-day our antipodes comes
the originatress comes,
the land of paradise--land of the caucasus--the nest of birth,
the nest of languages, the bequeather of poems, the race of eld,
florid with blood, pensive, rapt with musings, hot with passion,
sultry with perfume, with ample and flowing garments,
with sunburnt visage, with intense soul and glittering eyes,
the race of brahma comes
see, my cantabile these, and more, are flashing to us from the procession
as it moves changing, a kaleidoscope divine it moves changing before us
not the errand-bearing princes, nor the tanned japanee only
lithe and silent, the hindoo appears--the whole asiatic continent itself
appears--the past, the dead,
the murky night-morning of wonder and fable, inscrutable,
the enveloped mysteries, the old and unknown hive-bees,
the north--the sweltering south--assyria--the hebrews--the ancient of
ancients,
vast desolated cities--the gliding present--all of these, and more, are in
the pageant-procession
geography, the world, is in it
the great sea, the brood of islands, polynesia, the coast beyond
the coast you henceforth are facing--you libertad from your western golden
shores
the countries there, with their populations--the millions en masse, are
curiously here
the swarming market-places--the temples, with idols ranged along the sides,
or at the end--bronze, brahmin, and lama
the mandarin, farmer, merchant, mechanic, and fisherman
the singing-girl and the dancing-girl--the ecstatic person--the divine
buddha
the secluded emperors--confucius himself--the great poets and heroes--the
warriors, the castes, all,
trooping up, crowding from all directions--from the altay mountains,
from thibet--from the four winding and far-flowing rivers
of china,
from the southern peninsulas, and the demi-continental islands--from
malaysia
these, and whatever belongs to them, palpable, show forth to me, and are
seized by me,
and i am seized by them, and friendlily held by them,
till, as here, them all i chant, libertad for themselves and for you
for i too, raising my voice, join the ranks of this pageant
i am the chanter--i chant aloud over the pageant
i chant the world on my western sea
i chant, copious, the islands beyond, thick as stars in the sky
i chant the new empire, grander than any before--as in a vision it comes to
me
i chant america, the mistress--i chant a greater supremacy
i chant, projected, a thousand blooming cities yet, in time, on those
groups of sea-islands
i chant my sail-ships and steam-ships threading the archipelagoes
i chant my stars and stripes fluttering in the wind
i chant commerce opening, the sleep of ages having done its work--races
reborn, refreshed
lives, works, resumed--the object i know not--but the old, the asiatic,
resumed, as it must be,
commencing from this day, surrounded by the world
and you, libertad of the world
you shall sit in the middle, well-poised, thousands of years
as to-day, from one side, the princes of asia come to you
as to-morrow, from the other side, the queen of england sends her eldest
son to you
the sign is reversing, the orb is enclosed,
the ring is circled, the journey is done
the box-lid is but perceptibly opened--nevertheless the perfume pours
copiously out of the whole box
young libertad
with the venerable asia, the all-mother,
be considerate with her, now and ever, hot libertad--for you are all
bend your proud neck to the long-off mother, now sending messages over the
archipelagoes to you
bend your proud neck for once, young libertad
were the children straying westward so long? so wide the tramping?
were the precedent dim ages debouching westward from paradise so long?
were the centuries steadily footing it that way, all the while unknown, for
you, for reasons?
they are justified--they are accomplished--they shall now be turned the
other way also, to travel toward you thence
they shall now also march obediently eastward, for your sake, libertad
old ireland
far hence, amid an isle of wondrous beauty,
crouching over a grave, an ancient sorrowful mother,
once a queen--now lean and tattered, seated on the ground,
her old white hair drooping dishevelled round her shoulders
at her feet fallen an unused royal harp,
long silent--she too long silent--mourning her shrouded hope and heir
of all the earth her heart most full of sorrow, because most full of love
yet a word, ancient mother
you need crouch there no longer on the cold ground, with forehead between
your knees
o you need not sit there, veiled in your old white hair, so dishevelled
for know you, the one you mourn is not in that grave
it was an illusion--the heir, the son you love, was not really dead
the lord is not dead--he is risen again, young and strong, in another
country
even while you wept there by your fallen harp, by the grave,
what you wept for was translated, passed from the grave,
the winds favoured, and the sea sailed it,
and now, with rosy and new blood,
moves to-day in a new country
boston town
to get betimes in boston town, i rose this morning early
heres a good place at the corner--i must stand and see the show
clear the way there, jonathan
way for the presidents marshal way for the government cannon
way for the federal foot and dragoons--and the apparitions copiously
tumbling
i love to look on the stars and stripes--i hope the fifes will play yankee
doodle,
how bright shine the cutlasses of the foremost troops
every man holds his revolver, marching stiff through boston town
a fog follows--antiques of the same come limping,
some appear wooden-legged, and some appear bandaged and bloodless
why this is indeed a show it has called the dead out of the earth
the old graveyards of the hills have hurried to see
phantoms phantoms countless by flank and rear
cocked hats of mothy mould crutches made of mist
arms in slings old men leaning on young mens shoulders
what troubles you, yankee phantoms? what is all this chattering of bare
gums?
does the ague convulse your limbs? do you mistake your crutches for
firelocks, and level them?
if you blind your eyes with tears, you will not see the presidents
marshal
if you groan such groans, you might baulk the government cannon
for shame, old maniacs bring down those tossed arms, and let your white
hair be
here gape your great grandsons--their wives gaze at them from the windows,
see how well-dressed--see how orderly they conduct themselves
worse and worse cant you stand it? are you retreating?
is this hour with the living too dead for you?
retreat then pell-mell
to your graves back back to the hills, old limpers
i do not think you belong here, anyhow
but there is one thing that belongs here--shall i tell you what it is,
gentlemen of boston?
i will whisper it to the mayor--he shall send a committee to england
they shall get a grant from the parliament, go with a cart to the royal
vault--haste
dig out king georges coffin, unwrap him quick from the grave-clothes, box
up his bones for a journey
find a swift yankee clipper--here is freight for you, black-bellied
clipper,
up with your anchor shake out your sails steer straight toward boston
bay
now call for the presidents marshal again, bring out the government
cannon,
fetch home the roarers from congress,--make another procession, guard it
with foot and dragoons
this centre-piece for them
look, all orderly citizens look from the windows, women
the committee open the box set up the regal ribs glue those that will not
stay
clap the skull on top of the ribs, and clap a crown on top of the skull
you have got your revenge, old bluster the crown is come to its own, and
more than its own
stick your hands in your pockets, jonathan--you are a made man from this
day
you are mighty cute--and here is one of your bargains
france, the eighteenth year of these states
a great year and place
a harsh, discordant, natal scream out-sounding, to touch the mothers heart
closer than any yet
i walked the shores of my eastern sea,
heard over the waves the little voice,
saw the divine infant, where she woke, mournfully wailing, amid the roar of
cannon, curses, shouts, crash of falling buildings
was not so sick from the blood in the gutters running--nor from the single
corpses, nor those in heaps, nor those borne away in the tumbrils
was not so desperate at the battues of death--was not so shocked at the
repeated fusillades of the guns
pale, silent, stern, what could i say to that long-accrued retribution?
could i wish humanity different?
could i wish the people made of wood and stone?
or that there be no justice in destiny or time?
o liberty o mate for me
here too the blaze, the bullet, and the axe, in reserve to fetch them out
in case of need,
here too, though long repressed, can never be destroyed
here too could rise at last, murdering and ecstatic
here too demanding full arrears of vengeance
hence i sign this salute over the sea,
and i do not deny that terrible red birth and baptism,
but remember the little voice that i heard wailing--and wait with perfect
trust, no matter how long
and from to-day, sad and cogent, i maintain the bequeathed cause, as for
all lands,
and i send these words to paris with my love,
and i guess some chansonniers there will understand them,
for i guess there is latent music yet in france--floods of it
o i hear already the bustle of instruments--they will soon be drowning all
that would interrupt them
o i think the east wind brings a triumphal and free march,
it reaches hither--it swells me to joyful madness,
i will run transpose it in words, to justify it,
i will yet sing a song for you, ma femme
footnote  ----the great poet of democracy is not so shocked at
the great european year of democracy
europe, the seventy-second and seventy-third years of these states
suddenly, out of its stale and drowsy lair, the lair of slaves,
like lightning it leaped forth, half startled at itself,
its feet upon the ashes and the rags--its hands tight to the throats of
kings
o hope and faith
o aching close of exiled patriots lives
o many a sickened heart
turn back unto this day, and make yourselves afresh
and you, paid to defile the people you liars, mark
not for numberless agonies, murders, lusts,
for court thieving in its manifold mean forms, worming from his simplicity
the poor mans wages,
for many a promise sworn by royal lips, and broken, and laughed at in the
breaking,
then in their power, not for all these did the blows strike revenge, or the
heads of the nobles fall
the people scorned the ferocity of kings
but the sweetness of mercy brewed bitter destruction, and the frightened
rulers come back
each comes in state with his train--hangman, priest, tax-gatherer,
soldier, lawyer, lord, jailer, and sycophant
yet behind all, lowering, stealing--lo, a shape,
vague as the night, draped interminably, head, front, and form, in scarlet
folds,
whose face and eyes none may see
out of its robes only this--the red robes, lifted by the arm--
one finger crooked, pointed high over the top, like the head of a snake
appears
meanwhile, corpses lie in new-made graves--bloody corpses of young men
the rope of the gibbet hangs heavily, the bullets of princes are flying,
the creatures of power laugh aloud,
and all these things bear fruits--and they are good
those corpses of young men,
those martyrs that hang from the gibbets--those hearts pierced by the grey
lead,
cold and motionless as they seem, live elsewhere with unslaughtered
vitality
they live in other young men, o kings
they live in brothers, again ready to defy you
they were purified by death--they were taught and exalted
not a grave of the murdered for freedom but grows seed for freedom, in its
turn to bear seed,
which the winds carry afar and resow, and the rains and the snows nourish
not a disembodied spirit can the weapons of tyrants let loose,
but it stalks invisibly over the earth, whispering, counselling,
cautioning
liberty let others despair of you i never despair of you
is the house shut? is the master away?
nevertheless, be ready--be not weary of watching
he will soon return--his messengers come anon
footnote  the years  and 
to a foiled revolter or revoltress
courage my brother or my sister
keep on liberty is to be subserved, whatever occurs
that is nothing that is quelled by one or two failures, or any number of
failures,
or by the indifference or ingratitude of the people, or by any
unfaithfulness,
or the show of the tushes of power, soldiers, cannon, penal statutes
what we believe in waits latent for ever through all the continents, and
all the islands and archipelagoes of the sea
what we believe in invites no one, promises nothing, sits in calmness and
light, is positive and composed, knows no discouragement,
waiting patiently, waiting its time
the battle rages with many a loud alarm, and frequent advance and retreat,
the infidel triumphs--or supposes he triumphs,
the prison, scaffold, garrote, handcuffs, iron necklace and anklet, lead-
balls, do their work,
the named and unnamed heroes pass to other spheres,
the great speakers and writers are exiled--they lie sick in distant lands,
the cause is asleep--the strongest throats are still, choked
with their own blood,
the young men drop their eyelashes toward the ground when they meet
but, for all this, liberty has not gone out of the place, nor the infidel
entered into possession
when liberty goes out of a place, it is not the first to go, nor the second
or third to go,
it waits for all the rest to go--it is the last
when there are no more memories of heroes and martyrs,
and when all life and all the souls of men and women are discharged from
any part of the earth,
then only shall liberty be discharged from that part of the earth,
and the infidel and the tyrant come into possession
then courage revolter revoltress
for till all ceases neither must you cease
i do not know what you are for, i do not know what i am for myself, nor
what anything is for,
but i will search carefully for it even in being foiled,
in defeat, poverty, imprisonment--for they too are great
did we think victory great?
so it is--but now it seems to me, when it cannot be helped, that defeat is
great,
and that death and dismay are great
drum taps
manhattan arming
first, o songs, for a prelude,
lightly strike on the stretched tympanum, pride and joy in my city,
how she led the rest to arms--how she gave the cue,
how at once with lithe limbs, unwaiting a moment, she sprang
o superb o manhattan, my own, my peerless
o strongest you in the hour of danger, in crisis o truer than steel
how you sprang how you threw off the costumes of peace with indifferent
hand
how your soft opera-music changed, and the drum and fife were heard in
their stead
how you led to the war, that shall serve for our prelude, songs of
soldiers,
how manhattan drum-taps led
forty years had i in my city seen soldiers parading
forty years as a pageant--till unawares, the lady of this teeming and
turbulent city,
sleepless, amid her ships, her houses, her incalculable wealth,
with her million children around her--suddenly,
at dead of night, at news from the south,
incensed, struck with clenched hand the pavement
a shock electric--the night sustained it
till, with ominous hum, our hive at daybreak poured out its myriads
from the houses then, and the workshops, and through all the doorways,
leaped they tumultuous--and lo manhattan arming
to the drum-taps prompt,
the young men falling in and arming
the mechanics arming, the trowel, the jack-plane, the black-smiths hammer,
tossed aside with precipitation
the lawyer leaving his office, and arming--the judge leaving the court
the driver deserting his waggon in the street, jumping down, throwing the
reins abruptly down on the horses backs
the salesman leaving the store--the boss, book-keeper, porter, all leaving
squads gathering everywhere by common consent, and arming
the new recruits, even boys--the old men show them how to wear their
accoutrements--they buckle the straps carefully
outdoors arming--indoors arming--the flash of the musket-barrels
the white tents cluster in camps--the armed sentries around--the sunrise
cannon, and again at sunset
armed regiments arrive every day, pass through the city, and embark from
the wharves
how good they look, as they tramp down to the river, sweaty, with their
guns on their shoulders
how i love them how i could hug them, with their brown faces, and their
clothes and knapsacks covered with dust
the blood of the city up--armed armed the cry everywhere
the flags flung out from the steeples of churches, and from all the public
buildings and stores
the tearful parting--the mother kisses her son--the son kisses his mother
loth is the mother to part--yet not a word does she speak to detain him
the tumultuous escort--the ranks of policemen preceding, clearing the way
the unpent enthusiasm--the wild cheers of the crowd for their favourites
the artillery--the silent cannons, bright as gold, drawn along, rumble
lightly over the stones
silent cannons--soon to cease your silence,
soon, unlimbered, to begin the red business
all the mutter of preparation--all the determined arming
the hospital service--the lint, bandages, and medicines
the women volunteering for nurses--the work begun for, in earnest--no mere
parade now
war an armed race is advancing--the welcome for battle--no turning away
war be it weeks, months, or years--an armed race is advancing to welcome
it
mannahatta a-march--and its o to sing it well
its o for a manly life in the camp
and the sturdy artillery
the guns, bright as gold--the work for giants--to serve well the guns
unlimber them no more, as the past forty years, for salutes for courtesies
merely
put in something else now besides powder and wadding
and you, lady of ships you, mannahatta
old matron of the city this proud, friendly, turbulent city
often in peace and wealth you were pensive, or covertly frowned amid all
your children
but now you smile with joy, exulting old mannahatta
armed year year of the struggle
no dainty rhymes or sentimental love verses for you, terrible year
not you as some pale poetling, seated at a desk, lisping cadenzas piano
but as a strong man, erect, clothed in blue clothes, advancing, carrying a
rifle on your shoulder,
with well-gristled body and sunburnt face and hands--with a knife in the
belt at your side,
as i heard you shouting loud--your sonorous voice ringing across the
continent
your masculine voice, o year, as rising amid the great cities,
amid the men of manhattan i saw you, as one of the workmen, the dwellers in
manhattan
or with large steps crossing the prairies out of illinois and indiana,
rapidly crossing the west with springy gait, and descending the
alleghanies
or down from the great lakes, or in pennsylvania, or on deck along the ohio
river
or southward along the tennessee or cumberland rivers, or at chattanooga on
the mountain-top,
saw i your gait and saw i your sinewy limbs, clothed in blue, bearing
weapons, robust year
heard your determined voice, launched forth again and again
year that suddenly sang by the mouths of the round-lipped cannon,
i repeat you, hurrying, crashing, sad, distracted year
the uprising
rise, o days, from your fathomless deeps, till you loftier and fiercer
sweep
long for my soul, hungering gymnastic, i devoured what the earth gave me
long i roamed the woods of the north--long i watched niagara pouring
i travelled the prairies over, and slept on their breast--i crossed the
nevadas,
i crossed the plateaus
i ascended the towering rocks along the pacific, i sailed out to sea
i sailed through the storm, i was refreshed by the storm
i watched with joy the threatening maws of the waves
i marked the white combs where they careered so high, curling over
i heard the wind piping, i saw the black clouds
saw from below what arose and mounted, o superb o wild as my heart, and
powerful
heard the continuous thunder, as it bellowed after the lightning
noted the slender and jagged threads of lightning, as sudden and fast amid
the din they chased each other across the sky
--these, and such as these, i, elate, saw--saw with wonder, yet pensive and
masterful
all the menacing might of the globe uprisen around me
yet there with my soul i fed--i fed content, supercilious
twas well, o soul twas a good preparation you gave me
now we advance our latent and ampler hunger to fill
now we go forth to receive what the earth and the sea never gave us
not through the mighty woods we go, but through the mightier cities
something for us is pouring now, more than niagara pouring
torrents of men, sources and rills of the north-west, are you indeed
inexhaustible?
what, to pavements and homesteads here--what were those storms of the
mountains and sea?
what, to passions i witness around me to-day, was the sea risen?
was the wind piping the pipe of death under the black clouds?
lo from deeps more unfathomable, something more deadly and savage
manhattan, rising, advancing with menacing front--cincinnati, chicago,
unchained
--what was that swell i saw on the ocean? behold what comes here
how it climbs with daring feet and hands how it dashes
how the true thunder bellows after the lightning how bright the flashes of
lightning
how democracy with desperate vengeful port strides on, shown through the
dark by those flashes of lightning
yet a mournful wail and low sob i fancied i heard through the dark,
in a lull of the deafening confusion
thunder on stride on, democracy strike with vengeful stroke
and do you rise higher than ever yet, o days, o cities
crash heavier, heavier yet, o storms you have done me good
my soul, prepared in the mountains, absorbs your immortal strong nutriment
long had i walked my cities, my country roads, through farms, only half
satisfied
one doubt, nauseous, undulating like a snake, crawled on the ground before
me,
continually preceding my steps, turning upon me oft, ironically hissing
low
--the cities i loved so well i abandoned and left--i sped to the
certainties suitable to me
hungering, hungering, hungering, for primal energies, and natures
dauntlessness,
i refreshed myself with it only, i could relish it only
i waited the bursting forth of the pent fire--on the water and air i waited
long
--but now i no longer wait--i am fully satisfied--i am glutted
i have witnessed the true lightning--i have witnessed my cities electric
i have lived to behold man burst forth, and warlike america rise
hence i will seek no more the food of the northern solitary wilds,
no more on the mountains roam, or sail the stormy sea
beat beat drums
beat beat drums--blow bugles blow
through the windows--through doors--burst like a force of ruthless men,
into the solemn church, and scatter the congregation
into the school where the scholar is studying
leave not the bridegroom quiet--no happiness must he have now with his
bride
nor the peaceful farmer any peace, ploughing his field or gathering his
grain
so fierce you whirr and pound, you drums--so shrill you bugles blow
beat beat drums--blow bugles blow
over the traffic of cities--over the rumble of wheels in the streets
are beds prepared, for sleepers at night in the houses? no sleepers must
sleep in those beds
no bargainers bargains by day--no brokers or speculators--would they
continue?
