 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recorded by Chip in Temple, Florida on January 6, 2006. Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman. Book 32. From Noon to Starry Night. Thou Orb Aloft, Full Dazzling. Thou Orb Aloft, Full Dazzling, Thou Hot October Noon, Flooding with Sheeny Light, the Gray Beach Sand, The Sibilant Near Sea, with Vistas Far and Foam, And Tawny Streaks and Shades and Spreading Blue. O, Son of Noon, Refulgant, My Special Word to Thee. Hear me, illustrious, thy lover me, for always I have loved thee, Even as basking babe, then happy boy alone by some wood-edge, Thy touching distant beams enough for man-matured, Or young or old as now to thee, I launch my invocation. Thou canst nut with thy dumbness me deceive. I know before the fitting man all nature yields, Though answering, not in words, the skies, trees, hear his voice, And thou, O Son, as for thy throes, thy perturbations, Sudden breaks and shafts of flame gigantic, I understand them. I know those flames, those perturbations well. Thou that's with fructifying heat and light, or myriad farms, Or lands and waters south and north, or Mississippi's endless course, Or Texas grassy plains, Canada's woods, or all the globe That turns its face to thee shining in space. Thou that impartially enfoldest all, Thou that to grapes and weeds and little wild flowers Give us so liberally shed, shed thyself on mine and me, But with a fleeting ray out of thy million-millions Strike through these jants. Nor only launch thy subtle dazzle and thy strength for these, Prepare the later afternoon of me, myself, Prepare my lengthening shadows, Prepare my starry nights, faces, Sauntering the pavement or riding the country by road, faces, Faces of friendship, precision, caution, suavity, ideality, The spiritual prescient face, The always welcome, common, benevolent face, The face of the singing of music, The grand faces of natural lawyers and judges broad at the back-top, The faces of hunters and fishers bulged at the brows, The shaved, blanched faces of orthodox citizens, The pure, extravagant, yearning, questioning artist's face, The ugly face of some beautiful soul, The handsome, detested, or despised face, The sacred faces of infants, The illuminated face of the mother of many children, The face of an armor, the face of veneration, The face as of a dream, the face of an immobile rock, The face withdrawn of its good and bad, a castrated face, A wild hawk, his wings clipped by the clipper, The stallion that yielded at last to the thong And the knife of the gelder, Sauntering the pavement thus or crossing the ceaseless ferry, Faces and faces and faces, I see them and complain not, and am content with all. Do you suppose I could be content with all if I thought them their own finale? This now is too lamentable a face for a man, Some abject louse-saxking leave to be cringing for it, Some milk-nosed maggot blessing what lets it rig to its hole, This face as a dog snout sniffing for garbage, Snakes nest in that mouth I hear the sibilant threat. This face is a haze more chill than the Arctic sea, Its sleepy and wobbling icebergs crunch as they go. This is the face of bitter herbs, this anemetic, They need no label, And more of the self-drug laudanum, cartichock or hogs-lard. This is a face of epilepsy, Its wordless tongue gives out the unearthly cry, Its veins down the neck distend, Its eyes roll till they show nothing but their whites, Its teeth grit, The palms of the hands were cut by the turned-in nails. The man falls, struggling and foaming to the ground, While he speculates well. This face is bitten by vermin and worms, And this is some murderer's knife with a half-pulled scabbard. This face owes to the sexton his dismalest fee, An unceasing death-bell tolls here. Features of my equals would trick me With your creased and cadaverous march, Well, you cannot trick me. I see your rounded, never-erased flow, I see, neath the rims of your haggard, mean disguises, Splay and twist as you like, Poke with the tangling forces of fishes or rats, You'll be unmuzzled, you certainly will. I saw the face of the most smeared and slobbering idiot they had at the asylum, And I knew, for my consolation, what they knew not, I knew of the agents that emptied and broke my brother, The same weight to clear the rubbish from the fallen tenement, And I shall look again in a score or two of ages, And I shall meet the real landlord, perfect and unharmed, Every inch as good as myself. The Lord advances, and yet advances always the shadow in front, Always the reached hand bringing up the laggards. Out of this face emerge banners and horses, oh superb, I see what is coming, I see the high pioneer cap-sea staves of runners clearing the way, I hear victorious drums. This face is a lifeboat, this is the face commanding and bearded, It asks no odds of the rest, This face is flavored fruit ready for eating, This face of a healthy, honest boy is the program of all good. These faces bear testimony, slumbering or awake. They show their dissent from the master himself. Off the word I have spoken, I accept not one, Red, black, white, or all day-ific. In each house is the ovum, it comes forth after a thousand years. Spots or cracks at the windows do not disturb me, Tall and sufficient stand behind and make signs to me, I read the promise, and patiently wait. This is a full-grown lily's face, She speaks to the limber-hipped man near the garden pickets, Come here, she blushingly cries, Come nigh to me, limber-hipped man, Stand at my side till I lean as high as I can upon you, Fill me with albecent honey, bend down to me, Rub to me with your chafing beard, Rub to my breasts and shoulders. The old face of the mother of many children, Whilst I am fully content, Lulled and late is the smoke of the first-day morning, It hangs low over the rows of trees by the fences, It hangs thin by the sassaprass and wild cherry and cat-briar under them. I saw the rich ladies in full dress at the soiree, I heard what the singers were singing so long, Heard who sprang in crimson youth from the white froth and the water-blue. The old, a woman, she looks out from her Quaker cap, Her face is clearer and more beautiful than the sky. She sits in an arm-chair under the shaded porch of the farmhouse, The sun just shines on her old white head, Her ample gown is of cream-hued linen, Her grandsons raise the flax, Her grand-daughters