 Book 21 part 2 of Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman. This Liberfox recording is in the public domain. Recording by phone. Cavalry crossing a thord. A line in long array where the 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. Some emerge on the opposite bank, others are just entering the ford, while scarlet and blue and snowy white, the guidance flags flutter gaily in the wind, bewack on a mountainside. 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 campfires 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, breaking out, the eternal stars, an army core on the march. With its cloud of skirmishers in advance, with now the sound of a single shot snapping like a whip, and now an irregular volley, the swarming ranks press on and on, the dense brigades press on, glittering dimly, toiling under the sun, the dust-covered men in columns rise and fall to the undulations of the ground, with artillery interspersed, the wheels rumble, the horses sweat, as the army core advances, by the bevel-axe-fitful flame, by the bevel-axe-fitful flame, a procession winding around me, solemn and sweet and slow, but first I note the tense 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, oh 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 bevel-axe-fitful flame, come up from the fields, Father, come up from the fields, Father, here's a letter from our Pete, and come to the front door, Mother, here's a letter from thy dear son, lo, tis autumn, lo, where the trees deeper green, yellower and redder, cool and sweet in Ohio's 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 daughter's call, and come to the entry, Mother, to the front door, come right away. Faster she can, she hurries, something ominous, her steps trembling, she does not tarry to smooth her hair, nor adjust her cap. Open the envelope quickly. Oh, this is not our son's writing, yet his name is signed. Oh, a strange hand writes for our dear son, oh, stricken mother so. All swims before her eyes, flashes with black, she catches the main words only. Sentences broken, gunshot 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 jam 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. Oh, that she might withdraw unnoticed, silent from life escape and withdraw, to follow, to seek, to be with her dear dead son. Vigil strange I kept on the field one night. 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, with your dear eyes returned, with a look I shall never forget. One touch of your hand to mine, oh 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. Baird your face in the starlight, curious to see, 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 stall, 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 overhead and carefully under feet, and there and then, and bathed by the rising sun, in his grave, in his rude duck grave I deposited, ending my Vigil's 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, a march in the ranks hard-pressed and a road unknown, a march in the ranks hard-pressed and a road unknown, a root 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, there's a large old church at the crossing roads, 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 stanched a blood temporarily, the youngster's face is white as a lily, then before I depart I sweep my eyes or at a scene feigned 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, odor of blood, the crowd, oh the crowd of the bloody forms, 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 doctor 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 odor, then here outside the orders given, full in my men, full 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, ever in darkness marching, on in the ranks, the unknown road still marching, a sight in camp in the daybreak gray and dim, as from my tent I emerge so early, sleepless, as slow I walk in the cool fresh air, the path nearby the hospital tent, three forms I see on stretchers lying, brought out there, untended lying, over each the blanket spread, ample brownish woolen blanket, a sight in camp, ample brownish woolen blanket, gray 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-grade hair, 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 is the face of the Christ himself, dead and divine and brother of all, and here again he lies, as toilsome I wandered Virginia's woods, as toilsome I wandered Virginia's 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 understand, the halt of a midday 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 soldier's grave, comes the inscription rude in Virginia's woods, bold, cautious, true, and my loving comrade, not the pilot, not the pilot has charged himself to bring his ship into port, though beaten back and many times baffled, not the pathfinder penetrating inland weary and long, by deserts parched, snows chilled, rivers wet, perseveres till he reaches his destination, more than I have charged myself, heeded or unheeded, to compose march for these states, for a battle-call, rousing to arms if need be, years, centuries hence, year that trembled and reeled beneath me, year that trembled and reeled beneath me, your summer wind was warm enough, yet the air I breathed froze me, the thick gloom fell through the sunshine and darkened me, must I change my triumphant songs, said I to myself? Must I indeed learn to chant the cold dirges of the baffled, and sullen hymns of defeat, the wound-dresser? One. An old man, bending, I come among new faces, Years looking backward, resuming an answer to children. Come, tell us, old man, As from young men and maidens that love me. Aroused and angry, I thought to beat the alarm, And urge relentless war, but soon my fingers failed me. My face drooped, and I resigned myself, To sit by the wounded and soothe them, or silently watch to dead. 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 heart-fault engagements, Or sieges tremendous? What deepest remains? Two. 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. Sold your 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 low, 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, And I was content. But in silence, in dreams' projections, While the world of game and appearance and mirth goes on, So soon what is over forgotten, And waves wash the imprints off to sand. With hinged knees returning, I enter the doors, While for you up there, whoever you are, Follow 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 rose 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 clothered 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. 