would the talkers be talking? would the singer attempt to sing?
would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case before the judge?
then rattle quicker, heavier, drums--you bugles wilder blow
beat beat drums--blow bugles blow
make no parley--stop for no expostulation
mind not the timid--mind not the weeper or prayer
mind not the old man beseeching the young man
let not the childs voice be heard, nor the mothers entreaties
make even the trestles to shake the dead, where they lie awaiting the
hearses,
so strong you thump, o terrible drums--so loud you bugles blow
song of the banner at daybreak
poet
o a new song, a free song,
flapping, flapping, flapping, flapping, by sounds, by voices clearer,
by the winds voice and that of the drum,
by the banners voice, and childs voice, and seas voice, and fathers
voice,
low on the ground and high in the air,
on the ground where father and child stand,
in the upward air where their eyes turn,
where the banner at daybreak is flapping
words book-words what are you?
words no more, for hearken and see,
my song is there in the open air--and i must sing,
with the banner and pennant a-flapping
ill weave the chord and twine in,
mans desire and babes desire--ill twine them in, ill put in life
ill put the bayonets flashing point--ill let bullets and slugs whizz
ill pour the verse with streams of blood, full of volition, full of joy
then loosen, launch forth, to go and compete,
with the banner and pennant a-flapping
banner and pennant
come up here, bard, bard
come up here, soul, soul
come up here, dear little child,
to fly in the clouds and winds with us, and play with the measureless
light
child
father, what is that in the sky beckoning to me with long finger?
and what does it say to me all the while?
father
nothing, my babe, you see in the sky
and nothing at all to you it says but look you, my babe,
look at these dazzling things in the houses, and see you the money-shops
opening
and see you the vehicles preparing to crawl along the streets with goods
these ah, these how valued and toiled for, these
how envied by all the earth
poet
fresh and rosy red, the sun is mounting high
on floats the sea in distant blue, careering through its channels
on floats the wind over the breast of the sea, setting in toward land
the great steady wind from west and west-by-south,
floating so buoyant, with milk-white foam on the waters
but i am not the sea, nor the red sun
i am not the wind, with girlish laughter
not the immense wind which strengthens--not the wind which lashes
not the spirit that ever lashes its own body to terror and death
but i am of that which unseen comes and sings, sings, sings,
which babbles in brooks and scoots in showers on the land
which the birds know in the woods, mornings and evenings,
and the shore-sands know, and the hissing wave, and that banner and
pennant,
aloft there flapping and flapping
child
o father, it is alive--it is full of people--it has children
o now it seems to me it is talking to its children
i hear it--it talks to me--o it is wonderful
o it stretches--it spreads and runs so fast o my father,
it is so broad it covers the whole sky
father
cease, cease, my foolish babe,
what you are saying is sorrowful to me--much it displeases me
behold with the rest, again i say--behold not banners and pennants aloft
but the well-prepared pavements behold--and mark the solid-walled houses
banner and pennant
speak to the child, o bard, out of manhattan
speak to our children all, or north or south of manhattan,
where our factory-engines hum, where our miners delve the ground,
where our hoarse niagara rumbles, where our prairie-ploughs are ploughing
speak, o bard point this day, leaving all the rest, to us over all--and
yet we know not why
for what are we, mere strips of cloth, profiting nothing,
only flapping in the wind?
poet
i hear and see not strips of cloth alone
i hear the tramp of armies, i hear the challenging sentry
i hear the jubilant shouts of millions of men--i hear liberty
i hear the drums beat, and the trumpets blowing
i myself move abroad, swift-rising, flying then
i use the wings of the land-bird, and use the wings of the sea-bird, and
look down as from a height
i do not deny the precious results of peace--i see populous cities, with
wealth incalculable
i see numberless farms--i see the farmers working in their fields or barns
i see mechanics working--i see buildings everywhere founded, going up, or
finished
i see trains of cars swiftly speeding along railroad tracks, drawn by the
locomotives
i see the stores, depots, of boston, baltimore, charleston, new orleans
i see far in the west the immense area of grain--i dwell a while, hovering
i pass to the lumber forests of the north, and again to the southern
plantation, and again to california
sweeping the whole, i see the countless profit, the busy gatherings, earned
wages
see the identity formed out of thirty-six spacious and haughty states, and
many more to come
see forts on the shores of harbours--see ships sailing in and out
then over all, aye aye my little and lengthened pennant shaped like a
sword
runs swiftly up, indicating war and defiance--and now the halyards have
raised it,
side of my banner broad and blue--side of my starry banner,
discarding peace over all the sea and land
banner and pennant
yet louder, higher, stronger, bard yet farther, wider cleave
no longer let our children deem us riches and peace alone
we can be terror and carnage also, and are so now
not now are we one of these spacious and haughty states, nor any five, nor
ten
nor market nor depot are we, nor money-bank in the city
but these, and all, and the brown and spreading land, and the mines below,
are ours
and the shores of the sea are ours, and the rivers great and small
and the fields they moisten are ours, and the crops, and the fruits are
ours
bays and channels, and ships sailing in and out, are ours--and we over all,
over the area spread below, the three millions of square miles--the
capitals,
the thirty-five millions of people--o bard in life and death supreme,
we, even we, from this day flaunt out masterful, high up above,
not for the present alone, for a thousand years, chanting through you
this song to the soul of one poor little child
child
o my father, i like not the houses
they will never to me be anything--nor do i like money
but to mount up there i would like, o father dear--that banner i like
that pennant i would be, and must be
father
child of mine, you fill me with anguish,
to be that pennant would be too fearful
little you know what it is this day, and henceforth for ever
it is to gain nothing, but risk and defy everything
forward to stand in front of wars--and o, such wars--what have you to do
with them?
with passions of demons, slaughter, premature death?
poet
demons and death then i sing
put in all, aye all, will i--sword-shaped pennant for war, and banner so
broad and blue,
and a pleasure new and ecstatic, and the prattled yearning of children,
blent with the sounds of the peaceful land, and the liquid wash of the sea
and the icy cool of the far, far north, with rustling cedars and pines
and the whirr of drums, and the sound of soldiers marching, and the hot sun
shining south
and the beach-waves combing over the beach on my eastern shore, and my
western shore the same
and all between those shores, and my ever-running mississippi, with bends
and chutes
and my illinois fields, and my kansas fields, and my fields of missouri
the continent--devoting the whole identity, without reserving an atom,
pour in whelm that which asks, which sings, with all, and the yield of
all
banner and pennant
aye all for ever, for all
from sea to sea, north and south, east and west,
fusing and holding, claiming, devouring the whole
no more with tender lip, nor musical labial sound,
but out of the night emerging for good, our voice persuasive no more,
croaking like crows here in the wind
poet
my limbs, my veins dilate
the blood of the world has filled me full--my theme is clear at last
--banner so broad, advancing out of the night, i sing you haughty and
resolute
i burst through where i waited long, too long, deafened and blinded
my sight, my hearing and tongue, are come to me, a little child taught
me
i hear from above, o pennant of war, your ironical call and demand
insensate insensate yet i at any rate chant you, o banner
not houses of peace are you, nor any nor all their prosperity if need be,
you shall have every one of those houses to destroy them
you thought not to destroy those valuable houses, standing fast, full of
comfort, built with money
may they stand fast, then? not an hour, unless you, above them and all,
stand fast
--o banner not money so precious are you, nor farm produce you, nor the
material good nutriment,
nor excellent stores, nor landed on wharves from the ships
not the superb ships, with sail-power or steam-power, fetching and carrying
cargoes,
nor machinery, vehicles, trade, nor revenues,--but you, as henceforth i see
you,
running up out of the night, bringing your cluster of stars, ever-enlarging
stars
divider of daybreak you, cutting the air, touched by the sun, measuring the
sky,
passionately seen and yearned for by one poor little child,
while others remain busy, or smartly talking, for ever teaching thrift,
thrift
o you up there o pennant where you undulate like a snake, hissing so
curious,
out of reach--an idea only--yet furiously fought for, risking bloody
death--loved by me
so loved o you banner, leading the day, with stars brought from the night
valueless, object of eyes, over all and demanding all--o banner and
pennant
i too leave the rest--great as it is, it is nothing--houses, machines are
nothing--i see them not
i see but you, o warlike pennant o banner so broad, with stripes, i sing
you only,
flapping up there in the wind
the bivouacs flame
by the bivouacs fitful flame,
a procession winding around me, solemn and sweet and slow--but first i
note
the tents of the sleeping army, the fields and woods dim outline,
the darkness, lit by spots of kindled fire--the silence
like a phantom far or near an occasional figure moving
the shrubs and trees, as i lift my eyes they seem to be stealthily
watching me
while wind in procession thoughts, o tender and wondrous thoughts,
of life and death--of home and the past and loved, and of those that are
far away
a solemn and slow procession there as i sit on the ground,
by the bivouacs fitful flame
bivouac on a mountain-side
i see before me now a travelling army halting
below, a fertile valley spread, with barns, and the orchards of summer
behind, the terraced sides of a mountain, abrupt in places, rising high
broken with rocks, with clinging cedars, with tall shapes, dingily seen
the numerous camp-fires scattered near and far, some away up on the
mountain
the shadowy forms of men and horses, looming, large-sized, flickering
and over all, the sky--the sky far, far out of reach, studded with the
eternal stars
city of ships
city of ships
o the black ships o the fierce ships
o the beautiful, sharp-bowed steam-ships and sail-ships
city of the world for all races are here
all the lands of the earth make contributions here
city of the sea city of hurried and glittering tides
city whose gleeful tides continually rush or recede, whirling in and out,
with eddies and foam
city of wharves and stores city of tall faades of marble and iron
proud and passionate city mettlesome, mad, extravagant city
spring up, o city not for peace alone, but be indeed yourself, warlike
fear not submit to no models but your own, o city
behold me incarnate me, as i have incarnated you
i have rejected nothing you offered me--whom you adopted, i have adopted
good or bad, i never question you--i love all--i do not condemn anything
i chant and celebrate all that is yours--yet peace no more
in peace i chanted peace, but now the drum of war is mine
war, red war, is my song through your streets, o city
vigil on the field
vigil strange i kept on the field one night,
when you, my son and my comrade, dropped at my side that day
one look i but gave, which your dear eyes returned with a look i shall
never forget
one touch of your hand to mine, o boy, reached up as you lay on the ground
then onward i sped in the battle, the even-contested battle
till, late in the night relieved, to the place at last again i made my way
found you in death so cold, dear comrade--found your body, son of
responding kisses, never again on earth responding
bared your face in the starlight--curious the scene--cool blew the moderate
night-wind
long there and then in vigil i stood, dimly around me the battlefield
spreading
vigil wondrous and vigil sweet, there in the fragrant silent night
but not a tear fell, not even a long-drawn sigh--long, long i gazed
then on the earth partially reclining, sat by your side, leaning my chin in
my hands
passing sweet hours, immortal and mystic hours, with you, dearest comrade--
not a tear, not a word
vigil of silence, love, and death--vigil for you, my son and my soldier,
as onward silently stars aloft, eastward new ones upward stole
vigil final for you, brave boy, i could not save you, swift was your
death,
i faithfully loved you and cared for you living--i think we shall surely
meet again
till at latest lingering of the night, indeed just as the dawn appeared,
my comrade i wrapped in his blanket, enveloped well his form,
folded the blanket well, tucking it carefully over head, and carefully
under feet
and there and then, and bathed by the rising sun, my son in his grave, in
his rude-dug grave, i deposited
ending my vigil strange with that--vigil of night and battlefield dim
vigil for boy of responding kisses, never again on earth responding
vigil for comrade swiftly slain, vigil i never forget--how as day
brightened
i rose from the chill ground, and folded my soldier well in his blanket,
and buried him where he fell
the flag
bathed in wars perfume--delicate flag
o to hear you call the sailors and the soldiers flag like a beautiful
woman
o to hear the tramp, tramp, of a million answering men o the ships they
arm with joy
o to see you leap and beckon from the tall masts of ships
o to see you peering down on the sailors on the decks
flag like the eyes of women
the wounded
a march in the ranks hard-pressed, and the road unknown
a route through a heavy wood, with muffled steps in the darkness
our army foiled with loss severe, and the sullen remnant retreating
till after midnight glimmer upon us the lights of a dim-lighted building
we come to an open space in the woods, and halt by the dim-lighted
building
tis a large old church, at the crossing roads--tis now an impromptu
hospital
--entering but for a minute, i see a sight beyond all the pictures and
poems ever made
shadows of deepest, deepest black, just lit by moving, candles and lamps,
and by one great pitchy torch, stationary, with wild red flame, and clouds
of smoke
by these, crowds, groups of forms, vaguely i see, on the floor, some in the
pews laid down
at my feet more distinctly, a soldier, a mere lad, in danger of bleeding to
death, he is shot in the abdomen
i staunch the blood temporarily, the youngsters face is white as a lily
then before i depart i sweep my eyes oer the scene, fain to absorb it all
faces, varieties, postures, beyond description, most in obscurity, some of
them dead
surgeons operating, attendants holding lights, the smell of ether, the
odour of blood
the crowd, o the crowd of the bloody forms of soldiers--the yard outside
also filled
some on the bare ground, some on planks or stretchers, some in the death-
spasm sweating
an occasional scream or cry, the doctors shouted orders or calls
the glisten of the little steel instruments catching the glint of the
torches
these i resume as i chant--i see again the forms, i smell the odour
then hear outside the orders given, fall in, my men, fall in
but first i bend to the dying lad--his eyes open--a half-smile gives he me
then the eyes close, calmly close and i speed forth to the darkness,
resuming, marching, as ever in darkness marching, on in the ranks,
the unknown road still marching
a sight in camp
a sight in camp in the daybreak grey and dim,
as from my tent i emerge so early, sleepless,
as slow i walk in the cool fresh air the path near by the hospital tent,
three forms i see on stretchers lying, brought out there, untended lying
over each the blanket spread, ample brownish woollen blanket,
grey and heavy blanket, folding, covering all
curious, i halt, and silent stand
then with light fingers i from the face of the nearest, the first, just
lift the blanket
who are you, elderly man, so gaunt and grim, with well-greyed hair, and
flesh all sunken about the eyes?
who are you, my dear comrade?
then to the second i step--and who are you, my child and darling?
who are you, sweet boy, with cheeks yet blooming?
then to the third--a face nor child nor old, very calm, as of beautiful
yellow-white ivory
young man, i think i know you--i think this face of yours is the face of
the christ himself
dead and divine and brother of all, and here again he lies
a grave
as toilsome i wandered virginias woods,
to the music of rustling leaves kicked by my feet--for twas autumn--
i marked at the foot of a tree the grave of a soldier
mortally wounded he, and buried on the retreat--easily all could i
understand
the halt of a mid-day hour--when, up no time to lose yet this sign left
on a tablet scrawled and nailed on the tree by the grave,
bold, cautious, true, and my loving comrade
long, long i muse,--then on my way go wandering,
many a changeful season to follow, and many a scene of life
yet at times through changeful season and scene, abrupt,--alone, or in the
crowded street,--
comes before me the unknown soldiers grave, comes the inscription rude in
virginias woods,
bold, cautious, true, and my loving comrade
the dresser
an old man bending, i come among new faces,
years, looking backward, resuming, in answer to children,
come tell us, old man, as from young men and maidens that love me, years
hence of these scenes, of these furious passions, these chances,
of unsurpassed heroes--was one side so brave? the other was equally brave
now be witness again--paint the mightiest armies of earth
of those armies, so rapid, so wondrous, what saw you to tell us?
what stays with you latest and deepest? of curious panics,
of hard-fought engagements, or sieges tremendous, what deepest remains?
o maidens and young men i love, and that love me,
what you ask of my days, those the strangest and sudden your talking
recalls,
soldier alert i arrive, after a long march, covered with sweat and dust
in the nick of time i come, plunge in the fight, loudly shout in the rush
of successful charge
enter the captured works,yet lo like a swift-running river, they fade,
pass, and are gone they fade--i dwell not on soldiers perils or soldiers
joys
both i remember well--many the hardships, few the joys, yet i was
content
but in silence, in dreams projections,
while the world of gain and appearance and mirth goes on,
so soon what is over forgotten, and waves wash the imprints off the sand,
in natures reverie sad, with hinged knees returning, i enter the
doors--while for you up there, whoever you are, follow me without
noise, and be of strong heart
bearing the bandages, water, and sponge,
straight and swift to my wounded i go,
where they lie on the ground, after the battle brought in
where their priceless blood reddens the grass, the ground
or to the rows of the hospital tent, or under the roofed hospital
to the long rows of cots, up and down, each side, i return
to each and all, one after another, i draw near--not one do i miss
an attendant follows, holding a tray--he carries a refuse-pail,
soon to be filled with clotted rags and blood, emptied, and filled again
i onward go, i stop,
with hinged knees and steady hand, to dress wounds
i am firm with each--the pangs are sharp, yet unavoidable
one turns to me his appealing eyes--poor boy i never knew you,
yet i think i could not refuse this moment to die for you if that would
save you
on, on i go--open, doors of time open, hospital doors
the crushed head i dress poor crazed hand, tear not the bandage away
the neck of the cavalry-man, with the bullet through and through, i
examine
hard the breathing rattles, quite glazed already the eye, yet life
struggles hard
come, sweet death be persuaded, o beautiful death
in mercy come quickly
from the stump of the arm, the amputated hand,
i undo the clotted lint, remove the slough, wash off the matter and blood
back on his pillow the soldier bends, with curved neck, and side-falling
head
his eyes are closed, his face is pale, he dares not look on the bloody
stump,
and has not yet looked on it
i dress a wound in the side, deep, deep
but a day or two more--for see, the frame all wasted and sinking,
and the yellow-blue countenance see
i dress the perforated shoulder, the foot with the bullet wound,
cleanse the one with a gnawing and putrid gangrene, so sickening, so
offensive,
while the attendant stands behind aside me, holding the tray and pail
i am faithful, i do not give out
the fractured thigh, the knee, the wound in the abdomen,
these and more i dress with impassive hand--yet deep in my breast a fire, a
burning flame
thus in silence, in dreams projections,
returning, resuming, i thread my way through the hospitals
the hurt and the wounded i pacify with soothing hand,
i sit by the restless all the dark night--some are so young,
some suffer so much--i recall the experience sweet and sad
many a soldiers loving arms about this neck have crossed and rested,
many a soldiers kiss dwells on these bearded lips
a letter from camp
come up from the fields, father, heres a letter from our pete
and come to the front door, mother--heres a letter from thy dear son
lo, tis autumn
lo, where the trees, deeper green, yellower and redder,
cool and sweeten ohios villages, with leaves fluttering in the moderate
wind
where apples ripe in the orchards hang, and grapes on the trellised vines
smell you the smell of the grapes on the vines?