spun it with the zestaf and the wheel, The melodious character of the earth, The finish beyond which philosophy cannot go, And does not wish to go. The justified mother of men, The mystic trumpeter. Hark! Some wild trumpeter, some strange musician, Hovering unseen in air vibrates capricious tunes tonight. Near the trumpeter, glistening, alert, I catch thy notes, Now pouring, whirling like a tempest round me, Now low, subdued, now in the distance lost. Come nearer, bodiless one, happily in thee resounds Some dead composer, happily thy pensive life was filled With aspirations high, uniformed ideals, Waves, oceans, musical, chaotically surging, That now ecstatic ghost close to me bending, Thy coronet echoing, peeling, gives out to no one's ears but mine, But freely gives to mine that I may thee translate. Blow, trumpeter, free and clear, I follow thee, While at thy liquid prelude, glad, serene, The fretting world, the streets, the noisy hours of day withdraw, A holy calm descends like dew upon me. I walk in cool, refreshing night, the walks of paradise, I scent the grass, the moist air and the roses, The song expands my numbed, imbunded spirit, Thou freest, lauchest me floating and basking upon heaven's lake. Blow again, trumpeter, and for my sensuous eyes Bring the old pageants, show the feudal world. What charm thy music works, thou makest pass before me, ladies, And cabaliers long dead, barons are in their castle halls, The troubadours are singing, armed knights go forth to redress wrongs, Some in quest of the holy grail. I see the tournament, I see the contestants encased in heavy armor, Seated on stately, champing horses, I hear the shouts, the shouts of blows And smiting steel, I hear the crusaders to multuous armies. Hark, how the cymbals clang, lo where the monks walk in advance, Bearing the cross on high. Blow again, trumpeter, and for thy theme take now the enclosing theme of all, The solvent and the setting, love that is pulse of all, The sustenance and the pang, the heart of man and woman, all for love. No other theme but love, knitting, enclosing, all diffusing love. Oh, how the immortal phantoms crowd around me, I see the vast alembic ever working, I see and know the flames that heat the world, The glow, the blush, the beating hearts of lovers so blissfully happy some, And some so silent, dark and nigh to death, love. That is all the earth to lovers, love that mocks time and space, Love that is day and night, love that is sun and moon and stars, Love that is crimson, sumptuous, sick with perfume, No other words but words of love, no other thought but love. Blow again, trumpeter, conjure, war's alarms, Swift to thy spell a shuddering hum like distant thunder rolls, Lo where the armoured men hasten, lo mid the clouds of dust the glint of bayonets, I see the grime-faced canoneers, I mark the rosy flash amid the smoke, I hear the crackling of the guns, nor war alone, thy fearful music-song, Wild player brings every sight of fear. The deeds of ruthless brigands, rapine, murder, I hear the cries for help! I see ships foundering at sea, I behold on deck and below deck the terrible tableaux. O trumpeter, me thinks I am myself the instrument thou blest. Thou meltest my heart, my brain, thou movest, drawst, changes them at will, And now thy sullen notes send darkness through me. Thou takeest away all cheering light, all hope I see, the enslaved, The overthrown, the hurt, the oppressed of the whole earth, I feel the measureless shame and humiliation of my race, it becomes all mine. Mine too, the revenges of humanity, the wrongs of ages, baffled feuds and hatreds, Outer defeat upon me weighs, all lost, the foe victorious. Yet mid the ruins, pride colossal stands unshaken to the last, Endurance, resolution to the last. Now trumpeter, for thy clothes, vouchsafe a higher strain than any yet, Sing to my soul, renew its languishing faith and hope, Rouse up my slow belief, give me some vision of the future, Give me for once its prophecy and joy. O glad, exalting, culminating song, of vigor more than earth's is on thy notes, Marches of victory, men disenthralled, the conqueror at last, Hymns to the universal God from universal man, all joy, A reborn race appears, a perfect world, all joy, Women and men in wisdom, innocence and health, all joy, Riotous, laughing, bacchanals filled with joy, War, sorrow, suffering, gone. The rank earth purged, nothing but joy left, The ocean filled with joy, the atmosphere, all joy, joy, Joy in freedom worship, love, joy in the ecstasy of life, Enough to merely be, enough to breathe, joy, joy, all over, joy. To a locomotive in winter, thee for my recitative, Thee in the driving storm, even as now the snow, The winter day declining thee, in thy panoply, Thy measured duel, throbbing, and thy beat convulsive, Thy black cylindric body, golden brass and silvery steel, Thy ponderous sidebars, parallel and connecting rods, Gyrating, shuttling at thy sides, Thy metrical, now swelling pant and roar, Now tapering in the distance, Thy great protruding headlight fixed in front, Thy long, pale, floating vapor penance, Tinged with delicate purple, the dense and murky clouds Out belching from the smokestack, thy knitted frame, Thy springs and valves, the tremulous twinkle of thy wheels, Thy train of cars behind, obedient, merrily following, Through gale or calm, now swift, now slack, yet steadily careering, Type of the modern emblem of motion and power, pulse of the continent, For once come serve the muse, and merge in verse, Even as here I see thee with the storm, And buffeting gusts of wind and falling snow, By day thy warning bringing bell to sound its notes, By night thy silent signal lamps to swing, Fierce throated beauty, roll through my chant With all thy lawless music, thy swinging lamps at night, Thy madly whistled laughter echoing, Rumbling like an earthquake rousing all, Law of thy self-complete, thine own track firmly holding, No sweetness debonair of tearful harp or glib piano thine, Thy trills of streaks by rocks and hills returned, Launched o'er the prairies wide across the lakes, To the free skies umpent and glad and strong. O magnet south, O magnet south, O glistening perfumed south, my south, O quick metal, rich blood, impulse and love, Good and evil, O all dear to me, O dear to me my birth-things, all moving things, And the trees where I was born, the grains, plants, Rivers dear to me, my own sluggish