 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information on how to volunteer, please visit www.librivox.org. This reading by Gordon McKenzie. Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking Out of the Mockingbird's throat The musical shuttle Out of the ninth month midnight Over the sterile sands And the fields beyond Where the child, leaving his bed, wandered alone Bare-headed, 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 bird 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 yearning and love there in the mist From the thousand responses of my heart never to cease From the myriad fence 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, And hither, air 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, Pau Monoc, when the lilac scent was in the air And the fifth-month grass was growing, up this sea-shore in some briars, Two feathered guests from Alabama, two together, and their nest, And four light-green eggs spotted with brown, And every day the he-bird, two 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, Or being 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, While we two 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 thence forward, all summer in the sound of the sea, And at night under the full of the moon in calmer weather, Over the horse 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 Po-monoc's 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 more than once dimly down to the beach gliding, Silent avoiding the moon-beams, 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, soothe the wave behind, And again, another behind, Embracing and lapping, Every one close, But my love soothes not me, not me. Low hangs the moon, It rose late, it is lagging, Oh, I think it is heavy with love, with love. Oh, madly, the sea pushes upon the land with love, with love. Oh, night, do I not see my love Fluttering out among the breakers? What is that little black thing I see there in the white? Loud, 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? Oh, it is the shape, the shape of my mate, Oh, moon, do not keep her from me any longer. Land, land, oh, land, Whichever way I turn, Oh, 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. Oh, rising stars, Perhaps the one I want so much will rise, Will rise with some of you. Oh, throat, oh, trembling throat, Sound clearer through the atmosphere, Pierce the woods, the earth, Somewhere listening to catch you, Just be the one I want. Shake out carols, Solitary hear the night's carols, Carols of lonesome love, Death's carols, Carols under that lagging yellow waning moon, Oh, under that moon where she droops almost down into the sea, Oh, 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, No 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 fluttering of the spray. Those are the shadows of the leaves. Oh, darkness! Oh, in vain! Oh, I am very sick and sorrowful, Oh, brown halo in the sky near the moon drooping upon the sea, Oh, troubled reflection in the sea! Oh, throat! Oh, throbbing heart! And I, singing uselessly, Uselessly all the night. Oh, past! Oh, happy life! Oh, songs of joy! In the air, in the woods, over fields, Loved, loved, loved, loved, loved, But my mate, or with me, We too, together, no more, the area 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 Pomenok's shore, Gray 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 a-multuously bursting, The area's meaning, The ears, the soul swiftly depositing, The strange tears down the cheeks coursing, The kalokwi there, the trio, Each uttering. The undertone, the savage old mother Incessantly crying, To the boy's soul's questions sullenly timing, Some drowned, secret hissing, To the out-setting bard. Demon or bird, said the boy's soul, Is it indeed toward your mate you sing? Or is it really to me? For I that was a child, My tongue's use sleeping, Now I have heard you, 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, Nevermore shall I cease perpetuating you, Nevermore shall I escape, Nevermore the reverberations, Nevermore 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, 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? Harder to 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, Hissing, melodious, neither like the bird, Nor like my aroused child's heart, But edging near as privately, For me rustling at my feet, Creeping fence, steadily up to my ears, And laughing me softly all over, 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 Pomenox Gray Beach, With a 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, delicious word which, Creeping to my feet, Or like some old crone rocking the cradle, Swathed in sweet garments bending aside, The sea, whispered me, As I ebbed with the ocean of life, One, as I ebbed with the ocean of life, As I wended the shores I know, As I walked, where the ripples continually wash you, Pomenox, 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, held by this electric self out of the pride of which I utter poems, Was seized by the spirit that trails in the lines underfoot, 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 windrows, 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, Pomenox there and then as I brought 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 electric self-seeking types. 