3. 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 cavalryman, With the bullet through and through examine, Hard to 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 clothered 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 seed of frame, All wasted and sinking, And a yellow-blue countenance sea. I dress the perforated shoulder, The foot with the bullet wound, Cleans to one with a gnawing And putrid gangrene, So sickening, so offensive, While the attendant stands behind, Beside me, holding the tray and pail. I am faithful, I do not give out, The fractured thigh, The knee, the wound and 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, To hurt and 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 soldier's loving arms About this neck have crossed and rested. Many a soldier's kiss Dwells on these bearded lips, Long, too long America. Long, too long America, Travelling roads, All even and peaceful, You learn from joys and prosperity only. But now, ah, now, To learn from crises of anguish, Advancing, grappling with direst fate, And recoiling not, And now to conceive and show to the world What your children unmasse really are. For who except myself has yet conceived What your children unmasse really are? Give me the splendid, silent sun. One. Give me the splendid, silent sun With all his beams full-dazzling. Give me autumnal fruit, ripe and red From the orchard. Give me a field where the unmowed grass grows. Give me an arbor, 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 a way aside From the noise of the world A rural domestic life. Give me to warble spontaneous songs 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 wracked by the war strife. These to procure incessantly asking Rising and 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 in chain A certain time refusing to give me up. Yet giving to make me glutted, Enriched of soul, You give me forever faces. Oh, I see what I sought to escape Confronting, reversing my cries. See my own soul trampling down What it asked for. Two. Keep your splendid silent sun. Keep your woods, O nature, And to quiet places by the ones. 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 traitors. 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 warps Heavy-fringed with black shits. Oh, such for me, Oh, an intense life, Full to repletion and varied, The life of the theatre, Barroom, 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 wagons following. People, endless, streaming, With strong voices, passions, pageants, Manhattan streets with their powerful throbs, With 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, Manhattan faces and eyes forever for me, Dourge 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. Low, the moon ascending, Up from the east, the silvery round moon, Beautiful over the housetops, ghastly, phantom moon, Immense and silent moon. I see a sad procession, And I hear the sound of coming, Full-keed bugles, All the channels of the city streets there 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 sun is broad 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 or the pavement quite has faded, And the strong deadmarch enraps me, In the eastern sky up buoying, The sorrowful vast phantom moves illumined, To some mother's large transparent face In heaven brighter growing. Oh, strong deadmarch, you please me, Oh, moon immense with your silvery face, You soothe me. Oh, my soldiers twain, Oh, 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, oh, my soldiers, my veterans, My heart gives you love. Over the carnage rose prophetic a voice. 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 older remainder of the earth. No danger shall balk Columbia's lovers, If need be a thousand shall sternly emulate themselves for one. One from Massachusetts shall be a Missourian's comrade, From Maine and from hot Carolina, And another an Oregonese shall be friend's triune, More precious to each other than older 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, oh partners, oh lands, With the love of lovers tie you. Were you looking to be held together by lawyers, Or by an agreement on a paper, or by arms? Nay, nor the world, nor any living thing, Will so cohere. I saw old general at bay. I saw old general at bay. Old as he was, his grey eyes yet shone out in battle like stars. His small force was now completely hemmed in, in his works. He called for volunteers to run the enemy's lines, a desperate emergency. I saw a hundred and more step forth from the ranks, but two or three were selected. I saw them receive their orders aside. They listened with care. The adjutant was very grave. I saw them depart with cheerfulness, freely risking their lives. The artilleryman's 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 vacant 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 fantasy, unreal. The skirmishers begin. They crawl cautiously ahead. I hear the irregular snap, snap. I hear the sounds of the different missiles, the short tch-tch-tch of the rifle-balls. I see the shells exploding, leaving small, white clouds. I hear the great shells treaking as they pause. The grape like the hum and whir of wind through the trees, tumultuous now, the contest rages. All the scenes at the batteries 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 peace 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 enemy's volleys, quickly filled up, no delay. I breathe the suffocating smoke, then the flat clouds hover low concealing all. Now a strange lull 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 dither. The falling, dying, a heed not, the wounded dripping and red heed not, some to the rear are hobbling. Grime, heat, rush, age the camp galloping by or on a full run, with the patter of small arms, the warning sssst of the rifles. These, in my vision, I hear or see, and bombs bursting in air and at night the very coloured rockets, Ethiopia saluting the colours. Who are you, dusky woman, so ancient, hardly human, with your woolly white and turbaned head and bare bony feet? Why, rising by the roadside here, do you the colours greet? Tis while our army lines Carolina sands and pines, forth from thy hovel door, thou Ethiopia comes to me. Under doubty Sherman I march toward the