 Book 24 part one of Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by phone. Book 24 Autumn Rivulence. As Consequent, etc. As Consequent, from store of summer rains, or wayward rivulence in autumn flowing, or many herb-lined brooks' articulations, or subterranean serials making for the sea, songs of continued years I sing. Life's ever-modern rapids first, soon, soon to blend with the old streams of death. Some threading Ohio's farm fields or the woods. Some down Colorado's cannons from sources of perpetual snow. Some half-hid in Oregon, or away southward in Texas. Some in the north finding their way to Erie, Niagara, Ottawa. Some to Atlantica's bays, and so to the Great Salt Brine. In you, whoever you are, my book perusing. In I myself, in all the world, these currents flowing. All, all toward domestic ocean tending. Currents for starting a continent new. Overtures sent to the solid, out of the liquid. Fusion of ocean and land. Tender and pensive waves. Not safe and peaceful only. Waves roused and ominous too. Out of the depths the storms abysmic waves. Who knows whence? Raging over the vast, with many a broken spar and tattered sail. Or from the sea of time, collecting, vasting all, I bring a window-drift of weeds and shells. O little shells, so curious convolut, so limpid-cold and voiceless! Will you not, little shells, to the timpans of temples held, murmurs and echoes still call up, Eternity's music faint and far. Wofted inland, sent from Atlantica's rim, strains for the soul of the prairies. Whispered reverberations, chords for the ear of the west joyously sounding. Your tidings old, yet ever new and untranslatable. Infinitesimals out of my life, and many a life. For not my life and years alone I give. All, all I give. These waves from the deep, cast high and dry. Washed on America's shores. The return of the heroes. One. For the lands, and for these passionate days, and for myself. Now I, a while, retire to thee, O soil of autumn fields. Reclining on thy breast, giving myself to thee. Answering the pulses of thy sane and equitable heart. Turning a verse for thee. O earth that has no voice. Confide to me a voice. O harvest of my lands. O boundless summer growths. O lavish-brown, perturient earth. O infinite teeming womb. A song to narrate thee. Two. Ever upon this stage is acted God's calm annual drama. Gorgeous processions, songs of birds. Sunrise that fullest feeds and freshens most the soul. The heaving sea, the waves upon the shore. The musical strong waves. The woods, the stalwart trees. The slender, tapering trees. The lily-pot countless armies of the grass. The heat, the showers. The measureless pasturages. The scenery of the snows. The winds free orchestra. The stretching, light-hung roof of clouds. The clear cerulean and the silvery fringes. The high dilating stars. The placid beckoning stars. The moving flocks and herds. The plains and emerald meadows. The shows of all the varied lands and all the growths and products. Three. Fecant America, today thou art all over set in births and joys. Thou groanst with riches, thy wealth clothes thee as a swathing garment. Thou lavest loud with ache of great possessions. A myriad twining life, like interlacing vines, binds all thy vast domain. As some huge ship freighted to water's edge, thou writhest into port. As rain falls from the heaven and vapours rise from earth, so have the precious values fallen upon thee and risen out of thee. Thou envy of the globe, thou miracle. Thou bathed, choked, swimming in plenty. Thou lucky mistress of the tranquil barns. Thou prairie dame that's sittest in the middle, and locus out upon thy world, and locus east and locus west. Dispensitress that by a word givest a thousand miles, a million farms, and misest nothing. Thou all acceptrous, thou hospitable, thou only art hospitable as God is hospitable. Four. When late I sang, sad was my voice. Sad were the shows around me with deafening noises of hatred and smoke of war. In the midst of the conflict, the heroes I stood, or passed with slow step through the wounded and dying. But now I sing not war, nor the measured march of soldiers, nor the tents of camps, nor the regiments hastily coming up, deploying in line of battle. No more the sad unnatural shows of war. Ask room, those flushed immortal ranks, the first fourth-stepping armies. Ask room, alas, the ghastly ranks, the army's dread that followed. Pass, pass, ye proud brigades, with your tramping sinewy legs, with your shoulders young and strong, with your knapsacks and your muskets. How elate I stood and watched you, where starting off you marched. Pass, then rattled drums again, for an army heathes in sight, oh, another gathering army. Swarming, trailing on the rear, oh, you dread accruing army, oh, you regiments so piteous, with your mortal diarrhea, with your fever. Oh, my lands maimed darlings, with the plenteous bloody bandage and the crutch. Lo, your pallid army follows. Five. But on these days of brightness, on a far-stretching, beautiest landscape, the roads and lanes, the high-piled farm-wagons, and the fruits and barns, should the dead intrude? Ah, the dead to me, mar not, they fit well in nature. They