smell you the buckwheat, where the bees were lately buzzing?
above all, lo, the sky, so calm, so transparent after the rain, and with
wondrous clouds
below, too, all calm, all vital and beautiful--and the farm prospers well
down in the fields all prospers well
but now from the fields come, father--come at the daughters call
and come to the entry, mother--to the front door come, right away
fast as she can she hurries--something ominous--her steps trembling
she does not tarry to smooth her white hair, nor adjust her cap
open the envelope quickly
o this is not our sons writing, yet his name is signed
o a strange hand writes for our dear son--o stricken mothers soul
all swims before her eyes--flashes with black--she catches the main words
only
sentences broken--gun-shot wound in the breast, cavalry skirmish, taken
to hospital,
at present low, but will soon be better
ah, now the single figure to me,
amid all teeming and wealthy ohio, with all its cities and farms,
sickly white in the face and dull in the head, very faint,
by the jamb of a door leans
grieve not so, dear mother, the just-grown daughter speaks through her
sobs
the little sisters huddle around, speechless and dismayed
see, dearest mother, the letter says pete will soon be better
alas poor boy, he will never be better, nor maybe needs to be better,
that brave and simple soul
while they stand at home at the door, he is dead already
the only son is dead
but the mother needs to be better
she, with thin form, presently dressed in black
by day her meals untouched--then at night fitfully sleeping, often waking,
in the midnight waking, weeping, longing with one deep longing,
o that she might withdraw unnoticed--silent from life escape and withdraw,
to follow, to seek, to be with her dear dead son
war dreams
in clouds descending, in midnight sleep, of many a face in battle,
of the look at first of the mortally wounded, of that indescribable look,
of the dead on their backs, with arms extended wide--
i dream, i dream, i dream
of scenes of nature, the fields and the mountains,
of the skies so beauteous after the storm, and at night the
moon so unearthly bright,
shining sweetly, shining down, where we dig the trenches,
and gather the heaps--
i dream, i dream, i dream
long have they passed, long lapsed--faces, and trenches, and fields
long through the carnage i moved with a callous composure, or away from the
fallen
onward i sped at the time but now of their faces and forms, at night,
i dream, i dream, i dream
the veterans vision
while my wife at my side lies slumbering, and the wars are over long,
and my head on the pillow rests at home, and the mystic midnight passes,
and through the stillness, through the dark, i hear, just hear, the breath
of my infant,
there in the room, as i wake from sleep, this vision presses upon me
the engagement opens there and then, in my busy brain unreal
the skirmishers begin--they crawl cautiously ahead--i hear the irregular
snap snap
i hear the sound of the different missiles--the short t-h-t t-h-t of
the rifle-balls
i see the shells exploding, leaving small white clouds--i hear the great
shells shrieking as they pass
the grape, like the hum and whirr of wind through the trees, quick,
tumultuous, now the contest rages
all the scenes at the batteries themselves rise in detail before me again
the crashing and smoking--the pride of the men in their pieces
the chief gunner ranges and sights his piece, and selects a fuse of the
right time
after firing, i see him lean aside, and look eagerly off to note the
effect
--elsewhere i hear the cry of a regiment charging--the young colonel leads
himself this time, with brandished sword
i see the gaps cut by the enemys volleys, quickly filled up--no delay
i breathe the suffocating smoke--then the flat clouds hover low, concealing
all
now a strange lull comes for a few seconds, not a shot fired on either
side
then resumed, the chaos louder than ever, with eager calls, and orders of
officers
while from some distant part of the field the wind wafts to my ears a shout
of applause, some special success
and ever the sound of the cannon, far or near, rousing, even in dreams, a
devilish exultation, and all the old mad joy, in the depths of my
soul
and ever the hastening of infantry shifting positions--batteries, cavalry,
moving hither and thither
the falling, dying, i heed not--the wounded, dripping and red, i heed not--
some to the rear are hobbling
grime, heat, rush--aides-de-camp galloping by, or on a full run
with the patter of small arms, the warning s-s-t of the rifles, these in
my vision i hear or see,
and bombs bursting in air, and at night the vari-coloured rockets
o tan-faced prairie boy
o tan-faced prairie boy
before you came to camp came many a welcome gift
praises and presents came, and nourishing food--till at last, among the
recruits,
you came, taciturn, with nothing to give--we but looked on each other,
when lo more than all the gifts of the world you gave me
manhattan faces
give me the splendid silent sun, with all his beams full-dazzling
give me juicy autumnal fruit, ripe and red from the orchard
give me a field where the unmowed grass grows
give me an arbour, give me the trellised grape
give me fresh corn and wheat--give me serene-moving animals, teaching
content
give me nights perfectly quiet, as on high plateaus west of the
mississippi, and i looking up at the stars
give me odorous at sunrise a garden of beautiful flowers, where i can walk
undisturbed
give me for marriage a sweet-breathed woman, of whom i should never tire
give me a perfect child--give me, away, aside from the noise of the world,
a rural domestic life
give me to warble spontaneous songs, relieved, recluse by myself, for my
own ears only
give me solitude--give me nature--give me again, o nature, your primal
sanities
--these, demanding to have them, tired with ceaseless excitement, and
racked by the war-strife,
these to procure incessantly asking, rising in cries from my heart,
while yet incessantly asking, still i adhere to my city
day upon day, and year upon year, o city, walking your streets,
where you hold me enchained a certain time, refusing to give me up,
yet giving to make me glutted, enriched of soul--you give me for ever
faces
o i see what i sought to escape, confronting, reversing my cries
i see my own soul trampling down what it asked for
keep your splendid silent sun
keep your woods, o nature, and the quiet places by the woods
keep your fields of clover and timothy, and your cornfields and orchards
keep the blossoming buckwheat fields, where the ninth-month bees hum
give me faces and streets give me these phantoms incessant and endless
along the trottoirs
give me interminable eyes give me women give me comrades and lovers by
the thousand
let me see new ones every day let me hold new ones by the hand every day
give me such shows give me the streets of manhattan
give me broadway, with the soldiers marching--give me the sound of the
trumpets and drums
the soldiers in companies or regiments--some starting away, flushed and
reckless
some, their time up, returning, with thinned ranks--young, yet very old,
worn, marching, noticing nothing
--give me the shores and the wharves heavy-fringed with the black ships
o such for me o an intense life o full to repletion, and varied
the life of the theatre, bar-room, huge hotel, for me
the saloon of the steamer, the crowded excursion, for me the torchlight
procession
the dense brigade, bound for the war, with high-piled military waggons
following
people, endless, streaming, with strong voices, passions, pageants
manhattan streets, with their powerful throbs, with the beating drums, as
now
the endless and noisy chorus, the rustle and clank of muskets, even the
sight of the wounded
manhattan crowds, with their turbulent musical chorus--with varied chorus
and light of the sparkling eyes
manhattan faces and eyes for ever for me
over the carnage
over the carnage rose prophetic a voice,--
be not disheartened--affection shall solve the problems of freedom yet
those who love each other shall become invincible--they shall yet make
columbia victorious
sons of the mother of all you shall yet be victorious
you shall yet laugh to scorn the attacks of all the remainder of the earth
no danger shall baulk columbias lovers
if need be, a thousand shall sternly immolate themselves for one
one from massachusetts shall be a missourians comrade
from maine and from hot carolina, and another an oregonese, shall be
friends triune,
more precious to each other than all the riches of the earth
to michigan, florida perfumes shall tenderly come
not the perfumes of flowers, but sweeter, and wafted beyond death
it shall be customary in the houses and streets to see manly affection
the most dauntless and rude shall touch face to face lightly
the dependence of liberty shall be lovers,
the continuance of equality shall be comrades
these shall tie you and band you stronger than hoops of iron
i, ecstatic, o partners o lands with the love of lovers tie you
were you looking to be held together by the lawyers?
or by an agreement on a paper? or by arms?
--nay--nor the world nor any living thing will so cohere
the mother of all
pensive, on her dead gazing, i heard the mother of all,
desperate, on the torn bodies, on the forms covering the battlefields,
gazing
as she called to her earth with mournful voice while she stalked
absorb them well, o my earth she cried--i charge you, lose not my sons
lose not an atom
and you, streams, absorb them well, taking their dear blood
and you local spots, and you airs that swim above lightly,
and all you essences of soil and growth--and you, o my  rivers depths
and you mountain-sides--and the woods where my dear childrens blood,
trickling, reddened
and you trees, down in your roots, to bequeath to all future trees,
my dead absorb--my young mens beautiful bodies absorb--and their precious,
precious, precious blood
which, holding in trust for me, faithfully back again give me, many a year
hence,
in unseen essence and odour of surface and grass, centuries hence
in blowing airs from the fields, back again give me my darlings--give my
immortal heroes
exhale me them centuries hence--breathe me their breath--let not an atom be
lost
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 our camps of white, o soldiers,
when, as ordered 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
others pitching the little tents, and the fires lit up begin to sparkle
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,
we rise up refreshed, the night and sleep passed over, and resume our
journey,
or proceed to battle
lo the camps of the tents of green,
which the days of peace keep filling, and the days of war keep filling,
with a mystic army, is it too ordered forward? is it too only halting a
while,
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,
sleeping under the sunlight, sleeping under the moonlight, content and
silent there at last
behold the mighty bivouac-field and waiting-camp of us and ours and all,
of our corps and generals all, and the president over the corps and
generals all,
and of each of us, o soldiers, and of each and all in the ranks we fight,
there without hatred we shall all meet
for presently, o soldiers, we too camp in our place in the bivouac-camps of
green
but we need not provide for outposts, nor word for the countersign,
nor drummer to beat the morning drum
dirge for two veterans
the last sunbeam
lightly falls from the finished sabbath
on the pavement here--and, there beyond, it is looking
down a new-made double grave
lo the moon ascending
up from the east, the silvery round moon
beautiful over the house-tops, ghastly, phantom moon
immense and silent moon
i see a sad procession,
and i hear the sound of coming full-keyed bugles
all the channels of the city streets theyre flooding,
as with voices and with tears
i hear the great drums pounding,
and the small drums steady whirring
and every blow of the great convulsive drums
strikes me through and through
for the son is brought with the father
in the foremost ranks of the fierce assault they fell
two veterans, son and father, dropped together,
and the double grave awaits them
now nearer blow the bugles,
and the drums strike more convulsive
and the daylight oer the pavement quite has faded,
and the strong dead-march enwraps me
in the eastern sky up-buoying,
the sorrowful vast phantom moves illumined,
tis some mothers large, transparent face,
in heaven brighter growing
o strong dead-march, you please me
o moon immense, with your silvery face you soothe me
o my soldiers twain o my veterans, passing to burial
what i have i also give you
the moon gives you light,
and the bugles and the drums give you music
and my heart, o my soldiers, my veterans,
my heart gives you love
survivors
how solemn, as one by one,
as the ranks returning, all worn and sweaty--as the men file by where i
stand
as the faces, the masks appear--as i glance at the faces, studying the
masks
as i glance upward out of this page, studying you, dear friend, whoever you
are--
how solemn the thought of my whispering soul, to each in the ranks, and to
you
i see, behind each mask, that wonder, a kindred soul
o the bullet could never kill what you really are, dear friend,
nor the bayonet stab what you really are
--the soul, yourself, i see, great as any, good as the best,
waiting secure and content,--which the bullet could never kill,
nor the bayonet stab, o friend
hymn of dead soldiers
one breath, o my silent soul
a perfumed thought--no more i ask, for the sake of all dead soldiers
buglers off in my armies
at present i ask not you to sound
not at the head of my cavalry, all on their spirited horses,
with their sabres drawn and glistening, and carbines clanking by their
thighs--ah, my brave horsemen my handsome, tan-faced horsemen
what life, what joy and pride, with all the perils, were yours
nor you drummers--neither at reveill, at dawn,
nor the long roll alarming the camp--nor even the muffled beat for a
burial
nothing from you, this time, o drummers, bearing my warlike drums
but aside from these, and the crowds hurrahs, and the lands
congratulations,
admitting around me comrades close, unseen by the rest, and voiceless,
i chant this chant of my silent soul, in the name of all dead soldiers
faces so pale, with wondrous eyes, very dear, gather closer yet
draw close, but speak not
phantoms, welcome, divine and tender
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 musical voices
sounding
but sweet, ah sweet, are the dead, with their silent eyes
dearest comrades all now is over
but love is not over--and what love, o comrades
perfume from battlefields rising--up from foetor arising
perfume therefore my chant, o love immortal love
give me to bathe the memories of all dead soldiers
perfume all make all wholesome
o love o chant solve all with the last chemistry
give me exhaustless--make me a fountain,
that i exhale love from me wherever i go,
for the sake of all dead soldiers
spirit whose work is done
spirit whose work is done spirit of dreadful hours
ere, departing, fade from my eyes your forests of bayonets--
spirit of gloomiest fears and doubts, yet onward ever unfaltering pressing
spirit of many a solemn day, and many a savage scene electric spirit
that with muttering voice, through the years now closed, like a tireless
phantom flitted,
rousing the land with breath of flame, while you beat and beat the drum
--now, as the sound of the drum, hollow and harsh to the last, reverberates
round me
as your ranks, your immortal ranks, return, return from the battles
while the muskets of the young men yet lean over their shoulders
while i look on the bayonets bristling over their shoulders
while those slanted bayonets, whole forests of them, appearing in the
distance, approach and pass on, returning homeward,
moving with steady motion, swaying to and fro, to the right and left,
evenly, lightly, rising and falling, as the steps keep time
--spirit of hours i knew, all hectic red one day, but pale as death next
day
touch my mouth, ere you depart--press my lips close
leave me your pulses of rage bequeath them to me fill me with currents
convulsive
let them scorch and blister out of my chants, when you are gone
let them identify you to the future in these songs
reconciliation
word over all, beautiful as the sky
beautiful that war, and all its deeds of carnage, must in time be utterly
lost
that the hands of the sisters death and night incessantly, softly wash
again, and ever again, this soiled world
for my enemy is dead--a man divine as myself is dead
i look where he lies, white-faced and still, in the coffin--i draw near
i bend down and touch lightly with my lips the white face in the coffin
after the war
to the leavened soil they trod, calling, i sing, for the last
not cities, nor man alone, nor war, nor the dead
but forth from my tent emerging for good--loosing, untying the tent-ropes
in the freshness, the forenoon air, in the far-stretching circuits and
vistas, again to peace restored
to the fiery fields emanative, and the endless vistas beyond--to the south
and the north
to the leavened soil of the general western world, to attest my songs,
to the average earth, the wordless earth, witness of war and peace,
to the alleghanian hills, and the tireless mississippi,
to the rocks i, calling, sing, and all the trees in the woods,
to the plain of the poems of heroes, to the prairie spreading wide,
to the far-off sea, and the unseen winds, and the sane impalpable air
and responding they answer all, but not in words,
the average earth, the witness of war and peace, acknowledges mutely
the prairie draws me close, as the father, to bosom broad, the son--
the northern ice and rain, that began me, nourish me to the end
but the hot sun of the south is to ripen my songs
walt whitman
assimilations
there was a child went forth every day
and the first object he looked upon, that object he became
and that object became part of him for the day, or a certain part of the
day, or for many years, or tretching cycles of years
the early lilacs became part of this child,
and grass, and white and red morning-glories, and white and red clover,
and the song of the phoebe-bird,
and the third-month lambs, and the sows pink-faint litter, and the mares
foal, and the cows calf,
and the noisy brood of the barn-yard, or by the mire of the pond-side,
and the fish suspending themselves so curiously below there--and the
beautiful, curious liquid,
and the water-plants with their graceful fiat heads--all became part of
him
the field-sprouts of fourth-month and fifth-month became part or him
winter-grain sprouts, and those of the light-yellow corn, and the esculent
roots of the garden,
and the apple-trees covered with blossoms, and the fruit afterward, and
wood-berries, and the commonest weeds by the road
and the old drunkard staggering home from the outhouse of the tavern,
whence he had lately risen,
and the schoolmistress that passed on her way to the school,
and the friendly boys that passed, and the quarrelsome boys,
and the tidy and fresh-cheeked girls, and the barefoot negro boy and girl,
and all the changes of city and country, wherever he went
his own parents
he that had fathered him, and she that had conceived him in her womb, and
birthed him,
they gave this child more of themselves than that
they gave him afterward every day--they became part of him
the mother at home, quietly placing the dishes on the supper-table
the mother with mild words--clean her cap and gown, a wholesome odour
falling off her person and clothes as she walks by
the father, strong, self-sufficient, manly, mean, angered, unjust
the blow, the quick loud word, the tight bargain, the crafty lure,
the family usages, the language, the company, the furniture--the yearning
and swelling heart,
affection that will not be gainsaid--the sense of what is real--the thought
if after all it should prove unreal,
the doubts of day-time and the doubts of night-time--the curious whether
and how--
whether that which appears so is so, or is it all flashes and specks?
men and women crowding fast in the streets--if they are not flashes and
specks, what are they?
the streets themselves, and the faades of houses, and goods in the
windows,
vehicles, teams, the heavy-planked wharves--the huge crossing at the
ferries,
the village on the highland, seen from afar at sunset--the river between
shadows, aureola and mist, light falling on roofs and gables of white or
brown, three miles off
the schooner near by, sleepily dropping down the tide--the little boat
slack-towed astern,
the hurrying tumbling waves quick-broken crests slapping,
the strata of coloured clouds, the long bar of maroon-tint, away solitary
by itself-the spread of purity it lies motionless in,
the horizons edge, the flying sea-crow, the fragrance of salt marsh and
shore mud--
these became part of that child who went forth every day, and who now goes,
and will always go forth every day
footnote  the name of morning-glory is given to the bindweed, or a
sort of bindweed, in america i am not certain whether this expressive name
is used in england also
footnote  a dun-coloured little bird with a cheerful note, sounding like
the word phoebe
a word out of the sea
out of the rocked cradle,
out of the mocking-birds throat, the musical shuttle,
out of the ninth-month midnight,
over the sterile sands, and the fields beyond, where the child, leaving his
bed, wandered alone, bareheaded, barefoot,
down from the showered halo,
up from the mystic play of shadows, twining and twisting as if they were
alive,
out from the patches of briars and blackberries,
from the memories of the birds that chanted to me,
from your memories, sad brother--from the fitful risings and fallings i
heard,
from under that yellow half-moon, late-risen, and swollen as if with tears,
from those beginning notes of sickness and love, there in the transparent
mist,
from the thousand responses of my heart, never to cease,
from the myriad thence-aroused 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,
a reminiscence sing
once, paumanok,
when the snows had melted, and the fifth-month grass
was growing,
up this sea-shore, in some briars,
two 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, crouched on her nest, silent,
with bright eyes
and every day i, a curious boy, never too close, never
disturbing them,
cautiously peering, absorbing, translating
shine shine shine
pour down your warmth, great sun
while we bask--we two together
two together
winds blow south, or winds blow north,
day come white or night come black,
home, or rivers and mountains from home,
singing all time, minding no time,
if we two but keep together
till of a sudden,
maybe killed, unknown to her mate,
one forenoon the she-bird crouched not on the nest,
nor returned that afternoon, nor the next,
nor ever appeared again
and thenceforward, all summer, in the sound of the sea,
and at night, under the full of the moon, in calmer weather,
over the hoarse surging of the sea,
or flitting from briar to briar by day,
i saw, i heard at intervals, the remaining one, the he-bird,
the solitary guest from alabama
blow blow blow
blow up, sea-winds, along paumanoks shore
i wait and i wait, till you blow my mate to me
yes, when the stars glistened
all night long, on the prong of a moss-scalloped stake,
down, almost amid the slapping waves,
sat the lone singer, wonderful, causing tears
he called on his mate
he poured forth the meanings which i, of all men, know
yes, my brother, i know
the rest might not--but i have treasured every note
for once, and 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,
the white arms out in the breakers tirelessly tossing,
i, with bare feet, a child, the wind wafting my hair,
listened long and long
listened, to keep, to sing--now translating the notes,
following you, my brother
soothe soothe soothe
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
o it is lagging--o i think it is heavy with love, with love
o madly the sea pushes, pushes upon the land,
with love--with love
o night do i not see my love fluttering out there among the breakers?