sea. Me, master, years a hundred since for my parents sundered. A little child they caught me as the savage beast is caught. Then hither me across the sea the cruel slaver brought. No further does she say, but lingering all the day, her high-born turbaned head she wags and rolls her darkling eye, and courtesies to the regiments, the guidons moving by. What is it, fateful woman, so blear, heartly human? Why, wag your hand with turban bound, yellow, red and green? Are the things so strange and marvellous you see or have seen? Not youth pertains to me. Not youth pertains to me, nor delicatesce, I cannot be guile the time with talk. Awkward in the parlor, neither a dancer nor elegant, in the learned coterie sitting constrained and still, for learning enures not to me. Beauty, knowledge, enure not to me, yet there are two or three things enure to me. I have nourished the wounded and soothed many a dying soldier, and at intervals waiting or in the midst of camp composed these songs. Race of veterans. Race of veterans, race of victors, race of the soil ready for conflict, race of the conquering march. No more credulities race, abiding tempered race. Race henceforth owning no law but the law of itself. Race of passion and the storm. World take good notice. World take good notice, silver stars fading. Milky hue ripped, wet of white detaching. Coles, thirty-eight, baleful and burning. Scarlet, significant, hands off warning. Now and henceforth flaunt from these shores. Oh tan-faced prairie boy. Oh tan-faced prairie boy. Before you came to camp came many a welcome gift. Praises and presents came and nourishing food, till I'd lost among the recruits. You came, taciturn, with nothing to give. We but looked at each other, when low, more than all the gifts of the world, you gave me. Look down, fair moon. Look down, fair moon, and bathe this scene. Pour softly down night's nimbus floods on faces ghastly, swollen, purple. On the dead, on their backs with arms tossed wide. Pour down your unstinted nimbus sacred moon. 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 solid 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, bent down, and touch lightly with my lips the white face in the coffin. How solemn as one by one, Washington City, 1865. How solemn as one by one as the ranks returning, worn and sweaty, as the men file by where 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 and the ranks and to you. I see behind each mask that wonder a kindred soul. Oh, 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, oh friend, as I lay with my head in your lap, camarado. 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. 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 camarado, 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. Delicate cluster, delicate cluster, flag of teeming life, covering all my lands, all my seashore's lining, flag of death, how I watched you through the smoke of battle-pressing, how I heard you flap and rustle cloth-defiant, flag cerulean, sunny flag with the orbs of night dappled, ah, my silvery beauty, ah, my woolly white and crimson, ah, to sing the song of you, my matron mighty, my sacred one, my mother, to a certain civilian. Did you ask dulcet rhymes from me? Did you seek to civilians peaceful and languishing rhymes? Did you find what I sang ere while so hard to follow? Why, I was not singing ere while for you to follow to understand, nor am I now. I have been born of the same as the war was born. The drum-chorus rattle is ever to me sweet music. I love well the marshal dirge, with slow wail and convulsive throb, leading the officer's funeral. What to such as you, anyhow, such a poet as I? Therefore, leave my works and go lull yourself with what you can understand, and with piano tunes, for I lull nobody, and you will never understand me. Lo, Victrus on the Peaks. Lo, Victrus on the Peaks. Lo, Victrus on the Peaks. Where thou with mighty brow regarding the world, the world, O libertad, that vainly conspired against thee, out of its countless beleaguering toils after thwarting them all, dominant with the dazzling sun around thee, flaunt as nail unharmed in immortal soundness and bloom. Lo, in these hours supreme, no poem proud, I, chanting, bring to thee nor masteries rapturous verse, but a cluster containing night's darkness and blood-dripping wounds and psalms of the dead, spirit whose work is done. Washington City, 1865. Spirit whose work is done. Spirit of dreadful hours. Air departing, fade for 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 war 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, as the muskets of the young men yet lean over their shoulders. As I look on the bayonets bristling over their shoulders, as those slanted bayonets, whole forests of them appearing in the distance, approach and pass on, returning homeward, moving with steady motion, swaying to and through to the right and left, evenly, lightly rising and falling while the steps keep time. Spirit of hours I knew, all hectic red one day, but pale as death next day. Touch my mouth, air 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 chance when you were gone, let them identify you to the future in these songs. Adieu to a soldier, adieu a soldier, you of the rude campaigning which we shared, the rapid march, the life of the camp, the hot contention of opposing fronts, the long manoeuvre, red battles with their slaughter, the stimulus, the strong terrific gain, spell of all brave and manly hearts, the trains of time through you and like of you all filled with war and war's expression. Adieu, dear comrade, your mission is fulfilled, but I, more warlike, myself and discontentious soul of mine, still on our own campaigning bound, through untried roads with ambitious opponents lined, through many a sharp defeat and many a crisis often baffled, here marching, ever marching on, a war fight out, I, here, to fiercer, weightier battles give expression, turn, oh Libertad, turn, oh Libertad, for the war is over, from it and all henceforth expanding, doubting no more, resolute, sweeping the world, turn from lands retrospective, recording proofs of the past, from the singers that sing the trailing glories of the past, from the chance of the feudal world, the triumphs of kings, slavery, caste, turn to the world, the triumphs reserved and to come, give up that backward world, leave to the singers of hitherto, give them the trailing