2. As I went 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 drift, O baffled, balked, bent to the very earth, Oppressed with myself that I have dared to open my mouth. Aware now that amid all that blab Whose echoes recoil upon me I have not once had the least idea who or what I am, But that before all my arrogant poems, The real me stands yet untouched, Untold, all together 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 these songs, And then to the sand beneath, I perceive I have not really understood anything, Not a single object, And that no man ever can. Nature here inside of the sea taking advantage of me to dart upon me and sting me, As I have dared to open my mouth to sing at all. Three, you oceans both, I close with you, We murmur alike, reproachfully rolling sands and drift, Not knowing why these little shreds indeed, Nothing for you and me and 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, Paumanoch, 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 murmuring I envy. Four, 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. Russell not up so hoarse and angry against my feet as I touch you or gather from you. I mean tenderly by you and all. I gather for myself and for this phantom looking down where we lead and following me and mine. Loose windrows, little corpses, Froth, snowy white, and bubbles. See, from my dead lips the ooze exuding at last. See the prismatic colors glistening and rolling. Truffts of straw, sands, fragments, Boyd 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 the 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. 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. Oh, 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 Throws, choked with wild cries. Oh, storm, embodied, rising, Careering with swift steps along the beach. Oh, wild and dismal night storm With wind, oh, belching and desperate. Oh, shade so sedate and decorous by day With calm countenance and regulated pace. But away at night as you fly, none looking, Oh, then the unloosed ocean of tears, tears, tears. To the man of war bird, Thou who has slept all night upon the storm, Waking renewed on thy prodigious pinions, Burst the wild storm, above it thou ascendenced, And rested on the sky, Thy slave that cradled thee. Now a blue point, far, Far in heaven floating. As to the light emerging here on deck, I watch thee, myself a speck, a point on the world's floating vast, Far, far at sea. After the night's fierce drifts Have strewn the shore with wrecks, With reappearing day as now so happy and serene, The rosy and elastic dawn, The flashing sun, the limpid spread of air cerulean. Thou also reappearest, Thou born to match the gale, Thou art all wings To cope with heaven and earth and sea And hurricane, Thou ship of air that never furlest thy sails. Days, even weeks untired and onward, Through spaces, realms gyrating, at dusk, Thou loocest on Senegal, at Morn America, That sportest amid the lightning flash and Thunder cloud, in them, in thy experiences, Hadst thou my soul? What joys, what joys, were thine? Abored at a ship's helm, Abored at a ship's helm, A young steersman steering with care, 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 loud admonition, The boughs 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, Ship of the body, ship of the soul, Voyaging, voyaging, voyaging, On the beach at night, On the beach at night, Stands a child with her father, Watching the east, the autumn sky, Up through the darkness, While ravening clouds, The burial clouds, In black masses spreading, O'er sullen and fast, A thwart and down the sky. Amid a transparent clear belt Of ether yet left in the east, Ascends large and calm The Lord-star Jupiter. And night-hand, only a very little above, Swim the delicate sisters, the Pleiades. From the beach, the child Holding the hand of her father, Those burial clouds That lower victorious soon to devour all, Watching silently weeps, Weep not, child, weep not, my darling. With these kisses Let me remove your tears. The ravening clouds Shall not long be victorious. They shall not long possess the sky. They devour the stars only in apparition. Jupiter shall emerge, Be patient. Watch again another night. The Pleiades shall emerge. They are immortal. All those stars, both silvery and golden, Shall shine out again. The great stars and the little ones Shall shine out again. They endure. The vast immortal suns And the long-enduring pensive moons Shall again shine, then, dearest child, Mornest thou only for Jupiter? Considerest thou alone the burial of the stars? Something there is, With my lips soothing thee, Adding I whisper, I give thee The first suggestion, The problem and indirection. Something there is, More immortal even than the stars, Many the burials, Many the days and nights passing away. Something that shall endure Longer even than lustrous Jupiter, Than sun or any revolving satellite, Or the radiant sisters, the Pleiades, The world below the brine, The world below the brine, Forests at the bottom of the sea, The branches and leaves, Sea-leddice, Fast-lichen, strange flowers and seeds, The thick-tangle openings and pink turf, Different colors, pale gray 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 allament of the swimmers, Sluggish existences grazing there suspended, Or slowly crawling close to the bottom, The sperm-wail 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 thents 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, On the beach at night alone, On the beach at night alone, As the old mother sways her to and fro, Singing her husky song. As I watch the bright stars shining, I think a thought of the clef of the universe, And