what is that little black thing i see there in the white?
loud loud loud
loud i call to you, my love
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
low-hanging moon
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
land land o land
whichever way i turn, o i think you could give me my mate back again, if
you only would
for i am almost sure i see her dimly whichever way i look
o rising stars
perhaps the one i want so much will rise, will rise with some of you
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
shake out, carols
solitary here--the nights carols
carols of lonesome love deaths carols
carols under that lagging, yellow, waning moon
o, under that moon, where she droops almost down into the sea
o reckless, despairing carols
but soft sink low
soft let me just murmur
and do you wait a moment, you husky-noised 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
hither, my love
here i am here
with this just-sustained note i announce myself to you
this gentle call is for you, my love, for you
do not be decoyed elsewhere
that is the whistle of the wind--it is not my voice
that is the fluttering, the flattering of the spray
those are the shadows of leaves
o darkness o in vain
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
o all--and i singing uselessly, uselessly all the night
yet i murmur, murmur on
o murmurs--you yourselves make me continue to sing, i know not why
o past o life o songs of joy
in the air--in the woods--over fields
loved loved loved loved loved
but my love no more, no more with me
we two together no more
the aria sinking
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 paumanoks shore, grey and rustling
the yellow half-moon enlarged, sagging down, drooping, the face of the sea
almost touching
the boy ecstatic--with his bare feet the waves, with his hair the
atmosphere, dallying,
the love in the heart long pent, now loose, now at last tumultuously
bursting
the arias 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 boys souls questions sullenly timing--some drowned secret hissing
to the outsetting bard of love
demon or bird said the boys soul,
is it indeed toward your mate you sing? or is it mostly to me?
for i, that was a child, my tongues use sleeping,
now i have heard you,
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,
a thousand warbling echoes, have started to life within me,
never to die
o you singer, solitary, singing by yourself--projecting me
o solitary me, listening--never more shall i cease perpetuating you
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,
by the sea, under the yellow and sagging moon,
the messenger there aroused--the fire, the sweet hell within,
the unknown want, the destiny of me
o give me the clue it lurks in the night here somewhere
o if i am to have so much, let me have more
o a word o what is my destination? i fear it is henceforth chaos--
o how joys, dreads, convolutions, human shapes and all shapes, spring as
from graves around me
o phantoms you cover all the land, and all the sea
o i cannot see in the dimness whether you smile or frown upon me
o vapour, a look, a word o well-beloved
o you dear womens and mens phantoms
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?
is that it from your liquid rims and wet sands?
whereto answering, the sea,
delaying not, hurrying not,
whispered me through the night, and very plainly before daybreak,
lisped to me the low and delicious word death
and again death--ever death, death, death,
hissing melodious, neither like the bird nor like my aroused childs heart,
but edging near, as privately for me, rustling at my feet,
creeping thence steadily up to my ears, and laving me softly all over,
death, death, death, death, death
which i do not forget,
but fuse the song of my dusky demon and brother,
that he sang to me in the moonlight on paumanoks grey 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,
the sea whispered me
crossing brooklyn ferry
flood-tide below me i watch you face to face
clouds of the west sun there half an hour high i see you also face to
face
crowds of men and women attired in the usual costumes, how curious you are
to me
on the ferry-boats the hundreds and hundreds that cross, returning home,
are more curious to me than you suppose
and you that shall cross from shore to shore years hence are more to me,
and more in my meditations, than you might suppose
the impalpable sustenance of me from all things, at all hours of the day
the simple, compact, well-joined scheme--myself disintegrated, every one
disintegrated, yet part of the scheme
the similitudes of the past, and those of the future
the glories strung like beads on my smallest sights and hearings--on the
walk in the street, and the passage over the river
the current rushing so swiftly, and swimming with me far away
the others that are to follow me, the ties between me and them
the certainty of others--the life, love, sight, hearing, of others
others will enter the gates of the ferry, and cross from shore to shore
others will watch the run of the flood-tide
others will see the shipping of manhattan north and west, and the heights
of brooklyn to the south and east
others will see the islands large and small
fifty years hence, others will see them as they cross, the sun half an hour
high
a hundred years hence, or ever so many hundred years hence, others will see
them,
will enjoy the sunset, the pouring-in of the flood-tide, the falling-back
to the sea of the ebb-tide
it avails not, neither time nor place--distance avails not
i am with you--you men and women of a generation, or ever so many
generations hence
i project myself--also i return--i am with you, and know how it is
just as you feel when you look on the river and sky, so i felt
just as any of you is one of a living crowd, i was one of a crowd
just as you are refreshed by the gladness of the river and the bright flow,
i was refreshed
just as you stand and lean on the rail, yet hurry with the swift current, i
stood, yet was hurried
just as you look on the numberless masts of ships, and the
thick-stemmed pipes of steamboats, i looked
i too many and many a time crossed the river, the sun half an hour high
i watched the twelfth-month sea-gulls--i saw them high in the air, floating
with motionless wings, oscillating their bodies,
i saw how the glistening yellow lit up parts of their bodies, and left the
rest in strong shadow,
i saw the slow-wheeling circles, and the gradual edging toward the south
i too saw the reflection of the summer sky in the water,
had my eyes dazzled by the shimmering track of beams,
looked at the fine centrifugal spokes of light round the shape of my head
in the sun-lit water,
looked on the haze on the hills southward and southwestward,
looked on the vapour as it flew in fleeces tinged with violet,
looked toward the lower bay to notice the arriving ships,
saw their approach, saw aboard those that were near me,
saw the white sails of schooners and sloops, saw the ships at anchor,
the sailors at work in the rigging, or out astride the spars
the round masts, the swinging motion of the hulls, the slender serpentine
pennants,
the large and small steamers in motion, the pilots in their
pilot-houses,
the white wake left by the passage, the quick tremulous whirl of the
wheels,
the flags of all nations, the falling of them at sunset,
the scallop-edged waves in the twilight, the ladled cups, the frolicsome
crests and glistening,
the stretch afar growing dimmer and dimmer, the grey walls of the granite
store-houses by the docks,
on the river the shadowy group, the big steam-tug closely flanked on each
side by the barges--the hay-boat, the belated lighter,
on the neighbouring shore, the fires from the foundry chimneys burning high
and glaringly into the night,
casting their flicker of black, contrasted with wild red and yellow light,
over the tops of houses and down into the clefts of streets
these, and all else, were to me the same as they are to you
i project myself a moment to tell you--also i return
i loved well those cities
i loved well the stately and rapid river
the men and women i saw were all near to me
others the same--others who look back on me because i looked forward to
them
the time will come, though i stop here to-day and to-night
what is it, then, between us?
what is the count of the scores or hundreds of years between us?
whatever it is, it avails not--distance avails not, and place avails not
i too lived--brooklyn, of ample hills, was mine
i too walked the streets of manhattan island, and bathed in the waters
around it
i too felt the curious abrupt questionings stir within me
in the day, among crowds of people, sometimes they came upon me,
in my walks home late at night, or as i lay in my bed, they came upon me
i too had been struck from the float for ever held in solution, i too had
received identity by my body
that i was, i knew, was of my body--and what i should be, i knew, i should
be of my body
it is not upon you alone the dark patches fall,
the dark threw patches down upon me also
the best i had done seemed to me blank and suspicious
my great thoughts, as i supposed them, were they not in reality meagre?
would not people laugh at me?
it is not you alone who know what it is to be evil
i am he who knew what it was to be evil
i too knitted the old knot of contrariety,
blabbed, blushed, resented, lied, stole, grudged
had guile, anger, lust, hot wishes i dared not speak
was wayward, vain, greedy, shallow, sly, cowardly, malignant
the wolf, the snake, the hog, not wanting in me
the cheating look, the frivolous word, the adulterous wish, not wanting
refusals, hates, postponements, meanness, laziness, none of these wanting
but i was manhattanese, friendly and proud
i was called by my nighest name by clear loud voices of young men as they
saw me approaching or passing,
felt their arms on my neck as i stood, or the negligent leaning of their
flesh against me as i sat
saw many i loved in the street, or ferry-boat, or public assembly, yet
never told them a word
lived the same life with the rest, the same old laughing, gnawing,
sleeping
played the part that still looks back on the actor or actress,
the same old rle, the rle that is what we make it,--as great as we like,
or as small as we like, or both great and small
closer yet i approach you
what thought you have of me, i had as much of you--
i laid in my stores in advance
i considered long and seriously of you before you were born
who was to know what should come home to me?
who knows but i am enjoying this?
who knows but i am as good as looking at you now, for all you cannot see
me?
it is not you alone, nor i alone
not a few races, nor a few generations, nor a few centuries
it is that each came or comes or shall come from its due
emission, without fail, either now or then or henceforth
everything indicates--the smallest does, and the largest does
a necessary film envelops all, and envelops the soul for a proper time
now i am curious what sight can ever be more stately and admirable to me
than my mast-hemmed manhatta,
my river and sunset, and my scallop-edged waves of flood-tide
the sea-gulls oscillating their bodies, the hay-boat in the twilight, and
the belated lighter
curious 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
curious 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 promised without mentioning it have you not accepted?
what the study could not teach--what the preaching could not accomplish, is
accomplished, is it not?
what the push of reading could not start, is started by me personally, is
it not?
flow on river flow with the flood-tide, and ebb with the ebb-tide
frolic on, crested and scallop-edged waves
gorgeous clouds of the sunset, drench with your splendour 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
bully for you you proud, friendly, free manhattanese
throb, baffled and curious brain throw out questions and answers
suspend here and everywhere, eternal float of solution
blab, blush, lie, steal, you or i or any one after us
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 ones
head, in the sun-lit water
come on, ships from the lower bay pass up or down, white-sailed schooners,
sloops, lighters
flaunt away, flags of all nations be duly lowered 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 our 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
we descend upon you and all things--we arrest you all
we realise the soul only by you, you faithful solids and fluids
through you colour, form, location, sublimity, ideality
through you every proof, comparison, and all the suggestions and
determinations of ourselves
you have waited, you always wait, you dumb, beautiful ministers you
novices
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
night and death
night on the prairies
the supper is over--the fire on the ground burns low
the wearied emigrants sleep, wrapped in their blankets
i walk by myself--i stand and look at the stars, which i think now i never
realised before
now i absorb immortality and peace,
i admire death, and test propositions
how plenteous how spiritual how resum
the same old man and soul--the same old aspirations, and the same content
i was thinking the day most splendid, till i saw what the not day
exhibited,
i was thinking this globe enough, till there sprang out so noiseless around
me myriads of other globes
now, while the great thoughts of space and eternity fill me, i will measure
myself by them
and now, touched with the lives of other globes, arrived as far along as
those of the earth,
or waiting to arrive, or passed on farther than those of the earth,
i henceforth no more ignore them than i ignore my own life,
or the lives of the earth arrived as far as mine, or waiting to arrive
o i see now that life cannot exhibit all to me-as the day cannot,
i see that i am to wait for what will be exhibited by death
elemental drifts
elemental drifts
o i wish i could impress others as you and the waves have just been
impressing me
as i ebbed with an ebb of the ocean of life,
as i wended the shores i know,
as i walked where the sea-ripples wash you, paumanok,
where they rustle up, hoarse and sibilant,
where the fierce old mother endlessly cries for her castaways,
i, musing, late in the autumn day, gazing off southward,
alone, held by this eternal self of me, out of the pride of which i have
uttered my poems,
was seized by the spirit that trails in the lines underfoot,
in the rim, the sediment, that stands for all the water and all the land of
the globe
fascinated, my eyes, reverting from the south, dropped, to follow those
slender winrows,
chaff, straw, splinters of wood, weeds, and the sea-gluten,
scum, scales from shining rocks, leaves of salt-lettuce, left by the tide
miles walking, the sound of breaking waves the other side of me,
paumanok, there and then, as i thought the old thought of likenesses
these you presented to me, you fish-shaped island,
as i wended the shores i know,
as i walked with that eternal self of me, seeking types
as i wend to the shores i know not,
as i list to the dirge, the voices of men and women wrecked,
as i inhale the impalpable breezes that set in upon me,
as the ocean so mysterious rolls toward me closer and closer,
i too but signify, at the utmost, a little washed-up drift,
a few sands and dead leaves to gather,
gather, and merge myself as part of the sands and drift
o baffled, baulked, bent to the very earth,
oppressed with myself that i have dared to open my mouth,
aware now that, amid all the blab whose echoes recoil upon me, i have not
once had the least idea who or what i am,
but that before all my insolent poems, the real me stands yet untouched,
untold, altogether unreached,
withdrawn far, mocking me with mock-congratulatory signs and bows,
with peals of distant ironical laughter at every word i have written,
pointing in silence to all these songs, and then to the sand beneath
now i perceive i have not understood anything--not a single object--and
that no man ever can
i perceive nature, here in sight of the sea, is taking advantage of me, to
dart upon me, and sting me,
because i have dared to open my mouth to sing at all
you oceans both i close with you
these little shreds shall indeed stand for all
you friable shore, with trails of debris
you fish-shaped island i take what is underfoot
what is yours is mine, my father
i too, paumanok,
i too have bubbled up, floated the measureless float, and been washed on
your shores
i too am but a trail of drift and debris,
i too leave little wrecks upon you, you fish-shaped island
i throw myself upon your breast, my father,
i cling to you so that you cannot unloose me,
i hold you so firm till you answer me something
kiss me, my father,
touch me with your lips, as i touch those i love,
breathe to me, while i hold you close, the secret of the wondrous murmuring
i envy
ebb, ocean of life, the flow will return
cease not your moaning, you fierce old mother,
endlessly cry for your castaways--but fear not, deny not me,
rustle not up so hoarse and angry against my feet, as i touch you, or
gather from you
i mean tenderly by you,
i gather for myself, and for this phantom, looking down where we lead, and
following me and mine
me and mine
we, loose winrows, little corpses,
froth, snowy white, and bubbles,
see from my dead lips the ooze exuding at last
see--the prismatic colours, glistening and rolling
tufts of straw, sands, fragments,
buoyed hither from many moods, one contradicting another,
from the storm, the long calm, the darkness, the swell
musing, pondering, a breath, a briny tear, a dab of liquid or soil
up just as much out of fathomless workings fermented and thrown
a limp blossom or two, torn, just as much over waves floating, drifted at
random
just as much for us that sobbing dirge of nature
just as much, whence we come, that blare of the cloud-trumpets
we, capricious, brought hither, we know not whence, spread out before you,
you, up there, walking or sitting,
whoever you are--we too lie in drifts at your feet
wonders
who learns my lesson complete?
boss, journeyman, apprentice--churchman and atheist,
the stupid and the wise thinker--parents and offspring--merchant, clerk,
porter, and customer,
editor, author, artist and schoolboy--draw nigh and commence
it is no lesson--it lets down the bars to a good lesson,
and that to another, and every one to another still
the great laws take and effuse without argument
i am of the same style, for i am their friend,
i love them quits and quits--i do not halt and make salaams
i lie abstracted, and hear beautiful tales of things, and the reasons of
things
they are so beautiful i nudge myself to listen
i cannot say to any person what i hear--i cannot say it to myself--it is
very wonderful
it is no small matter, this round and delicious globe, moving so exactly in
its orbit for ever and ever, without one jolt, or the untruth of a
single second
i do not think it was made in six days, nor in ten thousand years, nor ten
billions of years,
nor planned and built one thing after another, as an architect plans and
builds a house
i do not think seventy years is the time of a man or woman,
nor that seventy millions of years is the time of a man or woman,
nor that years will ever stop the existence of me, or any one else
is it wonderful that i should be immortal? as every one is immortal
i know it is wonderful--but my eyesight is equally wonderful, and how i was
conceived in my mothers womb is equally wonderful
and passed from a babe, in the creeping trance of a couple of summers and
winters, to articulate and walk--all this is equally wonderful
and that my soul embraces you this hour, and we affect each other without
ever seeing each other, and never perhaps to see each other, is
every bit as wonderful
and that i can think such thoughts as these is just as wonderful
and that i can remind you, and you think them and know them to be true, is
just as wonderful
and that the moon spins round the earth, and on with the earth, is equally
wonderful
and that they balance themselves with the sun and stars is equally
wonderful
miracles
what shall i give? and which are my miracles?
realism is mine--my miracles--take freely,
take without end--i offer them to you wherever your feet can carry you or
your eyes reach
why who makes much of a miracle?
as to me, i know of nothing else but miracles,
whether i walk the streets of manhattan,
or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,
or wade with naked feet along the beach, just in the edge of the water,
or stand under trees in the woods,
or talk by day with any one i love--or sleep in the bed at night with any
one i love,
or sit at the table at dinner with my mother,
or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,
or watch honey-bees busy around the hive, of a summer forenoon,
or animals feeding in the fields,
or birds--or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,
or the wonderfulness of the sundown--or of stars shining so quiet and
bright,
or the exquisite, delicate, thin curve of the new moon in spring
or whether i go among those i like best, and that like me best--mechanics,
boatmen, farmers,
or among the savans--or to the soire--or to the opera
or stand a long while looking at the movements of machinery,
or behold children at their sports,
or the admirable sight of the perfect old man, or the perfect old woman,
or the sick in hospitals, or the dead carried to burial,
or my own eyes and figure in the glass
these, with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,
the whole referring--yet each distinct and in its place
to me, every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,
every inch of space is a miracle,
every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same,
every cubic foot of the interior swarms with the same
every spear of grass--the frames, limbs, organs, of men and women, and all
that concerns them,
all these to me are unspeakably perfect miracles
to me the sea is a continual miracle
the fishes that swim--the rocks--the motion of the waves--the ships, with
men in them,
what stranger miracles are there?