past, but what remains, remains for singers for you, wars to come are for you, lo, how the wars of the past have duly inert to you and the wars of the present also inert, then turn and be not alarmed, oh Libertad, turn your undying face to where the future greater than all the past is swiftly, surely preparing for you, to the leavened soil they trod, to the leavened soil they trod, calling a sing for the last, forth from my tent emerging for good, loosing, untieing 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 Alleghenian hills and the tireless Mississippi, to the rocks I calling, sing, and all the trees in the woods, to the plains of the poems of heroes, to the prairies 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 brought the sun, the northern ice and ring that began me nourish me to the end, but the hot sun of the south is to fully ripen my songs. End of Book 24 Part 2 Book 22 Of Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman This Liberfox recording is in the public domain, recording by phone. Book 22 Memories of President Lincoln When Lilux lost in the dooryard bloomed 1. When Lilux lost in the dooryard bloomed and the great star early drooped in the western sky in the night, I mourned and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring. Ever-returning spring, Trinity sure to me you bring, Lilux blooming perennial and drooping star in the west, and thought of him I love. 2. Oh powerful western fallen star, oh shades of night, oh moody cheerful night, oh great star disappeared, oh the black merc that hides the star, oh cruel hands that hold me powerless, oh helpless soul of me, oh harsh surrounding cloud that will not free my soul. 3. In the dooryard fronting an old farmhouse near the whitewashed palings stands the lilac bush tall-growing with heart-shaped leaves of rich green, with many appointed blossom rising delicate with the perfume strong I love, with every leaf a miracle, and from this bush in the dooryard with delicate-colored blossoms and heart-shaped leaves of rich green, a sprig with its flower I break. 4. In the swamp in secluded recesses a shy and hidden bird is warbling a song. 5. Solitary the thrush, the hermit withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements, sings by himself a song. 6. Song of the bleeding throat, that's outlet song of life, for well dear brother I know, if thou was not granted to sing, thou wouldst surely die. 5. 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 gray debris, amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes, passing the endless grass, passing the yellow-spirred wheat, every grain from a shroud in the dark brown fields uprisen, 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. 6. Coffin that passes through lanes and streets, through day and night with the great cloud darkening the land, with the pomp of the in-looped flags, with the cities draped in black, with the show of the states themselves, as of crepe-veiled women standing, with processions long and winding, and the flambos of the night, with the countless torches lit, with the silent sea of faces and the unbeared heads, with the waiting depot, the arriving coffin and the somber 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 shuttering 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. 7. 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. 8. O western orb sailing the heaven, now I know what you must have meant as a month since I walked, as I 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 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 were you sad orb concluded, dropped in the night and was gone. 9. 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 departing comrade holds and detains me. 10. 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? See whence 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'll perfume the grave of him I love. 11. 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 underfoot, and the pale green leaves of the trees prolific, in the distance the flowing glaze, the breast of the river, with a wind-daple 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. 12. Low, body and soul, this land, my own Manhattan with spires, and the sparkling and hurrying tides, and the ships, the varied and ample land, the south and north in the light, Ohio's shores and flashing Missouri, and ever the far-spreading prairies covered with grass and corn. Low, the most excellent sun, so calm and haughty, the violet and purple morn with just-filled 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. 13. 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. Oh, liquid and free and tender, oh, wild and loose to my soul, oh, wondrous singer, you only I hear, yet the star holds me, but will soon depart, yet the lilac with mastering odor holds me. 14. 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 farmers preparing their 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 minutia of daily usages and the streets how their throbbing throught and the city's pent low, 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. Then with the knowledge of death I was walking one side of me 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 the ghostly pines so still and the singer so shy to the rest received me the grey brown bird I know received us comrads three and he sang the carol of death and a verse for him I love from deep secluded recesses from the fragrant cedars and the ghostly pines so still named the carol of the bird and the charm of the carol wrapped me as I held as if by their hands my comrads 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 praise praise for the sure and winding arms of cool and folding death dark mother always gliding near with soft feet have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome then I chanted for thee I glorify thee above all I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come come unfalteringly approach strong deliver us 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 for me to thee glad serenades dances for thee I propose saluting thee adorments and feastings for thee and the sights of the open landscape and the high-spread sky are fitting and life and the fields and a huge and thoughtful night the night in silence under many a star the ocean shore and a 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 treetops 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 