rivers where they flow, Distant over flats of silvery sands or through swamps, Dear to me the Roanoke, the Savannah, the Altamaha, the PD, The Tumbigbee, the Santi, the Cusa, the Sabine, O pensive fear away wandering, I return with my soul To haunt their banks again. Again in Florida I float on transparent lakes, I float on the Okeechobee, Cross the hummock land or through pleasant openings Or dense forests, I see the parrots in the woods, See the paw-paw tree and the blossoming titi, Again sailing in my coaster on deck I coast off Georgia, I coast up the Carolinas, I see where the live oak is growing, I see where the yellow pine, the scented bay-tree, The lemon and orange, the cypress, the graceful palmetto, I pass rude sea-headlands and enter Pamlico Sound through an inlet, And dart my vision inland. O the cotton-plant, the growing fields of rice, Sugar and hemp, the cactus guarded with thorns, The laurel tree with white large flowers that range afar, The richness and barrenness, the old woods charged with mistletoe And trailing moss, the piney odor and the gloom, The awful natural stillness here in these dense swamps, The freebooter carries his gun, and the fugitive has his concealed hut. O the strange fascination of these half-known, Half-impassable swamps, infested by reptiles, Resounding with the bellow of the alligator the sad noises of the night owl And the wild-cat and the horror of the rattlesnake, The mockingbird, the American mimic, Singing all the forenoon, singing through the moonlit night, The hummingbird, the wild turkey, the raccoon, The opossum, a Kentucky cornfield, The tall, graceful, long-leaved corn slender, Flapping bright green with tassels, with beautiful ears Each well sheathed in its husk. O my heart, O tender and fierce pangs, I can stand them not. I will depart. O to be a Virginian, where I grew up, O to be a Carolinian, O longings irrepressible. O I will go back to old Tennessee, and never wander more. Manahatta. I was asking for something specific and perfect for my city, Whereupon low up sprang the aboriginal name. Now I see what there is in a name, A word, liquid, sane, unruly, musical, self-sufficient. I see that the word of my city is that word from of old, Because I see that word nested in nests of water-bays, Superb, rich, hemmed, thick, all round, With sail-ships and steamships, an island, Sixteen miles long, solid-founded, Numberless, crowded streets, High groves of iron, slender, strong, Light, splendidly uprising toward clear skies, Tides, swift and ample, well-loved by me toward sundown, The flowing sea currents, the little islands, Larger adjoining islands, the heights, the villas, The countless masts, the white shore steamers, The lighters, the ferry boats, the black sea steamers, Well-modeled, the downtown streets, The jobbers' houses of business, the houses of business Of the ship merchants and money brokers, The river streets, immigrants arriving, Fifteen or twenty thousand in a week, The carts hauling goods, the manly face Of drivers of horses, the brown-faced sailors, The summer air, the bright sun shining, And the sailing clouds aloft, the winter snows, The sleigh bells, the broken ice in the river Passing up or down with the flood tide, or ebb tide, The mechanics of the city, the masters well-formed, Beautiful face, looking you straight in the eyes, Tratoires thronged, vehicles, Broadway, the women, The shops and shows, a million people, Manners free and superb, open voices, Hospitality, the most courageous and friendly young men, City of hurried and sparkling waters, City of spires and masts, city nestled in bays, My city, all is truth. O me, man of slack faith, too long, Standing aloof, denying portions so long, Only aware today of compact, all-diffused truth. Discovering today there is no lie or form of lie, And can be none but grows as inevitably upon itself As the truth does upon itself, or as any law of the earth, Or any natural production of the earth does. This is curious and may not be realized immediately, But it must be realized. I feel in myself that I represent falsehoods equally with the rest, And that the universe does. Where has failed a perfect return in different of lies or the truth? It is upon the ground. Is it in water or fire, Or in the spirit of man or in the meat and blood, Meditating among liars, and retreating sternly into myself, I see that there are really no liars or lies after all, And that nothing fails its perfect return, And that what are called lies are perfect returns, And that each thing exactly represents itself, And what has preceded it, And that the truth includes all, And is compact just as much as space is compact, And there is no flaw or vacuum in the moment of the truth, But that all is truth without exception, And henceforth I will go celebrate anything I see or am, And sing and laugh and deny nothing. A riddle-song. That which eludes this verse and any verse unheard by sharpest ear, Unformed in clearest eye or cunningness mind, Nor lore, nor fame, nor happiness, nor wealth, and yet, The pulse of every heart and life throughout the world incessantly, Which you and I, all perusing, ever, ever miss, Open, but still a secret, the real of the real, An illusion, costless, vouchsafed to each, Yet never man the owner, Which poets vainly seek to put in rhyme Historians in prose, Which sculptor never chiseled yet, nor painter painted, Which vocalist never sung nor orator nor actor ever uttered, Invoking here and now I challenge for my song. Indifferently, mid-public private haunts in solitude Behind the mountain and the wood, Companion of the city's busiest streets, Through the assemblage it and its radiations constantly glide. It looks of fair unconscious babes, Or strangely in the coffined dead, Or show of breaking dawn or stars by night As some dissolving delicate film of dreams, Hiding yet lingering. Two little words, Two little breaths of words comprising it, Two words, yet all from first to last, Comprised in it. How ardently for it, How many ships have sailed and sunk for it, How many travellers started from their homes and ne'er returned, How much genius boldly staked and lost for it, What countless stores of beauty, love ventured for it, How all superbest deeds since time began Are traceable to it and shall be to the end, How heroic martyrdoms to it, how justified by it, The horrors, evils, battles of the earth, How the bright, fascinating, lambed