visages
of the visages of things--and of piercing through to the accepted hells
beneath
of ugliness--to me there is just as much in it as there is in
beauty--and now the ugliness of human beings is acceptable to me
of detected persons--to me, detected persons are not, in any respect, worse
than undetected persons--and are not in any respect worse than i am
myself
of criminals--to me, any judge, or any juror, is equally criminal--and any
reputable person is also--and the president is also
the dark side
i sit and look out upon all the sorrows of the world, and upon all
oppression and shame
i hear secret convulsive sobs from young men, at anguish with themselves,
remorseful after deeds done
i see, in low life, the mother misused by her children, dying, neglected,
gaunt, desperate
i see the wife misused by her husband--i see the treacherous seducer of
young women
i mark the ranklings of jealousy and unrequited love, attempted to be hid--
i see these sights on the earth
i see the workings of battle, pestilence, tyranny--i see martyrs and
prisoners
i observe a famine at sea--i observe the sailors casting lots who shall be
killed, to preserve the lives of the rest
i observe the slights and degradations cast by arrogant persons upon
labourers, the poor, and upon negroes, and the like
all these--all the meanness and agony without end, i, sitting, look out
upon
see, hear, and am silent
music
i heard you, solemn-sweet pipes of the organ, as last sunday morn i passed
the church
winds of autumn--as i walked the woods at dusk, i heard your
long-stretched sighs, up above, so mournful
i heard the perfect italian tenor, singing at the opera--i heard the
soprano in the midst of the quartette singing
--heart of my love you too i heard, murmuring low, through one of the
wrists around my head
heard the pulse of you, when all was still, ringing little bells last night
under my ear
wherefore?
o me o life--of the questions of these recurring
of the endless trains of the faithless--of cities filled with the foolish
of myself for ever reproaching myself, for who more foolish than i, and
who more faithless?
of eyes that vainly crave the light--of the objects mean--of the struggle
ever renewed
of the poor results of all--of the plodding and sordid crowds i see around
me
of the empty and useless years of the rest--with the rest me intertwined
the question, o me so sad, recurring--what good amid these, o me, o life?
answer
that you are here--that life exists, and identity
that the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse
questionable
as i lay with my head in your lap, camerado,
the confession i made i resume--what i said to you and the open air i
resume
i know i am restless, and make others so
i know my words are weapons, full of danger, full of death
indeed i am myself the real soldier
it is not he, there, with his bayonet, and not the red-striped
artilleryman
for i confront peace, security, and all the settled laws, to unsettle them
i am more resolute because all have denied me than i could ever have been
had all accepted me
i heed not, and have never heeded, either experience, cautions, majorities,
nor ridicule
and the threat of what is called hell is little or nothing to me
and the lure of what is called heaven is little or nothing to me
--dear camerado i confess i have urged you onward with me, and still urge
you, without the least idea what is our destination,
or whether we shall be victorious, or utterly quelled and defeated
song at sunset
splendour 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 for ever the triumph of things
illustrious every one
illustrious what we name space--sphere of unnumbered spirits
illustrious the mystery of motion, in all beings, even the tiniest insect
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
illustrious whatever i see, or hear, or touch, to the last
good in all,
in the satisfaction and aplomb of animals,
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
wonderful to depart
wonderful to be here
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-coloured flesh,
to be conscious of my body, so happy, so large,
to be this incredible god i am,
to have gone forth among other gods--those men and women i love
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
how the water sports and sings surely it is alive
how the trees rise and stand up--with strong trunks--with branches and
leaves
surely there is something more in each of the trees--some living soul
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
i take your strong chords--i intersperse them, and cheerfully pass them
forward
i too carol the sun, ushered, 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,
i too have felt the resistless call of myself
as i sailed down the mississippi,
as i wandered over the prairies,
as i have lived--as i have looked through my windows, my eyes,
as i went forth in the morning--as i beheld the light breaking in the east
as i bathed on the beach of the eastern sea, and again on the beach of the
western sea
as i roamed the streets of inland chicago-whatever streets i have roamed
wherever i have been, i have charged myself with contentment and triumph
i sing the equalities
i sing the endless finales 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
o setting sun though the time has come,
i still warble under you unmitigated adoration
longings for home
o magnet south o glistening, perfumed south my south
o quick mettle, rich blood, impulse, and love good and evil o all dear to
me
o dear to me my birth-things--all moving things, and the trees where i was
born, the grains, plants, rivers
dear to me my own slow, sluggish rivers, where they flow distant over flats
of silvery sands or through swamps
dear to me the roanoke, the savannah, the altamahaw, the pedee, the
tombigbee, the santee, the coosa, and the sabine--
o pensive, far away wandering, i return with my soul to haunt their banks
again
again in florida i float on transparent lakes--i float on okeechobee--i
cross
the hummock land, or through pleasant openings or dense forests
i see the parrots in the woods, i see the papaw-tree, and the blossoming
titi
again, sailing in my coaster, on deck, i coast off georgia, i coast up the
carolinas
i see where the live-oak is growing--i see where the yellow-pine, the
scented bay-tree, the lemon and orange, the cypress, the graceful
palmetto
i pass rude sea-headlands, and enter pamlico sound through an inlet, and
dart my vision inland
o the cotton plant the growing fields of rice, sugar, hemp
the cactus, guarded with thorns--the laurel-tree, with large white flowers
the range afar--the richness and barrenness--the old woods charged with
mistletoe and trailing moss,
the piney odour and the gloom--the awful natural stillness, here in these
dense swamps the freebooter carries his gun, and the fugitive slave
has his concealed hut
o the strange fascination of these half-known, half-impassable swamps,
infested by reptiles, resounding with the bellow of the alligator,
the sad noises of the night-owl and the wild-cat, and the whirr of
the rattlesnake
the mocking-bird, the american mimic, singing all the forenoon--singing
through the moon-lit night,
the humming-bird, the wild-turkey, the raccoon, the opossum
a tennessee corn-field--the tall, graceful, long-leaved corn--slender,
flapping, bright green, with tassels--with beautiful ears, each
well-sheathed in its husk
an arkansas prairie--a sleeping lake, or still bayou
o my heart o tender and fierce pangs--i can stand them not--i will depart
o to be a virginian, where i grew up o to be a carolinian
o longings irrepressible o i will go back to old tennessee, and never
wander more
footnote  these expressions cannot be understood in a literal
sense, for whitman was born, not in the south, but in the state
of new york the precise sense to be attached to them may be open
to some difference of opinion
appearances
of the terrible doubt of appearances,
of the uncertainty after all--that we may be deluded,
that maybe reliance and hope are but speculations after all,
that maybe identity beyond the grave is a beautiful fable only,
maybe the things i perceive--the animals, plants, men, hills, shining and
flowing waters,
the skies of day and night--colours, densities, forms--maybe these are as
doubtless they are only apparitions, and the real something has
yet to be known
how often they dart out of themselves, as if to confound me and mock me
how often i think neither i know, nor any man knows, aught of them
maybe seeming to me what they are as doubtless they indeed but seem as
from my present point of view--and might prove as of course they
would naught of what they appear, or naught anyhow, from entirely
changed points of view
--to me, these, and the like of these, are curiously answered by my lovers,
my dear friends
when he whom i love travels with me, or sits a long while holding me by the
hand,
when the subtle air, the impalpable, the sense that words and reason hold
not, surround us and pervade us,
then i am charged with untold and untellable wisdom--i am silent--i require
nothing further,
i cannot answer the question of appearances, or that of identity beyond the
grave
but i walk or sit indifferent--i am satisfied,
he ahold of my hand has completely satisfied me
the friend
recorders ages hence
come, i will take you down underneath this impassive exterior--i will tell
you what to say of me
publish my name and hang up my picture as that of the tenderest lover,
the friend, the lovers portrait, of whom his friend, his lover, was
fondest,
who was not proud of his songs, but of the measureless ocean of love within
him--and freely poured it forth,
who often walked lonesome walks, thinking of his dear friends, his lovers,
who pensive, away from one he loved, often lay sleepless and dissatisfied
at night,
who knew too well the sick, sick dread lest the one he loved might secretly
be indifferent to him,
whose happiest days were far away, through fields, in woods, on hills, he
and another, wandering hand in hand, they twain, apart from other
men,
who oft, as he sauntered the streets, curved with his arm the shoulder of
his friend--while the arm of his friend rested upon him also
meeting again
when i heard at the close of the day how my name had been received with
plaudits in the capitol, still it was not a happy night for me that
followed
and else, when i caroused, or when my plans were accomplished, still i was
not happy
but the day when i rose at dawn from the bed of perfect health, refreshed,
singing, inhaling the ripe breath of autumn,
when i saw the full moon in the west grow pale and disappear in the morning
light,
when i wandered alone over the beach, and undressing bathed, laughing with
the cool waters, and saw the sunrise,
and when i thought how my dear friend, my lover, was on his way coming, o
then i was happy
o then each breath tasted sweeter--and all that day my food nourished me
more--and the beautiful day passed well,
and the next came with equal joy--and with the next, at evening, came my
friend
and that night, while all was still, i heard the waters roll slowly
continually up the shores,
i heard the hissing rustle of the liquid and sands, as directed to me,
whispering, to congratulate me
for the one i love most lay sleeping by me under the same cover in the cool
night,
in the stillness, in the autumn moonbeams, his face was inclined toward me,
and his arm lay lightly around my breast--and that night i was happy
a dream
of him i love day and night, i dreamed i heard he was dead
and i dreamed i went where they had buried him i love--but he was not in
that place
and i dreamed i wandered, searching among burial-places, to find him
and i found that every place was a burial-place
the houses full of life were equally full of death, this house is now
the streets, the shipping, the places of amusement, the chicago, boston,
philadelphia, the mannahatta, were as full of the dead as of the living,
and fuller, o vastly fuller, of the dead than of the living
--and what i dreamed i will henceforth tell to every person and age,
and i stand henceforth bound to what i dreamed
and now i am willing to disregard burial-places, and dispense with them
and if the memorials of the dead were put up indifferently everywhere, even
in the room where i eat or sleep, i should be satisfied
and if the corpse of any one i love, or if my own corpse, be duly rendered
to powder, and poured in the sea, i shall be satisfied
or if it be distributed to the winds, i shall be satisfied
parting friends
what think you i take my pen in hand to record?
the battle-ship, perfect-modelled, majestic, that i saw pass the offing to-
day under full sail?
the splendours of the past day? or the splendour of the night that envelops
me?
or the vaunted glory and growth of the great city spread around me?--no
but i record of two simple men i saw to-day, on the pier, in the midst of
the crowd, parting the parting of dear friends
the one to remain hung on the others neck, and passionately kissed him,
while the one to depart tightly pressed the one to remain in his arms
to a stranger
passing stranger you do not know how longingly i look upon you
you must be he i was seeking, or she i was seeking it comes to me, as of a
dream
i have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you
all is recalled as we flit by each other, fluid, affectionate, chaste,
matured
you grew up with me, were a boy with me, or a girl with me
i ate with you, and slept with you--your body has become not yours only,
nor left my body mine only
you give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, as we pass--you take of
my beard, breast, hands in return
i am not to speak to you--i am to think of you when i sit alone, or wake at
night alone
i am to wait--i do not doubt i am to meet you again
i am to see to it that i do not lose you
other lands
this moment yearning and thoughtful, sitting alone,
it seems to me there are other men in other lands, yearning and thoughtful
it seems to me i can look over and behold them in prussia, italy, france,
spain--or far, far away, in china, or in russia or india--talking
other dialects
and it seems to me, if i could know those men, i should become attached to
them, as i do to men in my own lands
o i know we should be brethren and lovers
i know i should be happy with them
envy
when i peruse the conquered fame of heroes, and the victories of mighty
generals, i do not envy the generals,
nor the president in his presidency, nor the rich in his great house
but when i read of the brotherhood of lovers, how it was with them
how through life, through dangers, odium, unchanging, long and long,
through youth, and through middle and old age, how unfaltering, how
affectionate and faithful they were,
then i am pensive--i hastily put down the book, and walk away, filled with
the bitterest envy
the city of friends
i dreamed in a dream i saw a city invincible to the attacks of the whole of
the rest of the earth
i dreamed that it was the new city of friends
nothing was greater there than the quality of robust love--it led the rest
it was seen every hour in the actions of the men of that city,
and in all their looks and words
out of the crowd
out of the rolling ocean, the crowd, came a drop gently to me,
whispering, i love you before long i die
i have travelled a long way, merely to look on you, to touch you
for i could not die till i once looked on you,
for i feared i might afterward lose you
now we have met, we have looked, we are safe
return in peace to the ocean, my love
i too am part of that ocean, my love--we are not so much separated
behold the great rondure--the cohesion of all, how perfect
but as for me, for you, the irresistible sea is to separate us,
as for an hour carrying us diverse--yet cannot carry us diverse for ever
be not impatient--a little space--know you, i salute the air, the ocean,
and the land,
every day, at sundown, for your dear sake, my love
among the multitude
among the men and women, the multitude,
i perceive one picking me out by secret and divine signs,
acknowledging none else--not parent, wife, husband, brother, child, any
nearer than i am
some are baffled--but that one is not--that one knows me
ah, lover and perfect equal
i meant that you should discover me so, by my faint indirections
and i, when i meet you, mean to discover you by the like in you
leaves of grass
president lincolns funeral hymn
when lilacs last in the door-yard bloomed,
and the great star early drooped in the western sky in the night,
i mourned,and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring
o ever-returning spring trinity sure to me you bring
lilac blooming perennial, and drooping star in the west,
and thought of him i love
o powerful, western, fallen star
o shades of night o moody, tearful night
o great star disappeared o the black murk that hides the star
o cruel hands that hold me powerless o helpless soul of me
o harsh surrounding cloud that will not free my soul
in the door-yard fronting an old farm-house, near the whitewashed palings,
stands the lilac bush, tall-growing, with heart-shaped leaves of rich
green,
with many a pointed blossom, rising delicate, with the perfume strong i
love,
with every leaf a miracle and from this bush in the dooryard,
with delicate-coloured blossoms, and heart-shaped leaves of rich green,
a sprig, with its flower, i break
in the swamp, in secluded recesses,
a shy and hidden bird is warbling a song
solitary, the thrush,
the hermit, withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements,
sings by himself a song
song of the bleeding throat
deaths outlet song of life--for well, dear brother, i know,
if thou wast not gifted to sing, thou wouldst surely die
over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities,
amid lanes, and through old woods, where lately the violets peeped from the
ground, spotting the greydebris
amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes--passing the endless
grass
passing the yellow-speared wheat, every grain from its shroud in the
dark-brown fields uprising
passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the orchards
carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave,
night and day journeys a coffin
coffin that passes through lanes and streets,
through day and night, with the great cloud darkening the land,
with the pomp of the inlooped flags, with the cities draped in black,
with the show of the states themselves as of crape-veiled women standing,
with processions long and winding, and the flambeaus of the night,
with the countless torches lit--with the silent sea of faces,
and the unbared heads,
with the waiting depot, the arriving coffin, and the sombre faces,
with dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising strong and
solemn
with all the mournful voices of the dirges, poured around the coffin,
the dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs--where amid these you
journey,
with the tolling, tolling bells perpetual clang
here coffin that slowly passes,
i give you my sprig of lilac
nor for you, for one, alone
blossoms and branches green to coffins all i bring
for fresh as the morning--thus would i chant a song for you, o sane and
sacred death
all over bouquets of roses,
o death i cover you over with roses and early lilies
but mostly and now the lilac that blooms the first,
copious, i break, i break the sprigs from the bushes
with loaded arms i come, pouring for you,
for you and the coffins all of you, o death
o western orb, sailing the heaven
now i know what you must have meant, as a month since we walked,
as we walked up and down in the dark blue so mystic,
as we walked in silence the transparent shadowy night,
as i saw you had something to tell, as you bent to me night after night,
as you drooped from the sky low down, as if to my side, while the other
stars all looked on
as we wandered together the solemn night, for something, i know not what,
kept me from sleep
as the night advanced, and i saw on the rim of the west, ere you went, how
full you were of woe
as i stood on the rising ground in the breeze, in the cool transparent
night,
as i watched where you passed and was lost in the netherward  black of the
night,
as my soul, in its trouble, dissatisfied, sank, as where you, sad orb,
concluded, dropped in the night, and was gone
sing on, there in the swamp
o singer bashful and tender i hear your notes--i hear your call
i hear--i come presently--i understand you
but a moment i linger--for the lustrous star has detained me
the star, my comrade departing, holds and detains me
o how shall i warble myself for the dead one there i loved?
and how shall i deck my song for the large sweet soul that has gone?
and what shall my perfume be for the grave of him i love?
sea-winds, blown from east and west,
blown from the eastern sea, and blown from the western sea, till there on
the prairies meeting
these, and with these, and the breath of my chant,
i perfume the grave of him i love
o what shall i hang on the chamber walls?
and what shall the pictures be that i hang on the walls,
to adorn the burial-house of him i love?
pictures of growing spring, and farms, and homes,
with the fourth-month eve at sundown, and the grey smoke lucid and bright,
with floods of the yellow gold of the gorgeous, indolent sinking sun,
burning, expanding the air
with the fresh sweet herbage under foot, and the pale green leaves of the
trees prolific
in the distance the flowing glaze, the breast of the river,
with a wind-dapple here and there
with ranging hills on the banks, with many a line against the sky, and
shadows
and the city at hand, with dwellings so dense, and stacks of chimneys,
and all the scenes of life, and the workshops, and the workmen homeward
returning
lo body and soul this land
mighty manhattan, with spires, and the sparkling and hurrying tides, and
the ships
the varied and ample land--the south and the north in the
light--ohios shores, and flashing missouri,
and ever the far-spreading prairies, covered with grass and corn
lo the most excellent sun, so calm and haughty
the violet and purple morn, with just-felt breezes
the gentle, soft-born, measureless light
the miracle, spreading, bathing all--the fulfilled noon
the coming eve, delicious--the welcome night, and the stars,
over my cities shining all, enveloping man and land
sing on sing on, you grey-brown bird
sing from the swamps, the recesses--pour your chant from the bushes
limitless out of the dusk, out of the cedars and pines
sing on, dearest brother--warble your reedy song,
loud human song, with voice of uttermost woe
o liquid, and free, and tender
o wild and loose to my soul o wondrous singer
you only i hear, yet the star holds me, but will soon depart
yet the lilac, with mastering odour, holds me
now while i sat in the day, and looked forth,
in the close of the day, with its light, and the fields of spring, and the
farmer preparing his crops,
in the large unconscious scenery of my land, with its lakes and forests,
in the heavenly aerial beauty, after the perturbed winds and the storms
under the arching heavens of the afternoon swift passing, and the voices of
children and women,
the many-moving sea-tides,--and i saw the ships how they sailed,
and the summer approaching with richness, and the fields all busy with
labour,
and the infinite separate houses, how they all went on, each with its meals
and minutiae of daily usages
and the streets, how their throbbings throbbed, and the cities
pent--lo then and there,
falling upon them all, and among them all, enveloping me with the rest,
appeared the cloud, appeared the long black trail
and i knew death, its thought, and the sacred knowledge of death
and the thought of death close-walking the other side of me,
and i in the middle, as with companions, and as holding the hands of
companions,
i fled forth to the hiding receiving night, that talks not,
down to the shores of the water, the path by the swamp in the dimness,
to the solemn shadowy cedars, and ghostly pines so still
and the singer so shy to the rest received me
the grey-brown bird i know received us comrades three
and he sang what seemed the song of death, and a verse for him i love
from deep secluded recesses,
from the fragrant cedars, and the ghostly pines so still,
came the singing of the bird
and the charm of the singing rapt me,
as i held, as if by their hands, my comrades in the night
and the voice of my spirit tallied the song of the bird
come, lovely and soothing death,
undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving,
in the day, in the night, to all, to each,
sooner or later, delicate death
praised be the fathomless universe,
for life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious
and for love, sweet love--but praise o praise and praise,
for the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding death
dark mother, always gliding near, with soft feet,
have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome?