fit very well in the landscape under the trees and grass, and along the edge of the sky, in the horizon's far margin. Nor do I forget you departed, nor in winter or summer my lost ones, but most in the open air, as now when my soul is wrapped in that peace, like pleasing phantoms, your memories rising, glide silently by me. Six. I saw the day the return of the heroes, yet the heroes never surpassed, shall never return, them that day I saw not. I saw the interminable corps, I saw the processions of armies, I saw them approaching, defiling by with the visions, streaming northward, their work done, camping a while in clusters of mighty camps. No holiday soldiers, youthful yet veterans, worn, swart, handsome, strong, of the stock of homesteadened workshop, hardened of many a long campaign and sweaty march, enured on many a hard-fought bloody field. A pause, the armies wait, a million flushed embattled conquerors wait. The world too waits, then soft as breaking night and sure as dawn, they melt, they disappear. Exult, O lands, victorious lands, not dare your victory on those red, shuddering fields, but hear and hence your victory. Melt, melt away ye armies, dispersed ye blue-clad soldiers, resolve ye back again, give up for good your deadly arms, other the arms, the fields, henceforth for you, or south or north, with saner wars, sweet wars, life-giving wars. 7. Loud, O my throat, and clear, O soul, the season of thanks and the voice of full yielding, the chant of joy and power for boundless fertility, all tilled and untilled fields expand before me. I see the true arenas of my race, or first or last, man's innocent and strong arenas. I see the heroes at other toils, I see well-wielded in their hands the better weapons. I see where the mother of all, with full spanning eye gazes forth, dwells long, and counts the varied gathering of the products. Busy the far, the sunlit panorama, prairie orchard and yellow grain of the north, cotton and rice of the south, and louisianian king, open unseeded fallows, rich fields of clover and timothy, kind and horses feeding, and droves of sheep and swine, and many a stately river flowing, and many a jockened brook, and healthy uplands with herby-perfumed breezes, and the good green grass that delicate miracle the ever-recurring grass. 8. Toil on, heroes, harvest the products, not alone on those warlike fields the mother of all, with dilated form and lambend eyes watched you. Toil on, heroes, toil well, handle the weapons well, the mother of all, yet here as ever she watches you. Well-pleased America, thou beholdest, over the fields of the west, those crawling monsters, the human divine inventions, the labor-saving implements. Beholdest, moving in every direction, imbued us with life, the revolving hay-rakes, the steam-power reaping machines, and the horse-power machines, the engines, thrashers of grain and cleaners of grain, well-separating the straw, the nimble work of the patent pitch-work. Beholdest, the newer sawmill, the southern cotton gin, and the rice-clenzer. Beneath thy look, O maternal, with these and else, and with their own strong hands, the heroes harvest. All gather, and all harvest, yet but for thee, O powerful, not a scythe might swing as now in security, not a maestock dangle as now its silken tassels in peace. Under thee only they harvest, even but a wisp of hay under thy great face only. Harvest a wheat of Ohio, Illinois, Wisconsin, every barbed spare under thee. Harvest a maize of Missouri, Kentucky, Tennessee, each ear in its light-green chief. Gather the hay to its myriad mose and odorous tranquil barns. Oats to their bins, the white potato, the buckwheat of Michigan, to theirs. Gather the cotton in Mississippi or Alabama, dig and hoard the golden, the sweet potato of Georgia and Carolinas. Clip the wool of California or Pennsylvania. Cut the flax in the middle states or hemp or tobacco in the borders. Pick the pea and the bean, or pull apples from the trees or bunches of grapes from the vines, or alt that ripens in all these states or north or south, under the beaming sun and under thee. There was a child went forth. There was a child went forth every day. And the first object he looked upon, that object he became. And that object became part of him for the day or a certain part of the day, or for many years or stretching cycles of years. The early lilacs became part of this child, and grass and white and red mourning glories, and white and red clover, and a song of the Phoebe bird, and a third-month lambs and a sow's pink-famed litter, and a mare's full and a cow's cough, and a noisy bread of the barnyard or by the mire of the pondside, and the fish suspending themselves so curiously below there, and a beautiful curious liquid, and the water plants with their graceful flat hands all became part of him. The field sprouts of fourth month and fifth month became part of him. Winter grain sprouts and those of the light yellow corn, and the escalant roots of the garden, and the apple trees covered with blossoms and the fruit afterward, and woodberries and the commonest weeds by the road, and the old drunkard staggering home from the outhouse of the tavern whence