warbs and ways I float this carol with joy with joy to thee o death 15 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 din 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 and I saw a scant the armies I saw as a noiseless dreams hundreds of battle flags born 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 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 the slain soldiers of the war but I saw they were not as was thought they themselves were fully at rest they suffered not the living remained unsuffered the mother suffered and the wife and child and amusing comrades suffered and the armies that remained suffered 16 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 death's outlet song yet varying ever-altering song as low and wailing yet clear the notes rising and falling flooding the night sadly sinking and shainting mourning 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 passing I leave the lilac with heart-shaped leaves I leave thee there in the dooryard blooming returning with spring I cease for my song for thee my gaze on thee in the west fronting the west communing with thee o comrade lustrous with silver face in the night yet each to keep and all retrievements out of the night 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 the resonance full of woe with the holders holding my hand nearing the call of the bird comrade's mine and I in the midst and their memory ever to 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 the chant of my soul there in the fragrant pines and the cedars dusk and dim o captain my captain o captain my captain our fearful trip is done the ship has weathered every rack 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 o the bleeding drops of red were 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 ribbon dreaths for you the shores are crowding for you they call the swaying miles their eager faces turning hear captain their father this arm beneath your head it is some dream that on the deck you've fallen cold and dead my captain does not answer his lips are pale and still father does not feel my arm he has no pulse nor will the ship is anchored safe and sound its voyage closed and done from fearful trip the victor's ship comes in with object one exult o shores and ring o bells but I with mournful tread walk the deck my captain lies fallen cold and dead hushed be the camps today May 4 1865 hushed be the camps today and soldiers let us drape our war worn weapons and each with musing soul retire to celebrate our dear commander's death no more for him lives stormy conflicts nor victory nor defeat no more times dark events charging like ceaseless clouds across the sky but sing poet in our name sing of the love we bore him because you, dweller in camps know it truly as they invoked a coffin there sing as they closed the doors of earth upon him one verse for the heavy hearts of soldiers this dust was once the man gentle, plain, just and resolute under whose cautious hand against a foulest crime in history known in any land or age was saved the union of these states end of book 22 recording by phone book 23 of leaves of grass by Walt Whitman this slipperfox recording is in the public domain recording by phone by Blue Ontario's shore one by Blue Ontario's shore as I'm used of these war-like days and of peace returned and the dead that return no more a phantom gigantic superb with stern visage accosted me chant me the poem it said that comes from the soul of America chant me the carol of victory and strike up the marches of libertad marches more powerful yet and sing me before you go the song of the throes of democracy democracy the destined conqueror yet treacherous lipsmiles everywhere and death and infidelity at every step too a nation announcing itself I myself make the only growth by which I can be appreciated I reject none except all then reproduce all in my own forms a breed whose proof is in time and deeds what we are we are nativity is answer enough to objections we wield ourselves as a weapon is wielded we are powerful and tremendous in ourselves we are executive in ourselves we are sufficient in the variety of ourselves we are the most beautiful to ourselves and in ourselves we stand self-poised in the middle branching thence over the world from Missouri, Nebraska or Kansas laughing attacks to scorn nothing is sinful to us outside of ourselves whatever appears whatever does not appear we are beautiful or sinful in ourselves only oh mother oh sisters dear if we are lost no victor else has destroyed us it is by ourselves we go down to eternal night three have you thought there could be but a single supreme? there can be any number of supreme one does not countervail another any more than one eyesight countervails another or one life countervails another all is eligible to all all is for individuals all is for you no condition is prohibitant not gods or any all comes by the body only health puts you rapport with the universe produce great persons the rest follows four piety and conformity to them that like peace, obesity, allegiance to them that like I am he who tauntingly compels men women, nations trying leap from your seats and contend for your lives I am he who walks the states with a barbed tongue questioning everyone I meet who are you that wanted only to be told what you knew before who are you that wanted only a book to join you in your nonsense with pangs and cries as thine own o bearer of many children these clamours wild to erase of pride I give o lands would you be freer than all that has ever been before if you would be freer than all that has been before come listen to me fear, grace, elegance, civilisation, delicates fear, the mellow sweet the sucking of honey juice beware the advancing mortal ripening of nature beware what precedes the decay of the ruggedness of states and men five ages, precedents have long been accumulating undirected materials America brings builders and brings its own styles the immortal poets of Asia and Europe have done their work and passed to other spheres a work remains the work of surpassing all they have done America, curious toward foreign characters stands by its own at all hazards stands removed, spacious, composite, sound initiates the true use of precedence does not repel them or the past or what they have produced under their forms takes the lesson with calmness perceives the corpse slowly born from the