then i chant it for thee--i glorify thee above all
i bring thee a song that, when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly
approach, encompassing death-strong deliveress
when it is so--when thou hast taken them, i joyously sing the dead,
lost in the loving, floating ocean of thee,
laved in the flood of thy bliss, o death
from me to thee glad serenades,
dances for thee i propose, saluting thee--adornments and feastings for
thee
and the sights of the open landscape, and the high-spread sky, are fitting,
and life and the fields, and the huge and thoughtful night
the night, in silence, under many a star
the ocean shore, and the husky whispering wave, whose voice i know
and the soul turning to thee, o vast and well-veiled death,
and the body gratefully nestling close to thee
over the tree-tops i float thee a song
over the rising and sinking waves--over the myriad fields, and the prairies
wide
over the dense-packed cities all, and the teeming wharves and ways,
i float this carol with joy, with joy, to thee, o death
to the tally of my soul
loud and strong kept up the grey-brown bird,
with pure, deliberate notes, spreading, filling the night
loud in the pines and cedars dim,
clear in the freshness moist, and the swamp-perfume,
and i with my comrades there in the night
while my sight that was bound in my eyes unclosed,
as to long panoramas of visions
i saw the vision of armies
and i saw, as in noiseless dreams, hundreds of battle-flags
borne through the smoke of the battles, and pierced with missiles, i saw
them,
and carried hither and yon through the smoke, and torn and bloody
and at last but a few shreds of the flags left on the staffs, and all in
silence,
and the staffs all splintered and broken
i saw battle-corpses, myriads of them,
and the white skeletons of young men--i saw them
i saw the debris and debris of all dead soldiers
but i saw they were not as was thought
they themselves were fully at rest--they suffered not
the living remained and suffered--the mother suffered,
and the wife and the child, and the musing comrade suffered,
and the armies that remained suffered
passing the visions, passing the night
passing, unloosing the hold of my comrades hands
passing the song of the hermit bird, and the tallying song of my soul
victorious song, deaths outlet song, yet varying, ever-altering song
as low and wailing, yet clear, the notes, rising and falling, flooding the
night,
sadly sinking and fainting, as warning and warning, and yet again bursting
with joy
covering the earth, and filling the spread of the heaven,
as that powerful psalm in the night, i heard from recesses
must i leave thee, lilac with heart-shaped leaves?
must i leave thee there in the door-yard, blooming, returning with spring?
must i pass from my song for thee--
from my gaze on thee in the west, fronting the west, communing with thee,
o comrade lustrous, with silver face in the night?
yet each i keep, and all
the song, the wondrous chant of the grey-brown bird,
and the tallying chant, the echo aroused in my soul,
with the lustrous and drooping star, with the countenance full of woe
with the lilac tali, and its blossoms of mastering odour
comrades mine, and i in the midst, and their memory ever i keep--for the
dead i loved so well
for the sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and lands--and this for his
dear sake
lilac and star and bird, twined with the chant of my soul,
with the holders holding my hand, nearing the call of the bird,
there in the fragrant pines, and the cedars dusk and dim
footnote  the evening star, which, as many may remember night after
night, in the early part of that eventful spring, hung low in the west with
unusual and tender brightness--john burroughs
o captain my captain
for the death of lincoln
o captain my captain our fearful trip is done
the ship has weathered every wrack, the prize we sought is won
the port is near, the bells i hear, the people all exulting,
while follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring
but, o heart heart heart
leave you not the little spot
where on the deck my captain lies,
fallen cold and dead
o captain my captain rise up and hear the bells
rise up for you the flag is flung, for you the bugle trills
for you bouquets and ribboned wreaths for you the shores a-crowding
for you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning
o captain dear father
this arm i push beneath you
it is some dream that on the deck
youve fallen cold and dead
my captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still
my father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will
but the ship, the ship is anchored safe, its voyage closed and done
from fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won
exult, o shores and ring, o bells
but i, with silent tread,
walk the spot my captain lies,
fallen cold and dead
pioneers o pioneers
come, my tan-faced children,
follow well in order, get your weapons ready
have you your pistols? have you your sharp-edged axes?
pioneers o pioneers
for we cannot tarry here,
we must march, my darlings, we must bear the brunt of danger,
we, the youthful sinewy races, all the rest on us depend
pioneers o pioneers
o you youths, western youths,
so impatient, full of action, full of manly pride and friendship,
plain i see you, western youths, see you tramping with the foremost,
pioneers o pioneers
have the elder races halted?
do they droop and end their lesson, wearied, over there beyond the seas?
we take up the task eternal, and the burden, and the lesson,
pioneers o pioneers
all the past we leave behind
we debouch upon a newer, mightier world, varied world
fresh and strong the world we seize, world of labour and the march,
pioneers o pioneers
we detachments steady throwing,
down the edges, through the passes, up the mountains steep,
conquering, holding, daring, venturing, as we go, the unknown ways,
pioneers o pioneers
we primeval forests felling,
we the rivers stemming, vexing we, and piercing deep the mines within
we the surface broad surveying, and the virgin soil upheaving,
pioneers o pioneers
colorado men are we,
from the peaks gigantic, from the great sierras and the high plateaus,
from the mine and from the gully, from the hunting trail we come,
pioneers o pioneers
from nebraska, from arkansas,
central inland race are we, from missouri, with the continental blood
interveined
all the hands of comrades clasping, all the southern, all the northern,
pioneers o pioneers
o resistless, restless race
o beloved race in all o my breast aches with tender love for all
o i mourn and yet exult--i am rapt with love for all,
pioneers o pioneers
raise the mighty mother mistress,
waving high the delicate mistress, over all the starry mistress, bend your
heads all,
raise the fanged and warlike mistress, stern, impassive, weaponed mistress,
pioneers o pioneers
see, my children, resolute children,
by those swarms upon our rear, we must never yield or falter,
ages back in ghostly millions, frowning there behind us urging,
pioneers o pioneers
on and on, the compact ranks,
with accessions ever waiting, with the places of the dead quickly filled,
through the battle, through defeat, moving yet and never stopping,
pioneers o pioneers
o to die advancing on
are there some of us to droop and die? has the hour come?
then upon the march we fittest die, soon and sure the gap is filled,
pioneers o pioneers
all the pulses of the world,
falling in, they beat for us, with the western movement beat
holding single or together, steady moving, to the front, all for us,
pioneers o pioneers
lifes involved and varied pageants,
all the forms and shows, all the workmen at their work,
all the seamen and the landsmen, all the masters with their slaves,
pioneers, o pioneers
all the hapless silent lovers,
all the prisoners in the prisons, all the righteous and the wicked,
all the joyous, all the sorrowing, all the living, all the dying,
pioneers o pioneers
i too with my soul and body,
we, a curious trio, picking, wandering on our way,
through these shores, amid the shadows, with the apparitions pressing,
pioneers o pioneers
lo the darting, bowling orb
lo the brother orbs around all the clustering suns and planets
all the dazzling days, all the mystic nights with dreams,
pioneers o pioneers
these are of us, they are with us,
all for primal needed work, while the followers there in embryo wait
behind,
we to-days procession heading, we the route for travel clearing,
pioneers o pioneers
o you daughters of the west
o you young and elder daughters o you mothers and you wives
never must you be divided, in our ranks you move united,
pioneers o pioneers
minstrels latent on the prairies
shrouded bards of other lands you may sleep--you have done your work
soon i hear you coming warbling, soon you rise and tramp amid us,
pioneers o pioneers
not for delectations sweet
not the cushion and the slipper, not the peaceful and the studious
not the riches safe and palling, not for us the tame enjoyment,
pioneers o pioneers
do the feasters gluttonous feast?
do the corpulent sleepers sleep? have they locked and bolted doors?
still be ours the diet hard, and the blanket on the ground,
pioneers o pioneers
has the night descended?
was the road of late so toilsome? did we stop discouraged, nodding on our
way?
yet a passing hour i yield you in your tracks to pause oblivious,
pioneers o pioneers
till with sound of trumpet,
far, far off the daybreak call--hark how loud and clear i hear it wind
swift to the head of the army--swift spring to your places,
pioneers o pioneers
to the sayers of words
earth, round, rolling, compact--suns, moons, animals--all these are words
to be said
watery, vegetable, sauroid advances--beings, premonitions, lispings of
the future,
behold these are vast words to be said
were you thinking that those were the words--those upright lines? those
curves, angles, dots?
no, those are not the words--the substantial words are in the ground and
sea,
they are in the air--they are in you
were you thinking that those were the words--those delicious sounds out of
your friends mouths?
no the real words are more delicious than they
human bodies are words, myriads of words
in the best poems reappears the body, mans or womans, well-shaped,
natural, gay
every part able, active, receptive, without shame or the need of shame
air, soil, water, fire--these are words
i myself am a word with them--my qualities interpenetrate
with theirs--my name is nothing to them
though it were told in the three thousand languages, what would air, soil,
water, fire, know of my name?
a healthy presence, a friendly or commanding gesture, are words, sayings,
meanings
the charms that go with the mere looks of some men and women are sayings
and meanings also
the workmanship of souls is by the inaudible words of the earth
the great masters know the earths words, and use them more than the
audible words
amelioration is one of the earths words
the earth neither lags nor hastens
it has all attributes, growths, effects, latent in itself from the jump
it is not half beautiful only--defects and excrescences show just as much
as perfections show
the earth does not withhold--it is generous enough
the truths of the earth continually wait, they are not so concealed either
they are calm, subtle, untransmissible by print
they are imbued through all things, conveying themselves willingly,
conveying a sentiment and invitation of the earth i utter and utter
i speak not yet, if you hear me not, of what avail am i to you?
to bear--to better lacking these, of what avail am i?
accouche accouchez
will you rot your own fruit in yourself there?
will you squat and stifle there?
the earth does not argue,
is not pathetic, has no arrangements,
does not scream, haste, persuade, threaten, promise,
makes no discriminations, has no conceivable failures,
closes nothing, refuses nothing, shuts none out
of all the powers, objects, states, it notifies, shuts none out
the earth does not exhibit itself, nor refuse to exhibit itself--possesses
still underneath
underneath the ostensible sounds, the august chorus of heroes, the wail of
slaves,
persuasions of lovers, curses, gasps of the dying, laughter of young
people, accents of bargainers,
underneath these, possessing the words that never fail
to her children, the words of the eloquent dumb great mother never fail
the true words do not fail, for motion does not fail, and reflection does
not fail
also the day and night do not fail, and the voyage we pursue does not fail
of the interminable sisters,
of the ceaseless cotillons of sisters,
of the centripetal and centrifugal sisters, the elder and younger sisters,
the beautiful sister we know dances on with the rest
with her ample back towards every beholder,
with the fascinations of youth, and the equal fascinations of age,
sits she whom i too love like the rest--sits undisturbed,
holding up in her hand what has the character of a mirror, while her eyes
glance back from it,
glance as she sits, inviting none, denying none,
holding a mirror day and night tirelessly before her own face
seen at hand, or seen at a distance,
duly the twenty-four appear in public every day,
duly approach and pass with their companions, or a companion,
looking from no countenances of their own, but from the countenances of
those who are with them,
from the countenances of children or women, or the manly countenance,
from the open countenances of animals, or from inanimate things,
from the landscape or waters, or from the exquisite apparition of the sky,
from our countenances, mine and yours, faithfully returning them,
every day in public appearing without fail, but never twice with the same
companions
embracing man, embracing all, proceed the three hundred and
sixty-five resistlessly round the sun
embracing all, soothing, supporting, follow close three hundred and sixty-
five offsets of the first, sure and necessary as they
tumbling on steadily, nothing dreading,
sunshine, storm, cold, heat, for ever withstanding, passing, carrying,
the souls realisation and determination still inheriting
the fluid vacuum around and ahead still entering and dividing,
no baulk retarding, no anchor anchoring, on no rock striking,
swift, glad, content, unbereaved, nothing losing,
of all able and ready at any time to give strict account,
the divine ship sails the divine sea
whoever you are motion and reflection are especially for you
the divine ship sails the divine sea for you
whoever you are you are he or she for whom the earth is solid and liquid,
you are he or she for whom the sun and moon hang in the sky
for none more than you are the present and the past,
for none more than you is immortality
each man to himself, and each woman to herself, such as the word of the
past and present, and the word of immortality
no one can acquire for another--not one
not one can grow for another--not one
the song is to the singer, and comes back most to him
the teaching is to the teacher, and comes back most to him
the murder is to the murderer, and comes back most to him
the theft is to the thief, and comes back most to him
the love is to the lover, and conies back most to him
the gift is to the giver, and comes back most to him--it cannot fail
the oration is to the orator, the acting is to the actor and actress, not
to the audience
and no man understands any greatness or goodness but his own, or the
indication of his own
i swear the earth shall surely be complete to him or her who shall be
complete
i swear the earth remains jagged and broken only to him or her who remains
broken and jagged
i swear there is no greatness or power that does not emulate those of the
earth
i swear there can be no theory of any account, unless it corroborate the
theory of the earth
no politics, art, religion, behaviour, or what not, is of account, unless
it compare with the amplitude of the earth,
unless it face the exactness, vitality, impartiality, rectitude, of the
earth
i swear i begin to see love with sweeter spasms than that which responds
love
it is that which contains itself--which never invites, and never refuses
i swear i begin to see little or nothing in audible words
i swear i think all merges toward the presentation of the unspoken meanings
of the earth
toward him who sings the songs of the body, and of the truths of the earth
toward him who makes the dictionaries of words that print cannot touch
i swear i see what is better than to tell the best
it is always to leave the best untold
when i undertake to tell the best, i find i cannot,
my tongue is ineffectual on its pivots,
my breath will not be obedient to its organs,
i become a dumb man
the best of the earth cannot be told anyhow--all or any is best
it is not what you anticipated--it is cheaper, easier, nearer
things are not dismissed from the places they held before
the earth is just as positive and direct as it was before
facts, religions, improvements, politics, trades, are as real as before
but the soul is also real,--it too is positive and direct
no reasoning, no proof has established it,
undeniable growth has established it
this is a poem for the sayers of words--these are hints of meanings,
these are they that echo the tones of souls, and the phrases of souls
if they did not echo the phrases of souls, what were they then?
if they had not reference to you in especial, what were they then?
i swear i will never henceforth have to do with the faith that tells the
best
i will have to do only with that faith that leaves the best untold
say on, sayers
delve mould pile the words of the earth
work on--it is materials you bring, not breaths
work on, age after age nothing is to be lost
it may have to wait long, but it will certainly come in use
when the materials are all prepared, the architects shall appear
i swear to you the architects shall appear without fail i announce them
and lead them
i swear to you they will understand you and justify you
i swear to you the greatest among them shall be he who best knows you, and
encloses all, and is faithful to all
i swear to you, he and the rest shall not forget you--they shall perceive
that you are not an iota less than they
i swear to you, you shall be glorified in them
voices
now i make a leaf of voices--for i have found nothing mightier than they
are,
and i have found that no word spoken but is beautiful in its place
o what is it in me that makes me tremble so at voices?
surely, whoever speaks to me in the right voice, him or her i shall follow,
as the water follows the moon, silently, with fluid steps anywhere around
the globe
all waits for the right voices
where is the practised and perfect organ? where is the developed soul?
for i see every word uttered thence has deeper, sweeter, new sounds,
impossible on less terms
i see brains and lips closed--tympans and temples unstruck,
until that comes which has the quality to strike and to unclose,
until that comes which has the quality to bring forth what lies slumbering,
for ever ready, in all words
whosoever
whoever you are, i fear you are walking the walks of dreams,
i fear those supposed realities are to melt from under your feet and hands
even now, your features, joys, speech, house, trade, manners, troubles,
follies, costume, crimes, dissipate away from you,
your true soul and body appear before me,
they stand forth out of affairs-out of commerce, shops, law, science, work,
farms, clothes, the house, medicine, print, buying, selling,
eating, drinking, suffering, dying
whoever you are, now i place my hand upon you, that you be my poem
i whisper with my lips close to your ear,
i have loved many women and men, but i love none better than you
oh i have been dilatory and dumb
i should have made my way straight to you long ago
i should have blabbed nothing but you, i should have chanted nothing but
you
i will leave all, and come and make the hymns of you
none have understood you, but i understand you
none have done justice to you--you have not done justice to yourself
none but have found you imperfect--i only find no imperfection in you
none but would subordinate you--i only am he who will never consent to
subordinate you
i only am he who places over you no master, owner, better, god, beyond what
waits intrinsically in yourself
painters have painted their swarming groups, and the centre figure of all,
from the head of the centre figure spreading a nimbus of
gold-coloured light
but i paint myriads of heads, but paint no head without its nimbus of gold-
coloured light
from my hand, from the brain of every man and woman, it streams,
effulgently flowing for ever
o i could sing such grandeurs and glories about you
you have not known what you are--you have slumbered upon yourself all your
life
your eyelids have been the same as closed most of the time
what you have done returns already in mockeries
your thrift, knowledge, prayers, if they do not return in mockeries, what
is their return?
the mockeries are not you
underneath them, and within them, i see you lurk
i pursue you where none else has pursued you
silence, the desk, the flippant expression, the night, the accustomed
routine, if these conceal you from others, or from yourself, they
do not conceal you from me
the shaved face, the unsteady eye, the impure complexion, if these baulk
others, they do not baulk me
the pert apparel, the deformed attitude, drunkenness, greed, premature
death, all these i part aside
there is no endowment in man or woman that is not tallied in you
there is no virtue, no beauty, in man or woman, but as good is in you
no pluck, no endurance in others, but as good is in you
no pleasure waiting for others, but an equal pleasure waits for you
as for me, i give nothing to any one, except i give the like carefully to
you
i sing the songs of the glory of none, not god, sooner than i sing the
songs of the glory of you
whoever you are claim your own at any hazard
these shows of the east and west are tame compared to you
these immense meadows--these interminable rivers--you are immense and
interminable as they
these furies, elements, storms, motions of nature, throes of apparent
dissolution--you are he or she who is master or mistress over them,
master or mistress in your own right over nature, elements, pain, passion,
dissolution
the hopples fall from your ankles--you find an unfailing sufficiency
old or young, male or female, rude, low, rejected by the rest, whatever you
are promulgates itself
through birth, life, death, burial, the means are provided, nothing is
scanted
through angers, losses, ambition, ignorance, ennui, what you are picks its
way
beginners
how they are provided for upon the earth, appearing at intervals
how dear and dreadful they are to the earth
how they inure to themselves as much as to any--what a paradox appears
their age
how people respond to them, yet know them not
how there is something relentless in their fate, all times
how all times mischoose the objects of their adulation and reward,
and how the same inexorable price must still be paid for the same great
purchase
to a pupil
is reform needed? is it through you?