he had lately risen, and the schoolmistress that passed on her way to the school, and the friendly boys that passed and the quarrelsome boys, and the tidy and fresh-cheeked girls, and a barefoot negro-boy and girl, and all the changes of city and country wherever he went. His own parents, he that had fathered him, and she that had conceived him in her womb and birthed him, they gave this child more of themselves than that, they gave him afterward every day, they became part of him. The mother at home quietly placing the dishes on the supper-table. The mother, with mild words, clean her cap and gown, a wholesome oathor falling off her person and clothes as she walks by. The father, strong, self-sufficient, manly, mean, angered, unjust. The blow, the quick, loud word, the tight bargain, the crafty lure, the family usages, the language, the company, the furniture, the yearning and swelling heart, affection that will not be game-said, the sense of what is real, the thought if after all it should prove unreal, the doubts of daytime and the doubts of night-time, the curious whether and how, whether that which appears so is so, or is it all flashes and specks? Men and women crowding fast in the streets, if they are not flashes and specks, what are they? The streets themselves and the facades of houses and goods in the windows, vehicles, teams, the heavy-planked wharves, the huge crossing at the fairies, the village on the highland seen from afar at sunset, the river between, shadows or viola and mist, the light falling on roofs and gables of white or brown two miles off, the schooner nearby sleepily dropping down the tide, the little boat slack-toed a stern, the hurrying, tumbling waves, quick-broken crests slapping, the strata of collared clouds, the long bar of maroon-tint away solitary by itself, the spread of purity it lies motionless in, the horizon's edge, the flying sea-crow, the fragrance of salt marsh and shore-mound. These became part of that child who went forth every day and who now goes and will always go forth every day, old Ireland. Far hence amid an isle of wondrous beauty, crouching over a grave an ancient sorrowful mother, once a queen, now lean and tattered, seated on the ground, her old white hair drooping the shoveled round her shoulders, at her feet fallen an unused royal harp, long silent, she too long silent, mourning her shrouded hope and air of all the earth her heart most full of sorrow because most full of love. Yet a word, ancient mother, you need crouched air no longer on the cold ground with forehead between your knees. Oh, you need not sit there, veiled in your old white hair so disheveled, for know you the one you mourn is not in that grave. It was an illusion, the son you love was not really dead. The Lord is not dead, he is risen again young and strong in another country. Even while you wept there by your fallen harp by the grave, what you wept for was translated, passed from the grave. The winds favored and the seas sailed it and now with rosy and new blood moves today in a new country, the city dead house. By the city dead house, by the gate, as idly sauntering, wending my way from the clanger, I curious pause, for low an outcast form, a poor dead prostitute brought. Her corpse, they deposit unclaimed, it lies on a damp brick pavement. The divine woman, her body, I see the body, I look on it alone. That house once full of passion and beauty, all else I notice not, nor stillness so cold, nor running water from faucet, nor odours morbific impress me. But the house alone, that wondrous house, that delicate fair house, that ruin, that immortal house, more than all the rows of dwellings ever built, or white domed capital with majestic figures or mountain, or all the old high-spired cathedrals, that little house alone, more than them all, poor, desperate house, fair, fearful wreck, tenement of a soul, itself a soul, unclaimed, avoided house, take one breath from my tremulous lips, take one tear, dropped aside, as I go for thought of you. Dead house of love, house of madness and sin, crumbled, crushed, house of life, air-while talking and laughing, but ah, poor house, dead even then, months, years, an echoing, garnished house, but dead, dead, dead, this compost, one. Something startles me where I thought I was safest, I withdraw from the still woods I loved, I will not go now on the pastures to walk, I will not strip the clothes from my body to meet my lover to see, I will not touch my flesh to the earth as to other flesh to renew me. Oh, how can it be that the ground itself does not sicken? How can you be alive, you growths of spring? How can you furnish health, you blood of herbs, roots, orchards, grain? Are they not continually putting this tempered corpses within you? Is not every continent worked over and over with sour dead? Where have you disposed of their carcasses, those drunkards and gluttons of so many generations? Where have you drawn off all the foul liquid and meat? I do not see any of it upon you today, or perhaps I am deceived. I will run a furrow with my plow, I will press my spade through the sod and turn it up underneath. I am sure I shall expose some of the foul