of the future, A vast similitude interlocks all, All spheres, grown, ungrown, small, large, Suns, moons, planets, 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 fish, the brutes, all nations, colors, barbarism, civilizations, 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 forever span them and compactly hold and enclose them. Dashing for all seas, all ships, One, today a rude brief recit taf, Of ships sailing the seas, each with its special flag or ship signal, Of unnamed heroes in the ships, Of waves, spreading and spreading, As far as the eye can reach, Of dashing spray, and the winds, Piping and blowing, And out of these a chant for the sailors Of all nations, fitful like a surge, Of sea captains, young or old, And the mates, and of all intrepid sailors, Of the few, very choice, taciturn, Whom fate can never surprise nor death dismay, Picked sparingly, without noise, by thee, Old Ocean, chosen by thee, Thou see that pickest and cullest the race In time, and unitest nations, Suckled by thee, old husky nurse, Embodying thee, indomitable, untamed as thee. Ever the heroes on water or on land, By ones or twos appearing, Ever the stock preserved, and never lost, Though rare, enough for seed preserved. To flaunt out, O sea, Your separate flags of nations, Flaunt out visible as ever the various ship signals. Do you reserve especially for yourself, And for the soul of man, one flag, Above all the rest? A spiritual woven signal for all nations, Emblem of man elate above death, Token of all brave captains, And all intrepid sailors, and mates, And all that went down doing their duty, Reminiscent of them, twined from all Intrepid captains young or old, Appenent, universal, subtly waving all time Over all brave sailors, all seas, all ships, Patrolling barnagat, wild, wild the storm, And the sea high running, Steady the roar of the gale, With incessant undertone muttering, Shouts of demoniac laughter, Fitfully piercing and peeling, Waves, air, midnight, their savagest trinity lashing, Out in the shadows where milk-white combs careering, And beachy slush and sand spurts of snow-fierce slanting, Where through the mark the easterly death-wind breasting, Through cutting swirl and spray watchful and firm advancing, Not in the distance. Is that a rack? Is the red signal flaring? Slush and sand of the beach, Tireless till daylight wending, Steadily, slowly, through horse-roar never remitting, Along the midnight edge by those milky white combs careering, A group of dim, weird forms struggling, The night confronting, The savage trinity, warily watching, After the seaship, after the seaship, After the whistling winds, after the white-gray sails Tought to their spars and ropes, Below, a myriad, myriad waves, Hastening, lifting up their necks, Tending in ceaseless flow toward the track of the ship, Waves of the ocean, Bubbling and gurgling, blithely prying, Waves, undulating waves, Liquid, uneven, emulous waves, Toward that whirling current, Laughing and buoyant, with curves, Where the great vessel, sailing and tracking, displaced the surface, Larger and smaller waves, in the spread of the ocean, yearnfully flowing, The wake of the seaship, after she passes, flashing and frolicsome under the sun, A motley procession with many a fleck of foam and many fragments, Following, the stately and rapid ship, In the wake, following. Waves of grass, by Walt Whitman, Book 20, by the roadside, A Boston ballad, 1854, To get bedtimes in Boston town, I rose this morning early, Here's a good place at the corner, I must stand and see the show, Clear the way there, Jonathan, Way for the president's 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 fiefs will play Yankee Doodle, How bright shine the cutlaces of the foremost troops, Every man holds his revolver, Marching stiff through Boston town, The 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 is 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 and moth-y mould, Crutches made of mist, Arms and slings, Old men leaning on young men's 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 president's marshal. If you groan such groans, You might balk the government cannon. Your 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. Can't you stand it? Are you retreating? Is this hour with the living too dead for you? Then, pal-mel, 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. Shake out King George's coffin, Unwrap him quick from the grave-cloth. 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 president's marshal again. Bring out the government cannon. Reach home with roars from Congress. Make another procession. Guard it with foot and dragoons. This centerpiece for them. Look all orderly citizens. Look from the windows. Women. The committee opened 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 buster. The crown has 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. Europe. The seventy-second and seventy-third years of these states. Lay out of its stale and drowsy lair. The lair of slaves, like lightning. It leapt 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 second 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 Warming from its simplicity the poor man's 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. For the heads of the nobles fall. The people scorn the ferocity of kings. But the sweetness of mercy brewed bitter destruction. And the frightened monarchs come back. Each comes in state with his train, hangman, priest, tax-gatherer, soldier, lawyer, lord, jailer, and