house perceives that it waits a little while in the door that it was fittest for its days that its life has descended to the stalwart and well-shaped air who approaches and that he shall be fittest for his days any period one nation must lead one land must be the promise and reliance of the future these states are the amplest poem here is not merely a nation but a teeming nation of nations here the doings of men correspond with the broadcast doings of the day and night here is what moves in magnificent masses careless of particulars here are the roughs, beards, friendliness, combativeness the soul loves here the flowing trains here the crowds, equality, diversity the soul loves six land of lands and bards to corroborate of them standing among them one lifts to the light a westbred face to him the hereditary countenance bequeath both mothers and fathers his first parts substances earth, water, animals, trees built of the common stock having room for far and near used to dispense with other lands incarnating this land attracting it body and soul to himself hanging on its neck with incomparable love plunging his seminal muscle into its merits and demerits making its cities, beginnings, events, diversities wars, focal in him making its rivers, lakes, bays and bouchure in him Mississippi with yearly freshets and changing shoots Columbia, Niagara, Hudson spending themselves lovingly in him if the Atlantic coast stretch or the Pacific coast stretch he's stretching with them north or south spanning between them east and west and touching whatever is between them growths growing from him to offset the growths of pine cedar, hemlock, live oak locust, chestnut, hickory cottonwood, orange, magnolia tangles as tangled in him as any cane break or swamp he likening sides and peaks of mountains forests coated with northern transparent ice off him, pasture-rich sweet and natural as savanna, upland, prairie through him, flights, whirls, screams answering those of the fish-hawk mockingbird, night-heron, and eagle his spirit surrounding his country spirit unclosed to good and evil surrounding the essences of real things old times and present times surrounding just-found shores islands, tribes of red aborigines weather-beaten vessels landings, settlements embryo stature and muscle the haughty defiance of the year one war, peace, the formation of the constitution the separate states the simple elastic scheme the immigrants the union always swarming with blatherers and always sure and impregnable the unsurveyed interior log houses, clearings, wild animals hunters, trappers surrounding the multi-form agriculture mines, temperature, the gestation of new states congress convening every twelfth month the members duly coming up from the uttermost parts surrounding the noble character of mechanics and farmers especially the young men responding their manners, speech, dress, friendships the gaze they have of persons who never knew how it felt to stand in the presence of superiors the freshness and candour of their physiognomy the copiousness and decision of their phrenology the picturesque looseness of their courage their fierceness when wronged the fluency of their speech their delight in music their curiosity good temper and open-handedness the whole composite make the prevailing ardour and enterprise the large amativeness the perfect equality of the female with the male the fluid movement of the population the superior marine free commerce fisheries whaling gold digging wharf hemmed cities railroad and steamboat lines intersecting all points factories mercantile life labour-saving machinery the north-east, north-west, south-west Manhattan firemen the Yankee swap southern plantation life slavery the murderous, treacherous conspiracy to raise it upon the ruins of old arrest on and on to the grapple with it assassin then your life or ours beat a stake and respite no more low, high toward heaven this day libertad from the conquerous field returned I mark the new Oriola around your head no more of soft astral but dazzling and fierce with war's flames and the lambent lightnings playing and your port immovable where you stand with still the inextinguishable glance and the clenched and lifted fist and your foot on the neck of the menacing one the scornor utterly crushed beneath you the menacing, arrogant one that strode and advanced with his senseless scorn bearing the murderous knife the wide-swelling one the braggart that would yesterday do so much today a carrion dead and damned the despised of all the earth an awful rank to the dung-hill maggots spurned 8. Others take finish but a republic is ever constructive and ever keeps vista others adorn the past but you, o days of the present I adorn you o days of the future I believe in you I isolate myself for your sake, o America because you build for mankind I build for you o well-beloved stonecutters I lead them who plan with decision and science lead the present with friendly hand toward the future bravas to all impulses sending sane children to the next age but damn that which spends itself with no thought of disdain pains, dismay, feebleness it is bequeasing 9. I listened to the phantom by Ontario's shore I heard the voice arising demanding bards by them all native and grand by them alone can these states be fused into the compact organism of a nation to hold men together by paper and seal or by compulsion is no account that only holds men together which aggregates all in a living principle as the hold of the limbs of the body or the fibres of plants of all races and eras these states with veins full of poetical stuff most need poets and are to have the greatest and use them the greatest their presidents shall not be their common referee so much as their poets shall soul of love and tongue of fire eye to pierce the deepest deeps and sweep the world ah mother prolific and full in all besides yet how long barren, barren 10. Of these states the poet is the equitable man not in him but off from him things are grotesque eccentric feel of their full returns nothing out of its place is good nothing in its place is bad he bestows on every object or quality its fit proportion neither more nor less he is the arbiter of the diverse he is the key he is the equalizer of his age and land he supplies what once supplying he checks what once checking in peace out of him speaks the spirit of peace large, rich, thrifty building populist towns