meat. Two. Behold, this compost, behold it well. Perhaps every mite has once formed part of a sick person. Yet, behold, the grass of spring covers the prairies. The bean bursts noiselessly through the mould in the garden. The delicate spear of the onion pierces upward. The apple buds cluster together on the apple branches. The resurrection of the wheat appears with pale fissage out of its graves. The tinge awakes over the willow tree and the mulberry tree. The hea-birds carol mornings and evenings while the shea-birds sit on their nests. The young of poultry break through the hatched eggs. The newborn of animals appear. The calf is dropped from the cow. The colt from the mare. Out of its little hill faithfully rise the potatoes' dark green leaves. Out of its hill rises the yellow maize-stock. The lilacs bloom in the door-yards. The summer growth is innocent and disdainful above all those strata of sour dead. What chemistry that the winds are really not infectious. That this is no cheat, this transparent green-wash of the sea which is so amorous after me. That it is safe to allow it to lick my naked body all over with its tongues. That it will not endanger me with the fevers that have deposited themselves in it. That all is clean forever and forever. That the cool drink from the well tastes so good. That blackberries are so flavourous and juicy. That the fruits of the apple orchard and the orange orchard that melons, grapes, peaches, plums will none of them poison me. That when I recline on the grass I do not catch any disease though probably every spear of grass rises out of what was once catching disease. Now I am terrified at the earth. It is that calm and patient. It grows such sweet things out of such corruptions. It turns harmless and stainless on its axes with such endless successions of diseased corpses. It distills such exquisite winds out of such infused feeder. It renews with such unwitting looks its prodigal annual sumptuous crops. It gives such divine materials to men and accepts such leavings from them at last. To a foiled European revolutionary courage yet my brother or my sister. Keep on. Liberty is to be subserved whatever occurs. That is nothing that is quelled by one or two failures or any number of failures or by the indifference or ingratitude of the people or by any unfaithfulness or the show of the touches of power soldiers, cannon, penal statutes. What we believe in waits latent forever through all the continents invites no one, promises nothing, sits in calmness and light, is positive and composed, knows no discouragement, waiting patiently, waiting its time. Not songs of loyalty alone are these but songs of insurrection also. For I am the sworn poet of every dauntless rebel the world over and he going with me leaves peace and routine behind him and stakes his life to be lost at any moment. The battle rages with many a loud alarm and frequent advance and retreat. The infidel triumphs or supposed he triumphs. The prison, scaffold, garret, handcuffs, iron necklace and lead bowls do their work. The named and unnamed heroes pass to other spheres. The great speakers and writers are exiled. They lie sick in distant lands. The cause is asleep. The strongest throats are choked with their own blood. The young men drooped their eyelashes toward the ground when they meet. But for all this liberty has not gone out of the place nor the infidel entered into full possession. When liberty goes out of a place it is not the first to go nor the second or third to go. It waits for all the rest to go. It is the last. When there are no more memories of heroes and martyrs and when all life and all the souls of men and women are discharged from any part of the earth then only shall liberty or the idea of liberty be discharged from that part of the earth and the infidel come into full possession. Then courage, European revolter, revoltress for till all ceases, neither must you cease. I do not know what you are for. I do not know what I am for myself nor what anything is for. But I will search carefully for it even in being foyope. In defeat, poverty, misconception, imprisonment for day two are great. Did we think victory great? So it is. But now it seems to me when it cannot be helped that defeat is great and that death and dismay are great. Unnamed land. Nations ten thousand years before these states and many times ten thousand years before these states garnered clusters of ages that men and women like us grew up and traveled their course and passed on. What vast built cities, what orderly republics what pastoral tribes and nomads what histories, rulers, heroes perhaps transcending all others what laws, customs, wealth, art, traditions what sort of marriage, what costumes what physiology and phrenology what of liberty and slavery among them what they thought of death and the soul who were witty and wise who beautiful and poetic who brutish and undeveloped not a mark, not a record remains and yet all remains. Oh, I know that those men and women were not for nothing any more than we are for nothing I know that they belong to the scheme of the world every bit as much as we now belong to it afar they stand yet