sink-offent. Yet behind all lowering, stealing low a shape. And 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 princess are flying. The creatures of powers laugh aloud. And all these things bear fruits. And they are good. Those corpses of young men. Those martyrs that hang from the gibbetts. Those hearts pierced by the gray 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 re-sow and the rains and the snows nourish. Not a disembodied spirit. Can the weapons of tyrants let loose? But its stalks invisibly over the earth, whispering, counseling, 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 wary of watching. He will soon return. These messengers coming on. Hand mirror. Hold it up sternly. See this, it sends back. Who is it? Is it you? Outside fair costume within ashes and filth. No more flashing eye. No more a sonorous voice or springy step. Now some slave's eye, voice, hand, step. A drunkard's breath. One wholesome eater's face. Vernariali's flesh. Lungs rotting away. Peace meal. Stomach sour and cankerous. Joints rheumatic. Bowls clogged with abomination. Blood circulating dark and poisonous streams. Words babble, hearing and touch callous. No brain, no heart left. No magnetism of sex. Such from one look in this looking glass ere you go hence. Such a result so soon, and from such a beginning. Gods, lover divine and perfect comrade, waiting content, invisible yet certain. Be thou my God, thou thou the ideal man. Fair, able, beautiful, content, and loving. Complete in body, and dilate in spirit. Be thou my God. O death, for life has served its turn. Opener and usher to the heavenly mansion. Be thou my God. Aught, ought of mightiest best I see, conceive or know. To break the stagnant tie. The thee to free of soul. Be thou my God. All great ideas. The race's aspirations. All heroism's deeds of rapt enthusiast. Be ye my Gods. Or time and space. Or shape of earth divine and wondrous. Or some fair shape I viewing worship. Or lustrous orb of the sun or star by night. Be ye my Gods. Germs. Forms, qualities, lives, humanity, language, thoughts. The ones known and the ones unknown. The ones on the stars. The stars themselves. Some shaped, others unshaped. Wonders as of those countries. The soil, trees, cities, inhabitants. Whatever they may be. Splendid suns. The moon and rings. The countless combinations and effects. Such like. And as good as such like. Visible here or anywhere. Stand provided for a handful of space which I extend my arm and half in close with my hand. That containing the start of each and all the virtue. The germs of all. Thoughts of ownership. As if one fit to own things. Could not a pleasure enter upon all. And incorporate them into himself or herself. A vista. Suppose some sight in Ariere through the formative chaos presuming the growth, fullness, life now attained on the journey. But I see the road continued and the journey ever continued. Of what was once lacking on earth and in due time has become supplied and of what will yet be supplied. Because all I see and know I believe to have its main purport in what will yet be supplied. When I heard the learned astronomer. When I heard the learned astronomer when the proofs the figures were ranged in columns before me. When I was shown the charts and diagrams to add divide and measure them. When I sitting heard the astronomer where he lectured with much applause in the lecture room. How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick. Till rising and gliding out I wandered off by myself in the mystical moist night air and from time to time looked up perfect. Silence at the stars. Perfections. Only themselves understand themselves and the like of themselves as souls only understand souls. Oh me, oh life. Oh me, oh life of the questions of these recurring of the endless trains of the faithless of cities filled with the foolish of myself forever reproaching myself for whom are foolish than I and whom are 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 plouting and sorted crowds I see around me of the empty and useless years of the rest with the rest me intertwined the question oh me so sad recurring what good amid these oh me oh life answer that you are here that life exists and identity that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse to a president all you are doing and saying is to America dangled mirages you have not learned of nature of the politics of nature you have not learned the great amplitude rectitude impartiality you have not seen that only such as they are for these states and that what is less than they must sooner or later lift off from these states I sit and look out 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 and desperate I see the wife misused by her husband I see the treacherous seducer of young woman 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 laborers the poor and upon negroes and the like all these all the meanness and agony without end I sitting look out upon see here and I'm silent to rich givers what do you give me I cheerfully accept a little sustenance a hot and garden a little money as I rendezvous with my poems a traveler's lodging and breakfast his journey through the states why should I be ashamed to own such gifts why to advertise for them for I myself am not one who bestows nothing upon man and woman for I bestow upon any man or woman the entrance to all the gifts of the universe the dalliance of the eagles skirting the river road my forenoon walk my rest