encouraging agriculture, arts, commerce lighting the study of man, the soul health, immortality, government in war he is the best backer of the war he fetches artillery as good as the engineers he can make every word he speaks draw blood the years strained towards infidelity he withholds by his steady faith he is no arguer he is judgment nature accepts him absolutely he judges not as the judge judges but as the sun falling round helpless thing as he sees the farthest he has the most faith his thoughts are the hymns of the praise of things in the dispute on God and eternity he is silent he sees eternity less like a play with a prologue and denouement he sees eternity in men and women he does not see men and women as dreams or dots for the great idea the idea of perfect and free individuals for that the bard walks in advance leader of leaders the attitude of him cheers up slaves and horrifies foreign despots without extinction is liberty without retrograde is equality they live in the feelings of young men and the best women not for nothing have the indomitable heads of the earth been always ready to fall for liberty 11 for the great idea that oh my brethren that is the mission of poets songs of stern defiance ever ready songs of the rapid arming and the march the flag of peace quick-folded and instead the flag we know warlike flag of the great idea angry cloth I saw there leaping I stand again in leaden rain your flapping folds saluting I sing you over all flying beckoning through the fight oh the heart contested fight the cannons oped their rosy flashing muzzles the hurtled balls scream the battlefront forms amid the smoke the volleys pour incessant from the line hark the ringing word charge now the tussle and the furious maddening yells now the corpses tumble curled upon the ground cold cold in death for precious life of you angry cloth I saw there leaping 12 are you he who would assume a place to teach or be a poet here in the states the place is august the terms obdurate who would assume to teach here may well prepare himself body and mind he may well survey, ponder, arm, fortify, harden make life himself he shall surely be questioned beforehand by me with many and stern questions who are you indeed who would talk or sing to America have you studied out the land, its idioms and men have you learned the physiology, phrenology, politics, geography pride, freedom, friendship of the land its substratums and objects have you considered the organic compact of the first day of the first year of independence signed by the commissioners ratified by the states and read by Washington at the head of the army have you possessed yourself of the federal constitution do you see who have left all feudal processes and poems behind them and assume the poems and processes of democracy are you faithful to things do you teach what the land and sea the bodies of men, womanhood, emittiveness heroic angers, chage have you sped through fleeting customs popularities can you hold your hand against all seductions follies, whirls, fierce contentions are you very strong are you really of the whole people are you not of some coterie some school or mere religion are you done with reviews and criticisms of life animating now to life itself have you vivified yourself from the maternity of these states have you too the old ever fresh forbearance and impartiality do you hold the like, love for those hardening to maturity for the last born little and big what is this you bring my America is it uniform with my country is it not something that has been better told or done before have you not imported this or the spirit of it in some ship is it not a mere tale, a rhyme, a prettiness is the good old cause in it has it not dangled long at the heels of the poets, politicians literates of enemies lands does it not assume that what is notoriously gone is still here does it answer universal needs will it improve manners does it sound with trumpet voice the proud victory of the union and that's a session war can your performance face the open fields and the seaside will it absorb into me as I absorb food, air to appear again in my strength, gate, face have real employments contributed to it original makers, not mere immanuensis does it meet modern discoveries, calibres, facts face to face what does it mean to American persons, progresses, cities Chicago, Canada, Arkansas does it see behind the apparent custodians the real custodians standing menacing, silent the mechanics, Manhattanese, western men Southerners, significant alike in their apathy and in the promptness of their love does it see what finally befalls and has always finally befallen each temporizer, patcher, outsider partialist, alarmist, infidel who has ever asked anything of America what mocking and scornful negligence detracts drood with the dust of skeletons by the roadside others disdainfully tossed Thirteen rhymes and rhymers pass away poems distilled from poems pass away the swarms of reflectors and the polite pass and leave ashes admirers, importers, obedient persons make but the soil of literature America justifies itself give it time no disguise can deceive it or conceal from it it is impassive enough only toward the likes of itself will it advance to meet them if its poets appear it will in due time advance to meet them there is no fear of mistake the proof of a poet shall be sternly deferred till his country absorbs him as affectionately as he has absorbed it he masters whose spirit masters he tastes sweetest who results sweetest in a long run the blood of the brawn, beloved of time, is unconstrained in the need of songs, philosophy an appropriate native grand opera shipcraft, any craft he or she is greatest who contributes the greatest original practical example already a nonchalant breed silently emerging appears on the streets people's lips salute only doers, lovers, satisfiers positive knowers there will shortly be no more priests I say their work is done death is without emergencies here but life is perpetual emergencies here are your body, days, manners, superb? after death you shall be superb justice, health, self-esteem cleared away with irresistible power how dare you place anything before a man fourteen full behind me states a man before all myself, typical, before all give me the pay I have served for give me to sing the songs of the great idea take all the rest I have loved the earth, sun, animals I have