flames of it In every age and land have drawn men's eyes Rich as a sunset on the Norway coast, The sky, the islands and the cliffs, Or midnight's silent glowing northern lights unreachable. Happily, gods riddle it. So vague and yet so certain, The soul for it, and all the visible universe for it, And heaven at last for it. Excelsior, who has gone farthest? For I would go farther. Who has been just? For I would be the most just person of the earth. And who most cautious, for I would be more cautious? And who has been happiest? Oh, I think it is I. I think no one was ever happier than I. And who has lavished all? For I lavish constantly the best I have. And who proudest? For I think I have reason to be the proudest son alive, For I am the son of the brawny and tall-topped city. And who has been bold and true? For I would be the boldest and truest being of the universe. And who benevolent? For I would show more benevolence than all the rest. And who has received the love of the most friends? For I know what it is to receive the passionate love of many friends. And who possesses a perfect and enamored body? For I do not believe anyone possesses a more perfect or enamored body than mine. And who thinks the amplest thoughts? For I would surround those thoughts. And who has made hymns fit for the earth? For I am mad with devouring ecstasy to make joyous hymns for the whole earth. A poverty's wincings and sulky retreats. A poverty's wincings and sulky retreats. Ah, you foes in conflict have overcome me for what is my life, for any man's life but a conflict with foes. The old, the incessant war. You degradations, you tussle with passions and appetites. You smarts from dissatisfied friendships. Ah, wounds the sharpest of all. You toil of painful and choked articulations. You meanness. You shallow tongue talks at tables. My tongue the shallowest of any. You broken resolutions. You racking angers. You smothered ennui's. Ah, think not, you finally triumph. My real self has yet to come forth. It shall yet march forth or mastering till all lies beneath me. It shall yet stand up the soldier of ultimate victory. Of public opinion. Of a calm and cool fiat sooner or later. How impassive, how certain and final. Of the president with pale face asking secretly to himself, what will the people say at last? Of the frivolous judge, of the corrupt congressman, governor, mayor, of such as these standing helpless and exposed. Of the mumbling and screaming priest soon, soon deserted. Of the lessening year by year of venerableness and of the dicta of officers, statues, pulpits, schools. Of the rising forever taller and stronger and broader of the intuitions of men and women. Of the self-esteem and personality. Of the true new world. Of the democracies resplendent en masse. Of the conformity of politics, armies, navies to them. Of the shining sun by them. Of the inherent light greater than the rest. Of the envelopment of all by them. And the effusion of all from them. Mediums. They shall arise in the states. They shall report to nature, laws, physiology and happiness. They shall illustrate democracy and the cosmos. They shall be elementive, amative, perceptive. They shall be complete men and women, their pose brawny and supple, their drink, water, their blood clean and clear. They shall fully enjoy materialism and the sight of products. They shall enjoy the sight of the beef, lumber, breadstuffs of Chicago, the great city. They shall train themselves to go in public to become orators and oratresses. Strong and sweet shall be their tongues. Poems and materials of poems shall come from their lives. They shall be makers and finders. Of them and of thy work shall emerge divine conveyors to convey gospels. Characters, events, retrospections shall be conveyed in gospels. Trees, animals, waters shall be conveyed. Death, the future, the invisible faith shall all be conveyed. Weave in, my hearty life. Weave in, weave in, my hearty life. Weave yet a soldier strong and full for great campaigns to come. Weave in red blood, reeves sinews like ropes. The senses sight weave in. Weave lasting shore, weave day and night, the weft, the warp incessant. Weave tire not. We know not what use o' life. Nor know the aim, the end, nor really ought we know. But know the work, the need goes on and shall go on. The death-enveloped march of peace as well as war goes on. For those great campaigns of peace the same the wiry threads to weave we know not why or what. Yet weave. Forever weave. Spain, 1873, 74. Out of the murk of heaviest clouds out of the funeral wrecks and heaped-up skeletons of kings out of that old and tire European debris the shattered mummaries ruined cathedrals crumble of palaces, tombs of priests. Low freedoms features fresh, undimmed look forth. The same immortal face looks forth a glimpse as of thy mother's face, Columbia, a flash significant as of a sword beaming toward thee. Nor think we forget thee, maternal, lagst thou so long? Shall the clouds close again upon thee? Ah, but thou hast thyself now appeared to us. We know thee, thou hast given us a sure proof, the glimpse of thyself, thou waitest there as everywhere thy time. By broad Potomac's shore, by broad Potomac's shore again old tongue still uttering still ejaculating canst never cease this babble. Again old heart so gay again to you your sense first full flush spring returning. Again the freshness and the odours again Virginia's summer sky pellicit blue and silver. Again the forenoon purple of the hills. Again the deathless grass so noiseless, soft and green. Again the blood red roses blooming. Perfume this book of mine, oh blood red roses wave subtly with your waters every line, Potomac. Give me of you, oh spring, before I close to put between its pages. Oh forenoon purple of the hills before I close of you. Oh deathless grass of you. Far from Dakota's canyons June 25th 1876. Far from Dakota's canyons lands of the wild ravine the dusky sooth alone some stretch the silence. Happily day to day a mournful wall. Happily a trumpet note for heroes. The battle bulletin, the Indian ambuscade, the craft, the fatal environment, the cavalry companies fighting to the last in the midst of their little circle with their slaughtered horses for breast-works, the fall of Custer, and all his officers and men. Continues yet the old, old legend of our race, the loftiest of life unheld by death, the ancient banner