skyward in air a sudden muffled sound the dalliance of the eagles the rushing amorous contact high in space together the clinching interlocking claws a living fierce gyrating wheel for beating wings two beaks a swirling mass tight grappling in tumbling turning clustering loops straight downward falling till or the river poise the twain yet won a moment's lull a motionless still balance in the air then parting talons loosing upward again on slow firm pinions slanting their separate diverse flight she hers he his pursuing roaming in thought after reading hagel roaming in thought over the universe I saw the little that is good steadily hastening towards immortality and the vast all that is called evil I saw hastening to merge itself and become lost and dead a farm picture through the ample open door of the peaceful country barn a sunlit pasture field with cattle and horses feeding and haze and vista and the far horizon fading away a child's amaze silent and amazed even when a little boy I remember I heard the preacher every Sunday put God in his statements as contending against some being or influence the runner on a flat road runs the well-trained runner he's lean and sinewy with muscular legs he's thinly closed he leans forward as he runs with lightly closed fists and arms partially raised beautiful women women sit or move to and fro some old some young the young are beautiful but the old are more beautiful than the young mother and babe I see the sleeping babe nestling the breast of its mother the sleeping mother in the babe hushed I studied them long and long and long thought of obedience faith adhesiveness as I stand aloof and look there is to me something profoundly affecting in large masses of men following the lead of those who do not believe in men visor'd a mask a perpetual natural disguiser of herself concealing her face concealing her form changes and transformations every hour every moment falling upon her even when she sleeps thought of justice as if could be anything but the same ample law expounded by natural judges and saviors as if it might be this thing or that thing according to decisions gliding or all gliding or all through all through nature time and space as a ship on the waters advancing the voyage of the soul not life alone death many deaths all sing has never come to the an hour has never come to the an hour a sudden gleam divine precipitating bursting all these bubbles fashions wealth these eager business aims books politics art and moors to utter nothingness thought of equality as if it harmed me giving others the same chances and rights as myself as if it were not indispensable to my own rights that others possess the same to old age I see in you the estuary that enlarges and spreads itself grandly as it pours in the great sea locations and times locations and times what is it in me that meets them all whenever and wherever and makes me at home forms colors densities odors what is it in me that corresponds with them offerings a thousand perfect women and men appear around each gathers a cluster of friends and gay children and youths with offerings to the states to identify the 16th 17th or 18th president yet why reclining interrogating why myself and all drowsing what deepening twilight scum floating atop the waters who are they as bats and night dogs ask and turn the capital what a filthy president he had oh south your torrid sons oh 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 lamb and shoots we all do the awake south northeast west inland and seaboard we will surely wake end of book 20 this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org this reading by Kara Schellenberg www.kray.org leaves of grass by Walt Whitman book 21 drum taps part one first oh songs for a prelude first oh 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 live limbs unweighting a moment she sprang oh superb oh Manhattan my own my peerless oh strongest you in the hour of danger in crisis oh 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 40 years had I in my city seen soldiers parading 40 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 clinched 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 leapt they to multuous and low Manhattan arming to the drum taps prompt the young men falling in and arming the mechanics arming the trowel the jack plane the blacksmith's hammer tossed aside with precipitation the lawyer leaving his office and arming the judge leaving his court the driver deserting his wagon in the street jumping down throwing the reins abruptly down on the horse's backs the salesman leaving the store the boss bookkeeper porter all leaving squads gather everywhere by common consent and arm 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 canon 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 favorites 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 manhatta a march and it's oh to sing it well it's oh 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 now besides powder and wadding and you lady of ships you manhatta old matron of this proud friendly turbulent city often in peace and wealth you were a pensive or covertly frowned amid all your children but now you smile with joy exulting old manhatta 1861 armed year year of the struggle no dainty rhymes or sentimental love versus for you terrible year not you as some pale poetling seated at a desk lisping cadenza's piano but as a strong man erect clothed in blue clothes advancing carrying 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 