the greater the reform needed, the greater the personality you need to
accomplish it
you do you not see how it would serve to have eyes, blood, complexion,
clean and sweet?
do you not see how it would serve to have such a body and soul that, when
you enter the crowd, an atmosphere of desire and command enters
with you, and every one is impressed with your personality?
o the magnet the flesh over and over
go, dear friend if need be, give up all else, and commence to-day to inure
yourself to pluck, reality, self-esteem, definiteness,
elevatedness
rest not, till you rivet and publish yourself of your own personality
links
think of the soul
i swear to you that body of yours gives proportions to your soul somehow to
live in other spheres
i do not know how, but i know it is so
think of loving and being loved
i swear to you, whoever you are, you can interfuse yourself with such
things that everybody that sees you shall look longingly upon you
think of the past
i warn you that, in a little while, others will find their past in you and
your times
the race is never separated--nor man nor woman escapes
all is inextricable--things, spirits, nature, nations, you too--from
precedents you come
recall the ever-welcome defiers the mothers precede them
recall the sages, poets, saviours, inventors, lawgivers, of the earth
recall christ, brother of rejected persons--brother of slaves, felons,
idiots, and of insane and diseased persons
think of the time when you was not yet born
think of times you stood at the side of the dying
think of the time when your own body will be dying
think of spiritual results
sure as the earth swims through the heavens, does every one of its objects
pass into spiritual results
think of manhood, and you to be a man
do you count manhood, and the sweet of manhood, nothing?
think of womanhood, and you to be a woman
the creation is womanhood
have i not said that womanhood involves all?
have i not told how the universe has nothing better than the best
womanhood?
the waters
the world below the brine
forests at the bottom of the sea--the branches and leaves,
sea-lettuce, vast lichens, strange flowers and seeds--the thick tangle, the
openings, and the pink turf,
different colours, pale grey and green, purple, white, and gold--the play
of light through the water,
dumb swimmers there among the rocks--coral, gluten, grass, rushes--and the
aliment of the swimmers,
sluggish existences grazing there, suspended, or slowly crawling close to
the bottom
the sperm-whale at the surface, blowing air and spray, or disporting with
his flukes,
the leaden-eyed shark, the walrus, the turtle, the hairy
sea-leopard, and the sting-ray
passions there, wars, pursuits, tribes--sight in those ocean-depths--
breathing that thick breathing air, as so many do
the change thence to the sight here, and to the subtle air breathed by
beings like us, who walk this sphere
the change onward from ours to that of beings who walk other spheres
to the states
to identify the sixteenth, seventeenth, or eighteenth presidentiad
why reclining, interrogating? why myself and all drowsing?
what deepening twilight scum floating atop of the waters
who are they, as bats and night-dogs, askant in the capitol?
what a filthy presidentiad o south, your torrid suns o north, your
arctic freezings
are those really congressmen? are those the great judges? is that the
president?
then i will sleep a while yet--for i see that these states sleep, for
reasons
with gathering murk--with muttering thunder and lambent shoots, we all duly
awake, south, north, east, west, inland and seaboard, we will
surely awake
footnote  these were the three presidentships of polk of taylor,
succeeded by fillmore and of pierce-- to 
tears
tears tears tears
in the night, in solitude, tears
on the white shore dripping, dripping, sucked in by the sand
tears--not a star shining--all dark and desolate
moist tears from the eyes of a muffled head
--o who is that ghost?--that form in the dark, with tears?
what shapeless lump is that, bent, crouched there on the sand?
streaming tears--sobbing tears--throes, choked with wild cries
o storm, embodied, rising, careering, with swift steps along the beach
o wild and dismal night-storm, with wind o belching and desperate
o shade, so sedate and decorous by day, with calm countenance and regulated
pace
but away, at night, as you fly, none looking--o then the unloosened ocean
of tears tears tears
a ship
aboard, at the ships helm,
a young steersman, steering with care
a bell through fog on a sea-coast dolefully ringing,
an ocean-bell--o a warning bell, rocked by the waves
o you give good notice indeed, you bell by the sea-reefs ringing,
ringing, ringing, to warn the ship from its wreck-place
for, as on the alert, o steersman, you mind the bells admonition,
the bows turn,--the freighted ship, tacking, speeds away under her grey
sails
the beautiful and noble ship, with all her precious wealth, speeds away
gaily and safe
but o the ship, the immortal ship o ship aboard the ship
o ship of the body--ship of the soul--voyaging, voyaging, voyaging
greatness
great are the myths--i too delight in them
great are adam and eve--i too look back and accept them
great the risen and fallen nations, and their poets, women, sages,
inventors, rulers, warriors, and priests
great is liberty great is equality i am their follower
helmsmen of nations, choose your craft where you sail, i sail,
i weather it out with you, or sink with you
great is youth--equally great is old age--great are the day and night
great is wealth--great is poverty--great is expression--great is silence
youth, large, lusty, loving--youth, full of grace, force, fascination
do you know that old age may come after you, with equal grace, force,
fascination?
day, full-blown and splendid--day of the immense sun, action, ambition,
laughter,
the night follows close, with millions of suns, and sleep, and restoring
darkness
wealth, with the flush hand, fine clothes, hospitality
but then the souls wealth, which is candour, knowledge, pride, enfolding
love
who goes for men and women showing poverty richer than wealth?
expression of speech in what is written or said, forget not that silence
is also expressive
that anguish as hot as the hottest, and contempt as cold as the coldest,
may be without words
great is the earth, and the way it became what it is
do you imagine it has stopped at this? the increase abandoned?
understand then that it goes as far onward from this as this is from the
times when it lay in covering waters and gases, before man had
appeared
great is the quality of truth in man
the quality of truth in man supports itself through all changes
it is inevitably in the man--he and it are in love, and never leave each
other
the truth in man is no dictum, it is vital as eyesight
if there be any soul, there is truth--if there be man or woman, there is
truth--if there be physical or moral, there is truth
if there be equilibrium or volition, there is truth--if there be things at
all upon the earth, there is truth
o truth of the earth o truth of things i am determined to press my way
toward you
sound your voice i scale mountains, or dive in the sea, after you
great is language--it is the mightiest of the sciences,
it is the fulness, colour, form, diversity of the earth, and of men and
women, and of all qualities and processes
it is greater than wealth, it is greater than buildings, ships, religions,
paintings, music
great is the english speech--what speech is so great as the english?
great is the english brood--what brood has so vast a destiny as the
english?
it is the mother of the brood that must rule the earth with the new rule
the new rule shall rule as the soul rules, and as the love, justice,
equality in the soul rule
great is law--great are the old few landmarks of the law,
they are the same in all times, and shall not be disturbed
great is justice
justice is not settled by legislators and laws--it is in the soul
it cannot be varied by statutes, any more than love, pride, the attraction
of gravity, can
it is immutable--it does not depend on majorities--majorities or what not
come at last before the same passionless and exact tribunal
for justice are the grand natural lawyers, and perfect judges--it is in
their souls
it is well assorted--they have not studied for nothing--the great includes
the less
they rule on the highest grounds--they oversee all eras, states,
administrations
the perfect judge fears nothing--he could go front to front before god
before the perfect judge all shall stand back--life and death shall stand
back--heaven and hell shall stand back
great is life, real and mystical, wherever and whoever
great is death--sure as life holds all parts together, death holds all
parts together
has life much purport?--ah death has the greatest purport
the poet
now list to my mornings romanza
to the cities and farms i sing, as they spread in the sunshine before me
a young man came to me bearing a message from his brother
how should the young man know the whether and when of his brother?
tell him to send me the signs
and i stood before the young man face to face, and took his right hand in
my left hand, and his left hand in my right hand,
and i answered for his brother, and for men, and i answered for the poet,
and sent 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
mornings 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 city, 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 answered he answers--and what cannot be answered, he shows how
it cannot be answered
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 favours by day or sleeps with at night is blessed
every existence has its idiom--everything 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
followed the sea,
and the authors take him for an author, and the artists for an artist,
and the labourers perceive he could labour with them and love them
no matter what the work is, that he is the one to follow it, or has
followed 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 travellers coffee-house claims him
the italian or frenchman is sure, and the german is sure, and 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 angry 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
burial
to think of it
to think of time--of all that retrospection
to think of to-day, and the ages continued henceforward
have you guessed you yourself would not continue?
have you dreaded these earth-beetles?
have you feared the future would be nothing to you?
is to-day nothing? is the beginningless past nothing?
if the future is nothing, they are just as surely nothing
to think that the sun rose in the east that men and women were flexible,
real, alive that everything was alive
to think that you and i did not see, feel, think, nor bear our part
to think that we are now here, and bear our part
not a day passes--not a minute or second, without an accouchement
not a day passes-not a minute or second, without a corpse
the dull nights go over, and the dull days also,
the soreness of lying so much in bed goes over,
the physician, after long putting off, gives the silent and terrible look
for an answer,
the children come hurried and weeping, and the brothers and sisters are
sent for
medicines stand unused on the shelf--the camphor-smell has long pervaded
the rooms,
the faithful hand of the living does not desert the hand of the dying,
the twitching lips press lightly on the forehead of the dying,
the breath ceases, and the pulse of the heart ceases,
the corpse stretches on the bed, and the living look upon it,
it is palpable as the living are palpable
the living look upon the corpse with their eyesight,
but without eyesight lingers a different living, and looks curiously on the
corpse
to think that the rivers will flow, and the snow fall, and the fruits
ripen, and act upon others as upon us now--yet not act upon us
to think of all these wonders of city and country, and others taking great
interest in them--and we taking--no interest in them
to think how eager we are in building our houses
to think others shall be just as eager, and we quite indifferent
i see one building the house that serves him a few years, or seventy or
eighty years at most,
i see one building the house that serves him longer than that
slow-moving and black lines creep over the whole earth--they never cease--
they are the burial lines
he that was president was buried, and he that is now president shall surely
be buried
gold dash of waves at the ferry-wharf--posh and ice in the river, half-
frozen mud in the streets, a grey discouraged sky overhead, the
short last daylight of twelfth-month,
a hearse and stages--other vehicles give place--the funeral of an old
broadway stage-driver, the cortege mostly drivers
steady the trot to the cemetery, duly rattles the death-bell, the gate is
passed, the new-dug grave is halted at, the living alight, the
hearse uncloses,
the coffin is passed out, lowered, and settled, the whip is laid on the
coffin, the earth is swiftly shovelled in,
the mound above is flattened with the spades--silence,
a minute, no one moves or speaks--it is done,
he is decently put away--is there anything more?
he was a good fellow, free-mouthed, quick-tempered, not bad-looking, able
to take his own part, witty, sensitive to a slight, ready with life
or death for a friend, fond of women, gambled, ate hearty, drank
hearty, had known what it was to be flush, grew low-spirited toward
the last, sickened, was helped by a contribution, died, aged forty-
one years--and that was his funeral
thumb extended, finger uplifted, apron, cape, gloves, strap, wet-weather
clothes, whip carefully chosen, boss, spotter, starter, hostler,
somebody loafing on you, you loafing on somebody, headway, man
before and man behind, good days work, bad days work, pet stock,
mean stock, first out, last out, turning-in at night
to think that these are so much and so nigh to other drivers--and he there
takes no interest in them
the markets, the government, the working-mans wages--to think what account
they are through our nights and days
to think that other working-men will make just as great account of them--
yet we make little or no account
the vulgar and the refined--what you call sin, and what you call goodness--
to think how wide a difference
to think the difference will still continue to others, yet we lie beyond
the difference
to think how much pleasure there is
have you pleasure from looking at the sky? have you pleasure from poems?
do you enjoy yourself in the city? or engaged in business? or planning a
nomination and election? or with your wife and family?
or with your mother and sisters? or in womanly housework? or the beautiful
maternal cares?
these also flow onward to others--you and i fly onward,
but in due time you and i shall take less interest in them
your farm, profits, crops,--to think how engrossed you are
to think there will still be farms, profits, crops--yet for you, of what
avail?
what will be will be well--for what is is well
to take interest is well, and not to take interest shall be well
the sky continues beautiful,
the pleasure of men with women shall never be sated, nor the pleasure of
women with men, nor the pleasure from poems
the domestic joys, the daily housework or business, the building of
houses--these are not phantasms--they have weight, form, location
farms, profits, crops, markets, wages, government, are none of them
phantasms
the difference between sin and goodness is no delusion,
the earth is not an echo--man and his life, and all the things of his life,
are well-considered
you are not thrown to the winds--you gather certainly and safely around
yourself
yourself yourself yourself, for ever and ever
it is not to diffuse you that you were born of your mother and father--it
is to identify you
it is not that you should be undecided, but that you should
be decided
something long preparing and formless is arrived and formed in you,
you are henceforth secure, whatever comes or goes
the threads that were spun are gathered, the weft crosses the warp, the
pattern is systematic
the preparations have every one been justified,
the orchestra have sufficiently tuned their instruments--the baton has
given the signal
the guest that was coming--he waited long, for reasons--he is now housed
he is one of those who are beautiful and happy--he is one of those that to
look upon and be with is enough
the law of the past cannot be eluded,
the law of the present and future cannot be eluded,
the law of the living cannot be eluded--it is eternal
the law of promotion and transformation cannot be eluded,
the law of heroes and good-doers cannot be eluded,
the law of drunkards, informers, mean persons--not one iota thereof can be
eluded
slow-moving and black lines go ceaselessly over the earth,
northerner goes carried, and southerner goes carried, and they on the
atlantic side, and they on the pacific, and they between, and all
through the mississippi country, and all over the earth
the great masters and kosmos are well as they go--the heroes and good-doers
are well,
the known leaders and inventors, and the rich owners and pious and
distinguished, may be well,
but there is more account than that--there is strict account of all
the interminable hordes of the ignorant and wicked are not nothing,
the barbarians of africa and asia are not nothing,
the common people of europe are not nothing--the american aborigines are
not nothing,
the infected in the immigrant hospital are not nothing--the murderer or
mean person is not nothing,
the perpetual successions of shallow people are not nothing as they go,
the lowest prostitute is not nothing--the mocker of religion is not nothing
as he goes
i shall go with the rest--we have satisfaction,
i have dreamed that we are not to be changed so much, nor the law of us
changed,
i have dreamed that heroes and good-doers shall be under the present and
past law,
and that murderers, drunkards, liars, shall be under the present and past
law,
for i have dreamed that the law they are under now is enough
and i have dreamed that the satisfaction is not so much changed, and that
there is no life without satisfaction
what is the earth? what are body and soul without satisfaction?
i shall go with the rest,
we cannot be stopped at a given point--that is no satisfaction,
to show us a good thing, or a few good things, for a space of time--that is
no satisfaction,
we must have the indestructible breed of the best, regardless of time
if otherwise, all these things came but to ashes of dung,
if maggots and rats ended us, then alarum for we are betrayed
then indeed suspicion of death
do you suspect death? if i were to suspect death, i should die now
do you think i could walk pleasantly and well-suited toward annihilation?
pleasantly and well-suited i walk
whither i walk i cannot define, but i know it is good
the whole universe indicates that it is good,
the past and the present indicate that it is good
how beautiful and perfect are the animals how perfect is my soul
how perfect the earth, and the minutest thing upon it
what is called good is perfect, and what is called bad is just as perfect,
the vegetables and minerals are all perfect, and the imponderable fluids
are perfect
slowly and surely they have passed on to this, and slowly and surely they
yet pass on
my soul if i realise you, i have satisfaction
animals and vegetables if i realise you, i have satisfaction
laws of the earth and air if i realise you, i have satisfaction
i cannot define my satisfaction, yet it is so
i cannot define my life, yet it is so
it comes to me now
i swear i think now that everything without exception has an eternal soul
the trees have, rooted in the ground the weeds of the sea have the
animals
i swear i think there is nothing but immortality
that the exquisite scheme is for it, and the nebulous float is for it, and
the cohering is for it
and all preparation is for it and identity is for it and life and death
are altogether for it
this compost
something startles me where i thought i was safest
i withdraw from the still woods i loved
i will not go now on the pastures to walk
i will not strip the clothes from my body to meet my lover the sea
i will not touch my flesh to the earth, as to other flesh, to renew me
o how can the ground not sicken?
how can you be alive, you growths of spring?
how can you furnish health, you blood of herbs, roots, orchards, grain?
are they not continually putting distempered corpses in you?
is not every continent worked over and over with sour dead?
where have you disposed of their carcasses?
those drunkards and gluttons of so many generations
where have you drawn off all the foul liquid and meat?
i do not see any of it upon you to-day--or perhaps i am deceived
i will run a furrow with my plough--i will press my spade through the sod,
and turn it up underneath
i am sure i shall expose some of the foul meat
behold this compost behold it well
perhaps every mite has once formed part of a sick person--yet behold
the grass covers the prairies,
the bean bursts noiselessly through the mould in the garden,
the delicate spear of the onion pierces upward,
the apple-buds cluster together on the apple branches,
the resurrection of the wheat appears with pale visage out of its graves,
the tinge awakes over the willow-tree and the mulberry-tree,
the he-birds carol mornings and evenings, while the she-birds sit on their
nests,
the young of poultry break through the hatched eggs,
the new-born of animals appear--the calf is dropped from the cow, the colt
from the mare,
out of its little hill faithfully rise the potatos dark-green leaves,
out of its hill rises the yellow maize-stalk
the summer growth is innocent and disdainful above all those strata of sour
dead
what chemistry
that the winds are really not infectious,
that this is no cheat, this transparent green-wash of the sea, which is so
amorous after me
that it is safe to allow it to lick my naked body all over with its
tongues,
that it will not endanger me with the fevers that have deposited themselves
in it,
that all is clean for ever and for ever,
that the cool drink from the well tastes so good,
that blackberries are so flavorous and juicy,
that the fruits of the apple-orchard, and of the orange-orchard--that
melons, grapes, peaches, plums, will none of them poison me,
that when i recline on the grass i do not catch any disease,
though probably every sphere of grass rises out of what was once a catching
disease
now i am terrified at the earth it is that calm and patient,
it grows such sweet things out of such corruptions,
it turns harmless and stainless on its axis, with such endless successions
of diseased corpses,
it distils such exquisite winds out of such infused fetor,
it renews with such unwitting looks its prodigal, annual, sumptuous crops,
it gives such divine materials to men, and accepts such leavings from them
at last
despairing cries
despairing cries float ceaselessly toward me, day and night,
the sad voice of death--the call of my nearest lover, putting forth,
alarmed, uncertain,
the sea i am quickly to sail come tell me,
come tell me where i am speeding--tell me my destination
i understand your anguish, but i cannot help you
i approach, hear, behold--the sad mouth, the look out of the eyes, your
mute inquiry,
whither i go from the bed i recline on, come tell me
old age, alarmed, uncertain--a young womans voice, appealing to me for
comfort
a young mans voice, shall i not escape?