perfectly maintained, oh lesson of a tune, oh how I welcome thee. As sitting in the dark days, lone, sulky, through that time, thick, murk, looking in vain for light, for hope, from unsuspected parts of fierce and momentary proof, the sun there at the center, though concealed, electric life, forever at the center, brings forth a lightning flash. Thou of the tawny flowing hair in battle thy air-wiles saw with erect head pressing ever in front, bearing a bright sword in thy hand, now ending well in death the splendid fever of thy deeds. I bring no dirge for it or thee. I bring a glad triumphal sonnet, desperate and glorious. I, in defeat, most desperate, most glorious, leaving behind thee a memory sweet to soldiers. Thou yieldest up, thyself, old war-dreams. In midnight sleep of many faces of anguish, of the look at first of the mortally wounded, of that indescribable look of the dead in backs with arms extended wide. I dream, I dream, I dream of scenes of nature, fields, mountains, of skies so beautyous after a storm, and at night the moon so unearthly bright, shining sweetly, shining down where we dig the trenches and gather the heaps. I dream, I dream, I dream. Long have they passed, faces and trenches and fields where through the carnage I moved with a callous composure or away from the fallen onward I sped at the time, but now of their forms at night, I dream, I dream. Thick sprinkled bunting, thick sprinkled bunting flag of stars, long yet your road, fateful flag, long yet your road and lined with bloody death, for the prize I see at issue is, at last, the world. All its ships and shores I see interwoven with your threads, greedy banner, dreamed again of flags and kings, highest born to flaunt unrivaled. O hastened flag of man, O with shore and steady step, passing highest flags of kings, walk supreme to the heaven's mighty symbol, I run up above them all flag of stars, thick sprinkled bunting. What best I see in thee to you, S. G., returned from his world's tour? What best I see in thee is not that where thou moofst down history's great highways, ever undimmed by time, shoots war-like victories dazzle, or that thou sat'st where Washington sat, ruling the land in peace, or thou, the man whom feudal Europe fated, venerable Asia swarmed upon who walked with kings with even pace the round world's promenade. But that in foreign lands, in all thy walks with kings, those prairie sovereigns of the West, Kansas, Missouri, Illinois, Ohio's, Indiana's millions, comrades, farmers, soldiers, all to the front, invisibly with thee walking with kings, with even pace the round world's promenade were all so justified. Spirit that formed this scene, written in Platt Canyon, Colorado. Spirit that formed this scene, these tumbled rock piles grim and red, these reckless heaven-ambitious peaks, these gorges, turbulent clear streams, these naked freshnesses, these formless wild arrays for reasons of their own. I know thee, savage spirit. We have communed together. Mine, too, such wild arrays for reasons of their own was charged against my chance. They had forgotten art to fuse within themselves its rules precise and delicatess. The lyricists measured beat the wrought-out temples grace, column, and polished art forgot. But thou, that rebelist here, spirit that formed this scene, they have remembered thee. As I walk these broad majestic days, as I walk these broad majestic days of peace for the war, the struggle of blood finished, wherein no terrific ideal against vast odds, erstwhile having gloriously won now, thou stridest on. Yet perhaps in time toward denser wars, perhaps to engage in time the still more dreadful contests, dangers, longer campaigns, and crises, labors beyond all others around me, I hear that a clot of the world, politics, produce the announcements of recognized things, science, the approved growth of cities, and the spread of inventions. I see the ships, they will last a few years, the vast factories with all their foremen and workmen, and hear the endorsement of all, and do not object to it. But I too announce solid things, science, ships, politics, cities, factories are not nothing. Like a grand procession to music of distant bugles pouring, triumphantly moving, and grandeur heaving in sight, they stand for realities, all is as it should be. Then, my realities, what else is so real as mine? Libertad and the divine average, freedom to every slave on the face of the earth, the wrapped promises of lumine of seers, the spiritual world, these centuries-lasting songs, and our visions, the visions of poets, the most solid announcements of any, a clear midnight. This is thy hour, O soul, thy free flight into the worldless, away from the books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done, thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes thou lovest best, night, sleep, death, and the stars. End of book 32. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, visit LibriVox.org. Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman. Book 33 Songs of Parting As the time draws nigh, as the time draws nigh, glooming a cloud, a dread beyond of I know not what darkens me. I shall go forth, I shall traverse the states awhile, but I cannot tell wither or how long, perhaps some day or night while I am singing, my voice will suddenly cease. O book, O chance, must all then amount to but this? Must we barely arrive at this beginning of us? And yet, it is enough, O soul. O soul, we have positively appeared. That is enough. Years of the modern. Years of the modern. Years of the unperformed. Your horizon rises. I see it parting away for more august dramas. I see not America only, not only Liberty's nation, but other nations preparing. I see tremendous entrances and exits, new combinations, the solidarity of races. I see that force advancing with irresistible power on the world stage. Have the old forces, the old wars played their parts? Are the acts suitable to them? Closed. I see freedom, completely armed and victorious and very haughty, with law on one side and peace on the other. A stupendous trio all issuing forth the idea of caste. What historic denouement are these we so rapidly approach? I see men marching and counter-marching by swift millions. I see the frontiers and boundaries of the old aristocracies broken. I see the landmarks of European kings removed. I see this day the people beginning their landmarks. All others give