near to me they stand some with oval countenances learned and calm some naked and savage some like huge collections of insects some intense, herdsmen, patriarchs, tribes, horsemen some prowling through woods some living peaceably on farms laboring, reaping, filling barns some traversing paved avenues amid temples, palaces, factories libraries, shows, courts, theatres wonderful monuments are those billions of men really gone are those women of the old experience of the earth gone do their lives, cities, arts rest only with us that they achieve nothing for good for themselves I believe all of those men and women that filled the unnamed lands everyone exists this hour here or elsewhere invisible to us in exact proportion to what he or she grew from in life and out of what he or she did felt, became, loved, sinned in life I believe that was not the end of those nations or any person of them any more than this shall be the end of my nation or of me of their languages, governments, marriage, literature, products games, wars, manners, crimes, prisons, slaves, heroes, poets I suspect their results curiously await in the yet unseen world counterparts of what accrued to them in the seen world I suspect I shall meet them there I suspect I shall there find each old particular of those unnamed lands song of crudence Manhattan streets I sauntered pondering on time, space, reality such as these and to rest with them prudence the last explanation always remains to be made about prudence little and large alike drop quietly aside from the prudence that suits immortality the soul is of itself all verges to it all has reference to what ensues all that a person does says thinks is of consequence not a move can a man or woman make that affects him or her in a day, month any part of the direct lifetime or the hour of death but the same affects him or her onward, afterward through the indirect lifetime the indirect is just as much as the direct the spirit receives from the body just as much as it gives to the body if not more not one word or deed not venereal soar discoloration, privacy of the honour- nest putridity of gluttons or rum-drinkers speculation, cunning, betrayal, murder seduction, prostitution but has results beyond death as really as before death charity and personal force are the only investments worth anything no specification is necessary all that a male or female does that is vigorous, benevolent, clean is so much profit to him or her in the unshakable order of the universe and through the whole scope of it forever who has been wise receives interest savage, felon, president judge, farmer, sailor mechanic, literate, young, old it is the same the interest will come round all will come round singly, wholly to affect now, affect at their time will forever affect all of the past and all of the present and all of the future all the brave actions of war and peace all help given to relatives, strangers the poor, old, sorrowful young children, widows, the sick and to shunned persons all self-denial that stood steady and aloof on wrecks and so others fill the seats of the boats all offering of substance or life for the good old calls or for a friend's sake or opinion's sake all pains of enthusiasts scoffed at by their neighbours all the limitless sweet love and precious suffering of mothers all honest men baffled in strife recorded or unrecorded all the grandeur and good of ancient nations whose fragments we inherit all the good of the dozens of ancient nations unknown to us by name, date, location all that was ever manfully begun whether it succeeded or no all suggestions of the divine mind of man or the divinity of his mouth or the shaping of his great hands all that is well thought or said this day on any part of the globe or on any of the wandering stars or on any of the fixed stars by those there as we are here all that is henceforth to be thought or done by you, whoever you are or by anyone these in your have in your shall in your to the identities from which they sprang or shall spring did you guess anything lived only its moment? the world does not so exist no parts palpable or impalpable so exist no consummation exists without being from some long previous consummation and that from some other without the farthest conceivable one coming a bit nearer the beginning than any whatever satisfies souls is true prudence entirely satisfies the craving and glut of souls itself only finally satisfies the soul the soul has that measureless pride which revolves from every lesson but its own now I breathe the word of the prudence that walks abreast with time, space, reality that answers the pride which refuses every lesson but its own what is prudence is indivisible declines to separate one part of life from every part divides not the righteous from the unrighteous or the living from the dead matches every thought or act by its correlative knows no possible forgiveness or deputed atonement knows that the young man who compositely periled his life and lost it has done exceedingly well for himself without doubt that he who never periled his life but retains it to old age in riches and ease has probably achieved nothing for himself