oh 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 gate and descending the alganies 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 mountaintop saw eye your gate and saw eye 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 beat beat drums beat beat drums blow bugles blow through the windows through doors burst like a ruthless force 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 plowing his field or gathering his grain so fierce you horror 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 our 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 child's voice be heard nor the mothers and treaties make even the trestles to shake the dead where they lie awaiting the herces so strong you thump oh terrible drums so loud you bugles blow from palmonoc starting i fly like a bird from palmonoc starting i fly like a bird around and around to soar to sing the idea of all to the north be taking myself to sing their arctic songs to canada till i absorb canada in myself to michigan then to wisconsin iowa minnesota to sing their songs they are inimitable then to ohio and indiana to sing theirs to missouri and kansas and arkansas to sing theirs to tennessee and kentucky to the carolinas and georgia to sing theirs to texas and so along up toward california to roam accepted everywhere to sing first to the tap of the wardrobe if need be the idea of all of the western world one and inseparable and then the song of each member of these states song of the banner at daybreak poet oh a new song a free song flapping flapping flapping flapping by sounds by voices clearer by the wind's voice and that of the drum by the banners voice and child's voice and c's voice and father's 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 harken and see my song is there in the open air and i must sing with the banner and penance of flapping i'll weave the cord and twine in man's desire and babe's desire i'll twine them in i'll put in life i'll put the bayonet's flashing point i'll let bullets and slugs whiz as one carrying a symbol and menace far into the future crying with trumpet voice arouse and beware beware and arouse i'll 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 pennant come up here barred barred come up here soul soul come up here dear little child to fly in the clouds and winds with me 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 are 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 or 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 nor the wind which lashes not the spirit that ever lashes its own body to terror and death but i am 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 oh father it is alive it is full of people it has children oh now it seems to me it is talking to its children i hear it it talks to me oh it is wonderful oh it stretches it spreads and runs so fast oh 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 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 oh bard out of manhattan to our children all or north or south of manhattan point this day leaving all the rest to us overall 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 38 spacious and haughty states and many more to come see forts on the shores of harbors see ships sailing in and out then overall i i my little and lengthened pennant shaped like a sword runs swiftly up indicating war and defiance and now the hollyards 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 barred yet farther wider cleave no longer let our children deem us riches and peace alone we may be terror and carnage and are so now not now are we any one of these spacious and haughty states nor any five nor ten nor market nor depot 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 and the crops and the fruits are ours bays and channels and ships sailing in and out are ours while we over all over the area spread below the three or four millions of square miles the capitals the 40 millions of people o bard in life and death supreme we even we henceforth 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 oh 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 oh 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 after this day forever it is to gain nothing but risk and defy everything forward to stand in front of wars and oh such wars what have you to do with them with passions of demons slaughter premature death banner demons and death than i sing put in all i all will i sword shaped pennant for war and a pleasure new and ecstatic and the prattled yearning of children blint with the sounds of the peaceful land and the liquid wash of the sea and the black ships fighting on the sea enveloped in smoke and the icy cool of the far far north with rustling cedars and pines and the horror 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 shoots 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 well that which asks which sings with all and the yield of all 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 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 hearing and tongue are come to me a little child taught me i hear from above oh pennant of war your ironical call and demand insensate insensate yet i at any rate chant you oh banner not houses of peace indeed are you nor any nor all their prosperity if need be you shall again 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 except you above them and all stand fast oh banner not money so precious are you not farm produce you nor the