way. Never were such sharp questions asked as this day. Never was average man his soul more energetic, more like a god. Low how he urges and urges, leaving the mess is no rest. His daring foot is on land and sea everywhere. He colonizes the Pacific, the archipelagos with the steamship, the electric telegraph, the newspaper, the wholesale engines of war. With these and the world spreading factories, he interlinks all geography, all lands. What whispers are these, oh lands running ahead of you, passing under the seas? Are all nations communing? Is there going to be but one heart to the globe? Is humanity forming en masse? For low tyrants tremble, crowns grow dim, the earth, restive, confronts a new era, perhaps a general divine war. No one knows what will happen next. Such portents fill the days and nights. Years prophetical, the space ahead as I walk, as I vainly try to pierce it, is full of phantoms, unborn deeds, things soon to be, project their shapes around me. This incredible rush in heat, this strange ecstatic fever of dreams, oh years, your dreams, oh years, how they penetrate through me, I know not whether I sleep or wake. The performed America in Europe grow dim, retiring in shadow behind me, the unperformed, more gigantic than ever, advance, advance upon me, ashes of soldiers, ashes of soldiers south or north, as I muse retrospective murmuring a chant and thought. The war resumes, again to my sense your shapes, and again the advance of the armies. Noiseless as mists and vapors from their graves in the trenches ascending from cemeteries all through Virginia and Tennessee, from every point of the compass out of the countless graves in wafted clouds, in myriads large or squads of twos or threes or single ones, they come and silently gather round me. No, now sound, no note, oh Trumpeters, not at the head of my Calvary parading on spirited horses. Sabres drawn and glistening and carbines by their thighs, ah, my brave horseman, my handsome tan-faced horseman, what life, what joy, and pride with all the perils were yours. Nor you drummers, neither at revelry at dawn, nor the long roll alarming the camp, nor even the muffled beat for burial. Nothing from you this time, oh drummers, bearing my warlike drums. But aside from these and the marts of wealth and the crowded promenade admitting around me comrades close unseen by the rest and voiceless, the slain elate and alive again, the dust and debris alive, I chant this chant of my silent soul in the name of all dead soldiers. Faces so pale with wondrous eyes, very dear, gather closer yet, draw close, but speak not. Phantoms of countless lost, invisible to the rest henceforth, become my companions, follow me ever, desert me not while I live. Sweet are the blooming cheeks of the living, sweet are the musical voices sounding, but sweet, ah, sweet are the dead with their silent eyes. Dearest comrades, all is over and long gone, but love is not over. And what love, oh comrades, perfume from battle fields rising up from the fetter arising. Perfume, therefore my chant, oh love, immortal love, give me to bathe the memories of all dead soldiers, shroud them, imbound them, and cover them all over with tender pride. Perfume all, make all wholesome, make these ashes to nourish and blossom, oh love, salve all, fructify all with the last chemistry. Give me exhaustless, make me a fountain that I exhale love from me wherever I go, like a moist perennial dew for the ashes of all dead soldiers south or north. Thoughts, one. Of these I sing, how they pass and have passed through convulsed pains as through parturitions, how America illustrates birth, muscular youth, the promise, the sure fulfillment, the absolute success, despite of people, illustrates evil as well as good. The vehement struggles so fierce for unity in oneself, how many hold despairingly yet to the models departed, caste, myths, obedience, compulsion, and to infidelity. How few see the arrived models, the athletes, the western states, or see freedom or spirituality or hold any faith in results. But I see the athletes, and I see the results of the war glorious and inevitable, and they again leading to other results. How the great cities appear, how the democratic masses turbulent, willful as I love them, how the world, the contest, the wrestle of evil with good, the sounding and resounding keep on and on, how society waits unformed and is for a while between things ended and things begun, how America is the continent of glories and of the triumph of freedom and of the democracies and of the fruits of society and of all that is begun and how the states are complete in themselves and how all triumphs and glories are complete in themselves to lead onward and how these of mine and of the states will in their turn be convulsed and serve other parturitions and transitions and how all people, sites, combinations, the democratic masses to serve and how every fact and war itself with all its horrors serves and how now or at any time each serves the exquisite transition of death to of seeds dropping into the grounds of births of the steady concentration of America inland upward to impregnable and swarming places of what Indiana, Kentucky, Arkansas and the rest are to be of what a few years will show there in Nebraska, Colorado, Nevada and the rest or afar mounting the Northern Pacific to Sitka or Aliaska of what the fuel age of America is the preparation for and of what all sites North, South East and West are of this union welded in blood of the solemn price paid of the unnamed lost ever present in my mind of the temporary use of materials for identity's sake of the present passing departing of the growth of completer men than any yet of all sloping down there the fresh free giver, the mother the Mississippi flows of mighty inland cities yet unsurveyed and unsuspected of the new and good names of the modern developments of inalienable homesteads of a free and original life there of simple diet and clean and sweet blood of liveness majestic faces of clear eyes and perfect physique there of immense spiritual results future years far west each side of the Anowaks of these songs well understood there being made for that area of the native scorn of grossness and gain there oh, it lurks in me night and day what is gain after all to savageness and freedom song at sunset splendor of ended day floating and filling me our prophetic our resuming the past