the city dead-house
by the city dead-house, by the gate,
as idly sauntering, wending my way from the clangour,
i curious pause--for lo an outcast form, a poor dead prostitute brought
her corpse they deposit unclaimed, it lies on the damp brick pavement
the divine woman, her body--i see the body--i look on it alone,
that house once full of passion and beauty--all else i notice not
nor stillness so cold, nor running water from faucet, nor odours morbific
impress me
but the house alone--that wondrous house--that delicate fair house--that
ruin
that immortal house, more than all the rows of dwellings ever built,
or white-domed capitol itself, with majestic figure surmounted--or all the
old high-spired cathedrals,
that little house alone, more than them all--poor, desperate house
fair, fearful wreck tenement of a soul itself a soul
unclaimed, avoided house take one breath from my tremulous lips
take one tear, dropped aside as i go, for thought of you,
dead house of love house of madness and sin, crumbled crushed
house of life--erewhile talking and laughing--but ah, poor house dead even
then
months, years, an echoing, garnished house-but dead, dead, dead
to one shortly to die
from all the rest i single out you, having a message for you
you are to die--let others tell you what they please, i cannot prevaricate,
i am exact and merciless, but i love you--there is no escape for you
softly i lay my right hand upon you--you just feel it
i do not argue--i bend my head close, and half envelop it,
i sit quietly by--i remain faithful,
i am more than nurse, more than parent or neighbour,
i absolve you from all except yourself, spiritual, bodily--that is
eternal,--
the corpse you will leave will be but excrementitious
the sun bursts through in unlooked-for directions
strong thoughts fill you, and confidence--you smile
you forget you are sick, as i forget you are sick,
you do not see the medicines--you do not mind the weeping friends--i am
with you,
i exclude others from you--there is nothing to be commiserated,
i do not commiserate--i congratulate you
unnamed lands
nations, ten thousand years before these states, and many times ten
thousand years before these states
garnered clusters of ages, that men and women like us grew up and travelled
their course, and passed on
what vast-built cities--what orderly republics--what pastoral tribes and
nomads
what histories, rulers, heroes, perhaps transcending all others
what laws, customs, wealth, arts, traditions
what sort of marriage--what costumes--what physiology and phrenology
what of liberty and slavery among them--what they thought of death and the
soul
who were witty and wise--who beautiful and poetic--who brutish and
undeveloped
not a mark, not a record remains,--and yet all remains
o i know that those men and women were not for nothing, any more than we
are for nothing
i know that they belong to the scheme of the world every bit as much as we
now belong to it, and as all will henceforth belong to it
afar they stand--yet near to me they stand,
some with oval countenances, learned and calm,
some naked and savage--some like huge collections of insects,
some in tents--herdsmen, patriarchs, tribes, horsemen,
some prowling through woods--some living peaceably on farms, labouring,
reaping, filling barns,
some traversing paved avenues, amid temples, palaces, factories, libraries,
shows, courts, theatres, wonderful monuments
are those billions of men really gone?
are those women of the old experience of the earth gone?
do their lives, cities, arts, rest only with us?
did they achieve nothing for good, for themselves?
i believe, of all those billions of men and women that filled the unnamed
lands, every one exists this hour, here or elsewhere, invisible to
us, in exact proportion to what he or she grew from in life, and
out of what he or she did, felt, became, loved, sinned, in life
i believe that was not the end of those nations, or any person of them, any
more than this shall be the end of my nation, or of me
of their languages, governments, marriage, literature, products, games,
wars, manners, crimes, prisons, slaves, heroes, poets, i suspect
their results curiously await in the yet unseen world--counterparts
of what accrued to them in the seen world
i suspect i shall meet them there,
i suspect i shall there find each old particular of those unnamed lands
similitude
on the beach at night alone,
as the old mother sways her to and fro, singing her savage and husky song,
as i watch the bright stars shining--i think a thought of the clef of the
universes, and of the future
a vast similitude interlocks all,
all spheres, grown, ungrown, small, large, suns, moons, planets, comets,
asteroids,
all the substances of the same, and all that is spiritual upon the same,
all distances of place, however wide,
all distances of time--all inanimate forms,
all souls--all living bodies, though they be ever so different, or in
different worlds,
all gaseous, watery, vegetable, mineral processes--the fishes, the brutes,
all men and women--me also
all nations, colours, barbarisms, civilisations, languages
all identities that have existed, or may exist, on this globe, or any
globe
all lives and deaths--all of the past, present, future
this vast similitude spans them, and always has spanned, and shall for ever
span them, and compactly hold them
the square deific
god
chanting the square deific, out of the one advancing, out of the sides
out of the old and new--out of the square entirely divine,
solid, four-sided, all the sides needed--from this side jehovah am i,
old brahm i, and i saturnius am
not time affects me--i am time, modern as any
unpersuadable, relentless, executing righteous judgments
as the earth, the father, the brown old kronos, with laws,
aged beyond computation--yet ever new--ever with those mighty laws rolling,
relentless, i forgive no man--whoever sins dies--i will have that mans
life
therefore let none expect mercy--have the seasons, gravitation, the
appointed days, mercy?--no more have i
but as the seasons, and gravitation--and as all the appointed days, that
forgive not,
i dispense from this side judgments inexorable, without the least remorse
saviour
consolator most mild, the promised one advancing,
with gentle hand extended, the mightier god am i,
foretold by prophets and poets, in their most wrapt prophecies and poems
from this side, lo the lord christ gazes--lo hermes i--lo mine is
hercules face
all sorrow, labour, suffering, i, tallying it, absorb in myself
many times have i been rejected, taunted, put in prison, and crucified--and
many times shall be again
all the world have i given up for my dear brothers and sisters sake--for
the souls sake
wending my way through the homes of men, rich or poor, with the kiss of
affection
for i am affection--i am the cheer-bringing god, with hope, and all-
enclosing charity
conqueror yet--for before me all the armies and soldiers of the earth shall
yet bow--and all the weapons of war become impotent
with indulgent words, as to children--with fresh and sane words, mine only
young and strong i pass, knowing well i am destined myself to an early
death
but my charity has no death--my wisdom dies not, neither early nor late,
and my sweet love, bequeathed here and elsewhere, never dies
satan
aloof, dissatisfied, plotting revolt,
comrade of criminals, brother of slaves,
crafty, despised, a drudge, ignorant,
with sudra face and worn brow--black, but in the depths of my heart proud
as any
lifted, now and always, against whoever, scorning, assumes to rule me
morose, full of guile, full of reminiscences, brooding, with many wiles,
though it was thought i was baffled and dispelled, and my wiles done--but
that will never be
defiant i satan still live--still utter words--in new lands duly appearing,
and old ones also
permanent here, from my side, warlike, equal with any, real as any,
nor time, nor change, shall ever change me or my words
the spirit
santa spirita, breather, life,
beyond the light, lighter than light,
beyond the flames of hell--joyous, leaping easily above hell
beyond paradise--perfumed solely with mine own perfume
including all life on earth--touching, including god--including saviour and
satan
ethereal, pervading all--for, without me, what were all? what were god?
essence of forms--life of the real identities, permanent, positive, namely
the unseen,
life of the great round world, the sun and stars, and of man--i, the
general soul,
here the square finishing, the solid, i the most solid,
breathe my breath also through these little songs
footnote  the reader will share my wish that whitman had written
sanctus spiritus, which is right, instead of santa spirita, which is
methodically wrong
songs of parting
singers and poets
the indications and tally of time
perfect sanity shows the master among philosophs
time, always without flaw, 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 welcomed, understood, appear often enough--but rare has the
day been, likewise the spot, of the birth of the maker of poems
not every century, or every five centuries, has contained 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, echo-singer, parlour-singer, love-singer, or something else
all this time, and at all times, wait the words of poems
the greatness of sons is the exuding of the greatness of mothers and
fathers
the words of poems are the tuft and final applause of science
divine instinct, breadth of vision, the law of reason, health, rudeness of
body, withdrawnness, gaiety, sun-tan, air-sweetness--such are some
of the words of poems
the sailor and traveller underlie the maker of poems,
the builder, geometer, chemist, anatomist, phrenologist, artist--all these
underlie the maker of poems
the words of the true poems give you more than poems,
they give you, to form for yourself, poems, religions, politics, war,
peace, behaviour, histories, essays, romances, and everything else,
they balance ranks, colours, races, creeds, and the sexes,
they do not seek beauty--they are sought,
for ever 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
to a historian
you who celebrate bygones
who have explored the outward, the surfaces of the races--the life that has
exhibited itself
who have treated of man as the creature of politics, aggregates, rulers,
and priests
i, habitu of the alleghanies, treating man as he is in himself, in his own
rights,
pressing the pulse of the life that has seldom exhibited itself, the great
pride of man in himself
chanter of personality, outlining what is yet to be
i project the history of the future
fit audience
whoever you are, holding me now in hand,
without one thing, all will be useless
i give you fair warning, before you attempt me further,
i am not what you supposed, but far different
who is he that would become my follower?
who would sign himself a candidate for my affections?
the way is suspicious--the result uncertain, perhaps destructive
you would have to give up all else--i alone would expect to be your god,
sole and exclusive
your novitiate would even then be long and exhausting,
the whole past theory of your life, and all conformity to the lives around
you, would have to be abandoned
therefore release me now, before troubling yourself any further--let go
your hand from my shoulders,
put me down, and depart on your way
or else, by stealth, in some wood, for trial,
or back of a rock, in the open air,
for in any roofed room of a house i emerge not--nor in company,
and in libraries i lie as one dumb, a gawk, or unborn, or dead,
but just possibly with you on a high hill--first watching lest any person,
for miles around, approach unawares--
or possibly with you sailing at sea, or on the beach of the sea, or some
quiet island,
here to put your lips upon mine i permit you,
with the comrades long-dwelling kiss, or the new husbands kiss,
for i am the new husband, and i am the comrade
or, if you will, thrusting me beneath your clothing,
where i may feel the throbs of your heart, or rest upon your hip,
carry me when you go forth over land or sea
for thus, merely touching you, is enough--is best,
and thus, touching you, would i silently sleep, and be carried eternally
but these leaves conning, you con at peril,
for these leaves, and me, you will not understand,
they will elude you at first, and still more afterward--i will certainly
elude you,
even while you should think you had unquestionably caught me, behold
already you see i have escaped from you
for it is not for what i have put into it that i have written this book,
nor is it by reading it you will acquire it,
nor do those know me best who admire me, and vauntingly praise me,
nor will the candidates for my love unless at most a very few prove
victorious,
nor will my poems do good only--they will do just as much evil, perhaps
more
for all is useless without that which you may guess at many times and not
hit--that which i hinted at
therefore release me, and depart on your way
singing in spring
these i, singing in spring, collect for lovers
for who but i should understand lovers, and all their sorrow and joy?
and who but i should be the poet of comrades?
collecting, i traverse the garden, the world--but soon i pass the gates,
now along the pond-side--now wading in a little, fearing not the wet,
now by the post-and-rail fences, where the old stones thrown there, picked
from the fields, have accumulated,
wild flowers and vines and weeds come up through the stones, and partly
cover them--beyond these i pass,
far, far in the forest, before i think where i go,
solitary, smelling the earthy smell, stopping now and then in the silence
alone, i had thought--yet soon a silent troop gathers around me
some walk by my side, and some behind, and some embrace my arms or neck,
they, the spirits of friends, dead or alive--thicker they come, a great
crowd, and i in the middle,
collecting, dispensing, singing in spring, there i wander with them,
plucking something for tokens--tossing toward whoever is near me
here lilac, with a branch of pine,
here, out of my pocket, some moss which i pulled off a live-oak in florida,
as it hung trailing down,
here some pinks and laurel leaves, and a handful of sage,
and here what i now draw from the water, wading in the pond-side,
o here i last saw him that tenderly loves me--and returns again, never to
separate from me,
and this, o this shall henceforth be the token of comrades--this calamus-
root shall,
interchange it, youths, with each other let none render it back
and twigs of maple, and a bunch of wild orange, and chestnut,
and stems of currants, and plum-blows, and the aromatic cedar,
these i, compassed around by a thick cloud of spirits,
wandering, point to, or touch as i pass, or throw them loosely from me,
indicating to each one what he shall have--giving something to each
but what i drew from the water by the pond-side, that i reserve
i will give of it--but only to them that love as i myself am capable of
loving
footnote  i am favoured with the following indication, from mr whitman
himself, of the relation in which this word calamus is to be
understood--calamus is the very large and aromatic grass or rush growing
about water-ponds in the valleys--spears about three feet high often
called sweet flag grows all over the northern and middle states the
recherch or ethereal sense of the term, as used in my book, arises
probably from the actual calamus presenting the biggest and hardiest kind
of spears of grass, and their fresh, aquatic, pungent bouquet
love of comrades
come, i will make the continent indissoluble
i will make the most splendid race the sun ever yet shone upon
i will make divine magnetic lands,
with the love of comrades,
with the life-long love of comrades
i will plant companionship thick as trees along all the rivers of america,
and along the shores of the great lakes, and all over the prairies
i will make inseparable cities, with their arms about each others necks
by the love of comrades,
by the manly love of comrades
for you these, from me, o democracy, to serve you, ma femme
for you for you, i am trilling these songs,
in the love of comrades,
in the high-towering love of comrades
pulse of my life
not heaving from my ribbed breast only
not in sighs at night, in rage, dissatisfied with myself
not in those long-drawn, ill-suppressed sighs
not in many an oath and promise broken
not in my wilful and savage souls volition
not in the subtle nourishment of the air
not in this beating and pounding at my temples and wrists
not in the curious systole and diastole within, which will one day cease
not in many a hungry wish, told to the skies only
not in cries, laughter, defiances, thrown from me when alone, far in the
wilds
not in husky pantings through clenched teeth
not in sounded and resounded words--chattering words, echoes, dead words
not in the murmurs of my dreams while i sleep,
nor the other murmurs of these incredible dreams of every day
nor in the limbs and senses of my body, that take you and dismiss you
continually--not there
not in any or all of them, o adhesiveness o pulse of my life
need i that you exist and show yourself, any more than in these songs
auxiliaries
what place is besieged, and vainly tries to raise the siege?
lo i send to that place a commander, swift, brave, immortal
and with him horse and foot, and parks of artillery,
and artillerymen, the deadliest that ever fired gun
realities
as i walk, solitary, unattended,
around me i hear that clat of the world--politics, produce,
the announcements of recognised things--science,
the approved growth of cities, and the spread of inventions
i see the ships, they will last a few years,
the vast factories, with their foremen and workmen,
and hear the endorsement of all, and do not object to it
but i too announce solid things
science, ships, politics, cities, factories, are not nothing--they serve,
they stand for realities--all is as it should be
then my realities
what else is so real as mine?
libertad, and the divine average-freedom to every slave on the face of the
earth,
the rapt promises and lumin of seers--the spiritual
world--these centuries-lasting songs,
and our visions, the visions of poets, the most solid announcements of any
for we support all,
after the rest is done and gone, we remain,
there is no final reliance but upon us
democracy rests finally upon us, i, my brethren, begin it,
and our visions sweep through eternity
footnote  i suppose whitman gets this odd word lumin, by a process of
his own, out of illuminati, and intends it to stand for what would be
called clairvoyance, intuition
nearing departure
as nearing departure,
as the time draws nigh, glooming, a cloud,
a dread beyond, of i know not what, darkens me
i shall go forth,
i shall traverse the states--but i cannot tell whither or how long
perhaps soon, some day or night while i am singing, my voice will suddenly
cease
o book and chant must all then amount to but this?
must we barely arrive at this beginning of me?
and yet it is enough, o soul
o soul we have positively appeared--that is enough
poets to come
poets to come
not to-day is to justify me, and democracy, and what we are for
but you, a new brood, native, athletic, continental, greater than before
known,
you must justify me
i but write one or two indicative words for the future,
i but advance a moment, only to wheel and hurry back in the darkness
i am a man who, sauntering along, without fully stopping, turns a casual
look upon you, and then averts his face,
leaving it to you to prove and define it,
expecting the main things from you
centuries hence
full of life now, compact, visible,
i, forty years old the eighty-third year of the states,
to one a century hence, or any number of centuries hence,
to you, yet unborn, these seeking you
when you read these, i, that was visible, am become invisible
now it is you, compact, visible, realising my poems, seeking me
fancying how happy you were, if i could be with you, and become your loving
comrade
be it as if i were with you be not too certain but i am now with you
so long
to conclude--i announce what comes after me
i announce mightier offspring, orators, days, and then depart,
i remember i said, before my leaves sprang at all,
i would raise my voice jocund and strong, with reference to consummations
when america does what was promised,
when there are plentiful athletic bards, inland and sea-board,
when through these states walk a hundred millions of superb persons,
when the rest part away for superb persons, and contribute to them,
when breeds of the most perfect mothers denote america,
then to me my due fruition
i have pressed through in my own right,
i have offered my style to every one--i have journeyed with confident step
while my pleasure is yet at the full, i whisper, so long
and take the young womans hand, and the young mans hand for the last
time
i announce natural persons to arise,
i announce justice triumphant,
i announce uncompromising liberty and equality,
i announce the justification of candour, and the justification of pride
i announce that the identity of these states is a single identity only,
i announce the union, out of all its struggles and wars, more and more
compact,
i announce splendours and majesties to make all the previous politics of
the earth insignificant
i announce a man or woman coming--perhaps you are the one so long
i announce the great individual, fluid as nature, chaste, affectionate,
compassionate, fully armed
i announce a life that shall be copious, vehement, spiritual, bold,
and i announce an old age that shall lightly and joyfully meet its
translation
o thicker and faster so long
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
screaming electric, the atmosphere using,
at random glancing, each as i notice absorbing,
swiftly on, but a little while alighting,
curious enveloped messages delivering,
sparkles hot, seed ethereal, down in the dirt dropping,
myself unknowing, my commission obeying, to question it never daring,
to ages, and ages yet, the growth of the seed leaving,
to troops out of me rising--they the tasks i have set promulging,
to women certain whispers of myself bequeathing--their affection me more
clearly explaining,
to young men my problems offering--no dallier i--i the muscle of their
brains trying,
so i pass--a little time vocal, visible, contrary,
afterward, a melodious echo, passionately bent for--death making me really
undying,--
the best of me then when no longer visible--for toward that i have been
incessantly preparing
what is there more, that i lag and pause, and crouch extended with unshut
mouth?
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
camerado this is no book
who touches this touches a man
is it night? are we here 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,
i feel immerged from head to foot,
delicious--enough
enough, o deed impromptu and secret
enough, o gliding present enough, o summed-up past
dear friend, whoever you are, here, take this kiss,
i give it especially to you--do not forget me,
i feel like one who has done his work--i progress on,--long enough have i
dallied with life,
the unknown sphere, more real than i dreamed, more direct, awakening rays
about me--so long
remember my words--i love you--i depart from materials,
i am as one disembodied, triumphant, dead