material good nutriment nor excellent stores nor landed on whores from the ships not the superb ships with sail power or steam power fetching and carrying cargos 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 divided 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 forever teaching thrift thrift oh you up there oh 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 oh you banner leading the day with stars brought from the night valueless object of eyes overall and demanding all absolute owner of all oh 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 oh warlike pennant oh banner so broad with stripes sing you only flapping up there in the wind rise oh days from your fathomless deeps rise oh days from your fathomless deeps till you loftier fiercer sweep long for my soul hungering gymnastic i devoured what the earth gave me long i roamed amid the woods of the north long i watched niagra pouring i traveled 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 see i sailed through the storm i was refreshed by the storm i watched with joy the threatening moths of the waves i marked the white combs were they careers so high curling over i heard the wind piping i saw the black clouds saw from below what arose and mounted oh superb oh 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 up risen around me yet there with my soul i fed i fed content supercilious two twas well oh 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 northwest are you indeed inexhaustible what two pavements and homesteads here what were those storms of the mountains and sea what two passions i witness around me today was the sea risen was the wind piping the pipe of death under the black clouds low 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 saw by fancied i heard through the dark in a lull of the deafening confusion three thunder on stride on democracy strike with vengeful stroke and do you rise higher than ever yet oh days oh cities crash heavier heavier yet those 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 off 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 nature's dauntlessness i refreshed myself with it only i could relish it only i waited the bursting fourth of the pent fire on the water and air 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 city's 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 the mountains roam or sail the stormy sea virginia the west the noble sire fallen on evil days i saw with hand uplifted menacing brandishing memories of old in abeyance love and faith in abeyance the insane knife toward the mother of all the noble sun on sinewy feet advancing i saw out of the land of prairies land of ohio's waters and of indiana to rescue the stalwart giant hurry his plenteous offspring dressed in blue bearing their trusty rifles on their shoulders then the mother of all with calm voice speaking as to you rebellious i seemed to hear her say why strive against me and why seek my life when you yourself forever provide to defend me for you provided me washington and now these also city of ships city of ships oh the black ships oh the fierce ships oh 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 hurling in and out with eddies and foam city of wharves and stores city of tall facades of marble and iron proud and passionate city metal some mad extravagant city spring up oh city not for peace alone but be indeed yourself warlike fear not submit to no models but your own oh 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 oh city the centenarians story volunteer of 1861 to 1862 at washington park brooklyn assisting the centenarian give me your hand old revolutionary the hilltop is nigh but a few steps make room gentlemen up the path you have followed me well despite of your hundred and extra years you can walk old man though your eyes are almost done your faculty serve you and presently i must have them serve me rest while i tell what the crowd around us means on the plane below recruits are drilling and exercising there is the camp one regiment departs tomorrow do you hear the officers giving their orders do you hear the clank of the muskets why what comes over you now old man why do you tremble and clutch my hand so convulsively the troops are but drilling they are yet surrounded with smiles around them at hand the well-dressed friends and the women while splendid and warm the afternoon sun shines down green the midsummer verger and fresh blows the dallying breeze or proud and peaceful cities and arm of the sea between but drill and parade are over they march back to quarters only hear that approval of hands hear what a clapping as wending the crowds now part and disperse but we old man not for nothing have i brought you hither we must remain you to speak in your turn and i to listen and tell the centenarian when i clutched your hand it was not with terror but suddenly pouring about me here on every side and below there where the boys were drilling and up the slopes they ran and where tents are pitched and wherever you see south and southeast and southwest over hills across lowlands and in the skirts of woods and along the shores in mire now filled over came again and suddenly raged as eighty five years ago no mere parade received with applause of friends but a battle which i took part in myself i long ago as it is i took part in it walking then this hilltop this same ground i this is the ground my blind eyes even as i speak behold it re-peopled from graves the years recede pavements