worth mentioning knows that only that person has really learned who has learned to prefer results who favors body and soul the same who perceives the indirect who in his spirit in any emergency whatever neither hurries nor avoids death the singer in the prison o sight of pity, shame and dull o fearful thought, a convict soul one rang the refrain along the hole the prison rose to the roof the vaults of heaven above pouring in floods of melody in tones so pensive, sweet and strong the like whereof was never heard reaching the far off sentry and the armed guards who seized their pacing making the hearer's pulses stop for ecstasy and all two the sun was low in the west one winter day when down a narrow aisle amid the thieves and outlaws of the land there by the hundred seated seer-faced murderers wily counterfeiters gathered to Sunday church in prison walls the keeper's round plenteous, well armed watching with vigilant eyes calmly a lady walked holding a little innocent child by either hand whom seating on their stools beside her on the platform she, first preluding with the instrument a low and musical prelude in voice surpassing all sang forth a quaint old hymn a soul confined by bars and bands prize help o help and rings her hands blinded her eyes bleeding her breast nor pardon finds nor balm of rest ceaseless she paces to and fro o heart-sick days o nights of woe nor hand of friend nor loving face nor favour comes nor word of grace it was not I that sinned to sin the ruthless body dragged me in though long I strove courageously the body was too much for me their prison soul bear up a space for soon or late the certain grace to set thee free and bear thee home the heavenly pardoner death shall come convict no more nor shame nor dull depart a god enfranchised soul three the singer ceased one glance swept from her clear calm eyes or all those upturned faces strange sea of prison faces a thousand varied crafty brutal seemed and beautyous faces then rising passing back along the narrow aisle between them while her gown touched them rustling in the silence she vanished with her children in the dusk while upon all convicts and armed keepers air they stirred convict for getting prison keeper his loaded pistol a hush and poles fell down a wondrous minute with deep half stifled sobs and sound of bad men bowed and moved to weeping and youths convulsive breathings memories of home the mother's voice in lullaby the sisters care the happy childhood the long penned spirit roused to reminiscence a wondrous minute then but after in the solitary night to many many there years after even in the hour of death the sad refrain the tune the voice the words resumed the large calm lady walks the narrow aisle the wailing melody again the singer in the prison sings o sight of pity shame and dull o fearful thought a convict soul warble for lilac time warble me now for joy of lilac time returning in reminiscence sort me o tongue and lips for nature's sake souvenirs of earliest summer gather the welcome signs as children with pebbles or stringing shells put in april and may the highless croaking in the ponds the elastic air bees butterflies the sparrow with its simple notes bluebird and darting swallow nor forget the high hole flashing his golden wings the tranquil sunny haze the clinging smoke the vapour shimmer of waters with fish in them the cerulean above old that is jockened and sparkling the brooks running the maple woods the crisp february days and the sugar making the robin where he hops bright-eyed brown breasted with musical clear coal at sunrise and again at sunset or flitting among the trees of the apple orchard building the nest of his mate the melted snow of march the willow sending forth its yellow-green sprouts for springtime is here the summer is here and what is this in it and from it thou soul unloosent the restlessness after I know not what come let us lag here no longer let us be up and away oh if one could but fly like a bird oh to escape to sail forth as in a ship to glide with thee oh soul or all in all as a ship or the waters gathering these hints the preludes the blue sky the grass the morning drops of dew the lilac scent the bushes with dark green heart-shaped leaves wood violets the little delicate pale blossoms called innocence samples and sorts not for themselves alone but for their atmosphere to grace the bush I love to sing with the birds a warble for joy a fraterning in reminiscence outlines for a tomb gp buried 1870 one what may we chant oh thou within this tomb what tablets outlines hang for thee oh millionaire the life thou livest we know not but that thou walketh thy years in barter mid the haunts of grokers nor heroism thine nor war nor glory two silent my soul with drooping lids as waiting pondered turning from all the samples monuments of heroes while through the interior vistas noiseless uproars fantastic as by night auroras of the north lambent tableaus prophetic bodyless scenes spiritual projections in one among the city streets a labourer's home appeared after his day's work done cleanly sweet-air'd the gaslight burning the carpet swept and the fire in the cheerful stove in one the sacred