inflating my throat you divine average you earth and life to the last ray of gleams I sing open mouth of my soul uttering gladness eyes of my soul seeing perfection natural life of me faithfully praising things corroborating forever the triumph of things illustrious everyone illustrious what we name space sphere of unnumbered spirits illustrious the mystery of motion in all beings even the tiniest insect illustrious the attribute of speech the senses the body illustrious the passing light illustrious the pale reflection on the new moon in the western sky illustrious whatever I see or hear or touch to the last good in all in the satisfaction and aplomb of animals in the annual return of the seasons in the hilarity of youth in the strength and flush of manhood in the grandeur and exquisiteness of old age in the superb vistas of death wonderful to depart wonderful to be here the heart to jet the all alike and innocent blood to breathe the air how delicious to speak to walk to see something by the hand to prepare for sleep for bed to look on my rose colored flesh to be conscious of my body so satisfied so large to be this incredible God I am to have gone forth among other gods these men and women I love wonderful how I celebrate you and myself how my thoughts play subtly at the spectacles around how the clouds pass silently overhead how the earth darts on and on and how the moon sun stars dart on and on how the water sports and sings surely it is alive how the trees rise and stand up with strong trunks with branches and leaves surely there is something more in each of these trees some living soul oh amazement of things even the least particle oh spirituality of things oh strain musical flowing through ages and continents now reaching me and America I take your strong cords interspersed them and cheerfully passed them forward I too Carol the sun ushered or at noon or as now setting I too throb to the brain and beauty of the earth and of all the growths of the earth I too have the resistless call of myself as I steamed down the Mississippi as I wandered over the prairies as I have lived as I have looked through my windows my eyes as I went forth in the morning as I beheld the light breaking in the east as I bathed on the beach of the eastern sea and again on the beach of the western sea as I roamed the streets of inland Chicago whatever streets I have roamed or cities or silent woods or even amid the sights of war wherever I have been I have charged myself with contentment and triumph I sing to the last the equalities modern or old I sing the endless finales of things I say nature continues glory continues I praise with electric voice I do not see one imperfection in the universe and I do not see one cause or result lamentable at last in the universe oh setting sun though the time has come I still warble under you if none else does unmitigated adoration as at thy portals also death as at thy portals also death entering the sovereign dim illimitable grounds to memories of my mother to the divine blending maternity to her buried and gone yet buried not gone not for me I see again the calm benignant face fresh and beautiful still I sit by the form in the coffin I kiss and kiss convulsively again the sweet old lips the cheeks the closed eyes in the coffin to her the ideal woman practical, spiritual of all of earth life, love to me the best I grave a monumental line before I go amid these songs and set a tombstone here my legacy the businessman, the acquirer vast after assiduous years surveying results preparing for departure devises houses and lands to his children be queens, stocks goods, funds for a school or hospital leaves money to certain companions to buy tokens, souvenirs of gems and gold but I my life surveying closing with nothing to show to devise from its idle years nor houses nor lands nor tokens of gems or gold for my friends yet certain remembrances of the war for you and after you and little souvenirs of camps and soldiers with my love I bind together and bequeath in this bundle of songs pensive on her dead gazing pensive on her dead gazing I heard the mother of all desperate on the torn bodies on the forms covering the battlefields gazing as the last gun ceased but the scent of the powder smoke lingered as she called to her earth and with mournful voice while she stalked absorbed them well oh my earth she cried I charge you lose not my sons lose not an atom and you streams absorb them well taking their dear blood and you local spots and you heirs that swim above lightly impalpable and all you essences of soil and growth and you my rivers depths and you mountain sides and the woods where my dear children's blood trickling reddened and you trees down in your roots to bequeath to all future trees my dead absorb or south or north my young men's bodies absorb and their precious precious blood which holding in trust for me faithfully back again give me many a year hence in unseen essence and odor of surface and grass centuries hence in blowing heirs from the fields back again give me my darlings give my immortal heroes ex hail me them centuries hence breathe me their breath let not an atom be lost years and graves oh air and soil oh my dead and aroma sweet exhale them perennial sweet death years centuries hence camps of green nor alone those camps of white old comrades of the wars when as ordered forward after a long march footsore and weary soon as the light lessens we halt for the night some of us fatigued carrying the gun and knapsack dropping asleep in our tracks others pitching the little tents and the fires lit up begin to sparkle outposts of pickets posted surrounding alert through the dark and a word provided for countersign careful for safety till to the call of the drummers at daybreak loudly beating the drums we rise up refreshed the night and sleep passed over and resume our journey or proceed to battle low the camps of the tents of green which the days of peace keep filling and the days of war keep filling with a mystic army is it too ordered forward is it too only halting a while till night and sleep pass over now in those camps of green in their tents dotting the world in the parents, children, husbands wives in them in the old and young sleeping under the sunlight sleeping under the moonlight content and silent there at last behold the mighty Bivouac field and waiting camp of all of the core and generals all and