and stately houses disappear rude forts appear again the old hooped guns are mounted i see the lines of raised earth stretching from river to bay i mark the vista of waters i mark the uplands and slopes here we lay and camped it was this time in summer also as i talk i remember all i remember the declaration it was red here the whole army paraded it was red to us here by his staff surrounded the general stood in the middle he held up his unsheathed sword it glittered in the sun in full sight of the army it was a bold act then the english warships had just arrived we could watch down the lower bay where they lay at anchor and the transports swarming with soldiers a few days more and they landed and then the battle twenty thousand were brought against us a veteran force furnished with good artillery i tell not now the whole of the battle but one brigade early in the forenoon ordered forward to engage the red coats of that brigade i tell and how steadily it marched and how long and well it stood confronting death who do you think that was marching steadily sternly confronting death it was the brigade of the youngest men two thousand strong raised in virginia and maryland and most of them known personally to the general John to leave forward they went with quick step toward go on us waters till of a sudden unlooked for by defiles through the woods gained at night the british advancing rounding in from the east fiercely playing their guns that brigade of the youngest was cut off and at the enemy's mercy the general watched them from this hill they made repeated desperate attempts to burst their environment then drew close together very compact their flag flying in the middle but oh from the hills how the cannon were thinning and thinning them it sickens me yet that slaughter i saw the moisture gathering drops on the face of the general i saw how he rung his hands in anguish meanwhile the british maneuvered to draw us out for a pitched battle but we dared not trust the chances of a pitched battle we fought the fight in detachments sallying forth we fought at several points but in each the luck was against us our foe advancing steadily getting the best of it pushed us back to the works on this hill till we turned menacing here and then he left us that was the going out of the brigade of the youngest men two thousand strong few returned nearly all remain in brooklyn that and here my general's first battle no women looking on nor sunshine to baskin it did not conclude with applause nobody clapped hands here then here then but in darkness in mist on the ground under a chill rain we read that night we lay foiled and sullen while scornfully laughed many an arrogant lord off against us and camped quite within hearing feasting clinking wine glasses together over their victory so dull and damp and another day but the night of that mist lifting rain ceasing silent as a ghost while they thought they were sure of him my general retreated i saw him at the riverside down by the ferry lit by torches hastening the embarkation my general waited till the soldiers and wounded were all passed over and then it was just air sunrise these eyes rested on him for the last time everyone else seemed filled with gloom many no doubt thought of capitulation but when my general passed me as he stood in his boat and looked toward the coming sun i saw something different from capitulation terminus enough the centurion story ends the two past and present have interchanged i myself as connector as chanson year of a great future i'm now speaking and is this the ground washington trod and these waters i listlessly daily cross are these the waters he crossed as resolute in defeat as other generals in their proudest triumph i must copy the story and send it eastward and westward i must preserve that look as it beamed on new rivers of brooklyn see as the annual round returns the phantom's return it is the 27th of august and the british have landed the battle begins and goes against us behold through the smoke washington's face the brigade of virginia and mariland have marched forth to intercept the enemy they are cut off murderous artillery from the hills plays upon them rank after rank falls while over them silently droops the flag baptized that day in many a young man's bloody wounds in death defeat and sisters mothers tears ah hills and slopes of brooklyn i perceive you are more valuable than your owners supposed in the midst of you stands an encampment very old stands forever the camp of that dead brigade cavalry crossing a ford a line in long array where they wind betwixt green islands they take a serpentine course their arms flash in the sun hark to the musical clank behold the silvery river in it the splashing horses loitering stop to drink behold the brown faced men each group each person a picture the negligent rest on the saddles while some emerge on the opposite bank others are just entering the ford while scarlet and blue and snowy white the guidon flags flutter gaily in the wind bivouac on a mountain side i see before me now a traveling 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 and clinging cedars with tall shapes dingily seen the numerous campfires scattered near and far some away upon the mountain the shadowy forms of men and horses looming large-sized flickering and overall the sky the sky far far out of reach studded breaking out the eternal stars end of book 21 part one read by kara schellenberg on december 12th 2005 in oceanside california