despised riches I have given alms to everyone that asked stood up for the stupid and crazy devoted my income and labor to others hated tyrants, argued not concerning God had patience and indulgence toward the people taken off my hat to nothing known or unknown gone freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and with the mothers of families read these leaves to myself in the open air tried them by trees, stars, rivers dismissed whatever insulted my own soul or defiled my body claimed nothing to myself which I have not carefully claimed for others on the same terms sped to the camps and comrades found and accepted from every state upon this breast has many a dying soldier leaned to breathe his last this arm, this hand, this voice have nourished, raised, restored to life recalling many a prostrate form I am willing to wait to be understood by the growth of the taste of myself rejecting none, permitting all say, oh mother, have I not to your thought been faithful have I not through life kept you and yours before me fifteen I swear I begin to see the meaning of these things it is not the earth, it is not America who is so great it is I who am great or to be great it is you up there or anyone it is to walk rapidly through civilizations governments, theories through poems, pageants, shows to form individuals underneath all individuals I swear nothing is good to me now that ignores individuals the American compact is altogether with individuals the only government is that which makes minute of individuals the whole theory of the universe is directed unerringly to one single individual namely to you mother, with subtle sense severe with a naked sword in your hand I saw you at last refuse to treat but directly with individuals sixteen underneath all nativity I swear I will stand by my own nativity pious or impious so be it I swear I am charmed with nothing except nativity men, women, cities, nations are only beautiful from nativity underneath all is the expression of love for men and women I swear I have seen enough of mean and impotent modes of expressing love for men and women after this day I take my own modes of expressing love for men and women in myself I swear I will have each quality of my race in myself talk as you like he only suits these states whose manners favor the audacity and sublime turbulence of the states underneath the lessons of things spirits, nature, governments I swear I perceive other lessons underneath all to me is myself to you yourself the same monotonous old song seventeen oh I see flashing that this America is only you and me its power, weapons, testimony are you and me its crimes, lies, thefts, defections are you and me its congress is you and me the officers, capitals, armies, ships are you and me its endless gestations of new states are you and me the war that wore so bloody and grim the war I will henceforth forget was you and me natural and artificial are you and me freedom, language, poems, employments are you and me past, present, future are you and me I dare not shirk any part of myself not any part of America good or bad not to build for that which builds for mankind not to balance ranks, complexions, creeds and to sexes not to justify science nor to march of equality nor to feed the arrogant blood of the brawn beloved of time I am for those that have never been mastered for men and women whose tempers have never been mastered for those whom laws, theories, conventions can never master I am for those who walk abreast with the whole earth who inaugurate one to inaugurate all I will not be outfaced by irrational things I will penetrate what it is in them that is sarcastic upon me I will make cities and civilizations defer to me this is what I have learned from America it is the amount and it I teach again democracy, while weapons were everywhere aimed at your breast I saw you serenely give birth to immortal children saw in dreams your dilating form saw you with spreading mantle covering the world 18. I will confront these shows of the day and night I will know if I am to be less than they I will see if I am not as majestic as they I will see if I am not as subtle and real as they I will see if I am to be less generous than they I will see if I have no meaning while the houses and ships have meaning I will see if the fishes and birds are to be enough for themselves and I am not to be enough for myself I match my spirit against yours you orbs, growths, mountains, brutes copious as you are I absorb you all in myself and become the master myself America isolated yet embodying all what is it finally except myself these states what are they except myself I know now why the earth is gross tantalizing wicked it is for my sake I take you specially to be mine you terrible rude forms mother, bend down bend close to me your face I know not what these plots and wars and deferments are for I know not fruition's success but I know that through war and crime your work goes on and must yet go on 19 thus by blue Ontario's shore while the winds fanned me and the waves came trooping toward me I thrilled with the power's pulsations and the charm of my theme was upon me till the tissues that held me parted their ties upon me and I saw the free souls of poets the loftiest bards of past ages strode before me strange large men long-unwaked undisclosed were disclosed to me 20 oh my rapt verse my call mock me not not for the bards of the past not to invoke them have I launched you forth not to call even those lofty bards here by Ontario shores have I sung so capricious and loud my savage song bards for my own land only I invoke for the war the war is over the field is cleared till they strike up marches henceforth triumphant and onward to cheer oh mother your boundless expectant soul bards of the great idea bards of the peaceful inventions for the war the war is over yet bards of latent armies a million soldiers waiting ever ready bards with songs as from burning coals or the lightning's forked stripes ample Ohio's Canada's bards bards of California inland bards bards of the war you by my charm I invoke reversals let that which stood in front go behind let that which was behind advanced to the front let bigots fools unclean persons offer new propositions let the old propositions be postponed let a man seek pleasure everywhere except in himself let a woman seek happiness everywhere except in herself End of book 23 Recording by Phone