the president over the core and generals all and of each of us oh soldiers and of each and all in the ranks we fought there without hatred we all all meet for presently oh soldiers we too camp in our place in the Bivouac camps of green but we need not provide for outposts nor word for the counter sign nor drummer to beat the morning drum the sobbing of the bells midnight September 19th through 20th 1881 the sobbing of the bells the sudden death news everywhere the slumberers rouse the rapport of the people full well they know that message in the darkness full well return respond within their breasts their brains the sad reverberations the passionate toll and clang city to city joining sounding passing those heartbeats of a nation in the night as they draw to a close as they draw to a close of what underlies the precedent songs of my aims in them of the seed I have sought to plant in them of joy sweet joy through many a year in them for them for them have I lived in them my work is done of many an aspiration fond of many a dream and plan through space and time fused in a chant and the flowing eternal identity to nature encompassing these encompassing God to the joyous electric all to the sense of death and accepting exalting in death in its turn the same as life the entrance of man to sing to compact you the parted diverse lives and to put rapport the mountains and rocks and streams and the winds of the north and the forests of oak and pine with you all soul joy shipmate joy joy shipmate joy pleased to my soul at death I cry our life is closed our life begins the long long anchorage we leave the ship is clear at last she leaps she swiftly courses from the shore joy shipmate joy the untold want the untold want by life and land near granted now voyager sale thou forth to seek and find portals what are those of the known but to ascend and enter the unknown and what are those of life but for death these carols these carols sung to chair my passage through the world I see for completion I dedicate to the invisible world now finale to the shore now finale to the shore now land and life finale and farewell voyager depart much much for thee is yet in store often enough hast thou adventured or the seas cautiously cruising studying the charts duly again to port and houses thy returning but now obey thy cherished secret wish embrace thy friends leave all in order port and houses tie no more returning depart upon thy endless cruise old sailor so long to conclude I announce what comes after me I remember I said before my leaves sprang at all I would raise my voice jockened and strong with reference to consummations when America does what was promised and through these states walk a hundred million of superb persons when the rest part away for superb persons and contribute to them when breeds of the most perfect mothers denote America then to me and mine are due fruition I have pressed through in my own right I have sung the body and the soul war and peace have I sung the songs of life and death and the songs of birth and shown that there are many births I have offered my style to everyone I've journeyed with confidence step while my pleasure is yet at the full I whisper so long and take the young woman's hand and the young man's hand for the last time I announce natural persons to arise I announce justice, triumphant I announce uncompromising liberty and equality I announce the justification of candor and the justification of pride I announce that the identity of these states is a single identity only I announce the union more and more compact and insoluble I announce splendors and majesties to make all the previous politics of the earth insignificant I announce adhesiveness I say it shall be limitless unloosened I say you shall yet find the friend you were looking for I announce a man or woman coming perhaps you are the one so long I announce the great individual fluid as nature chased, affectionate, compassionate fully armed I announce a life that shall be copious vehement, spiritual, bold I announce an end that shall lightly and joyfully meet its translation I announce myriads of youths beautiful, gigantic, sweet, blooded I announce a race of splendid and savage old men oh, thicker and faster so long oh, crowding too close upon me I foresee too much it means more than I thought it appears to me I am dying hasten throat and sound your last salute me, salute the days once more peel the old cry once more screaming, electric the atmosphere using at random glancing even as I notice absorbing swiftly on but a little while alighting curious enveloped messages delivering sparkles hot seed ethereal down in the dirt dropping myself unknowing my commission obeying to question it never daring to ages and ages yet the growth of the seed leaving to troops out of the war arising they the tasks I have set promulging to women certain whispers of myself bequeathing their affection me more clearly explaining to young men my problems offering no dally or eye eye the muscle of their brains trying so I pass a little time vocal visible contrary afterward a melodious echo passionately bent for death making me really undying the best of me then when no longer visible for toward that I have been incessantly preparing what is there more that I lag and pause and crouch extended with unchut mouth is there a single final farewell my song cease I abandoned them from behind the screen where I hid advance personally solely to you camarado this is notebook who touches this touches a man is it night are we here together alone is it I you hold and who holds you I spring from the pages into your arms to cease calls me forth oh how your fingers drows me your breath falls around me like do your pulse lulls the temp and of my ears I feel emerged from head to foot delicious enough enough oh deed impromptu and secret enough oh gliding present enough oh summed up past dear friend whoever you are take this kiss I give it especially to you do not forget me I feel like one who has done work for the day to retire a while I receive now again of my many translations from my avatars ascending while others doubtless await me an unknown sphere more real than I dreamed more direct darts awakening rays about me so long remember my words I may again return I love you I depart from materials I am as one disembodied triumphant dead end of book 33 read by Dennis Sayers Modesto California winter 2006