parturition scene a happy painless mother birthed a perfect child in one at a bounteous morning meal sat peaceful parents with contented sons in one by twos and threes young people hundreds concentring walked to paths and streets and roads toward a tall-dome school in one a trio beautiful grandmother loving daughter loving daughter's daughter sat chatting and sewing in one along a suite of noble rooms made plenty as books and journals paintings on the walls fine statuettes were groups of friendly journeymen mechanics young and old reading conversing all all the shows of labouring life city and country women's men's and children's their wants provided for hewed in the sun and tinged for once with joy marriage the street the factory farm the house room lodging room labour and toil the bath the nasium playground library college the student bully or girl led forward to be taught the sick cared for the shoeless shod the orphan fathered and mothered the hungry fed the houseless hosed the intentions perfect and divine the workings details happily human free O thou within this tomb from these such scenes thou stintless lavish giver tallying the gifts of earth large as the earth thy name and earth with mountains fields and tides nor by your streams alone you rivers by you your banks Connecticut by you and all your teaming life all thumbs by you Potomac leaving the ground Washington trod by you Patapsco you Hudson you endless Mississippi nor you alone but to the high seas launch my thought his memory out from behind this mask to confront a portrait one out from behind this bending rough cut mask these lights and shades this drama of the whole this common curtain of the face contained in me for me in you for you in each for each tragedies sorrows laughter tears oh heaven the passionate teaming plays this curtain hid this glaze of God serenest purest sky this film of Satan's seething pit this heart's geographies map this limitless small continent this soundless sea out from the convolutions of this globe this subtler astronomic orb then sun or moon then Jupiter Venus Mars this condensation of the universe may hear the only universe hear the idea all in this mystic handful wrapped these durant eyes flashing to you to pass the future time to launch and spin through space revolving sidling from these to emanate to you whoever you are a look two a traveller of thoughts and years of peace and war of youth long spend and middle age declining as the first volume of a tale perused and laid away and this the second songs ventures speculations presently to close lingering a moment here and now to you I opposite turn as on the road or at some crevice door a chance or opened window pausing inclining bearing my hand you specially I greet to draw and clinch your soul for once inseparably with mine then travel travel on vocalism one vocalism measure concentration determination the divine power to speak words are you full lunged and limber lipped from long trial from vigorous practice from physique do you move in these broad lands as broad as day come duly to the divine power to speak words for only at last after many years after chastity friendship procreation and nakedness after treading ground and breasting river and lake after a loose and throat after absorbing eras temperaments races after knowledge freedom crimes after complete faith after clarifying elevations and removing obstructions after these and more it is just possible there comes to a man woman the divine power to speak words then toward that man or that woman swiftly hasten all none refuse all attend armies ships antiquities libraries paintings machines cities hate despair amity pain theft murder aspiration form in close ranks they debouch as they are wanted to march obediently through the mouth of that man or that woman too oh what is it in me that makes me tremble so at voices surely whoever speaks to me in the right voice him or her I shall follow as the water follows the moon silently with fluid steps anywhere around the globe all waits for the right voices where is the practised and perfect organ where is the developed soul for I see every word uttered thence has deeper sweeter new sounds impossible on less terms I see brains and lips closed timpans and temples unstruck until that comes which has the quality to strike and to unclose until that comes which has the quality to bring forth what lies slumbering forever ready in all words end of book 24 part 1 book 24 part 2 of leaves of grass by Walt Whitman this Liberfox recording is in the public domain recording by phone to him that was crucified my spirit to yours dear brother do not mind because many sounding your name do not understand you I do not sound your name but I understand you I specify you with joy oh my comrade to salute you and to salute those who are with you before and since and those to come also that we all labor together transmitting the same charge and succession we few equals indifferent of lands indifferent of times we enclosers of all continents all castes all hours of all theologies we walk silent among disputes and assertions but reject not the disputers nor anything that is asserted we hear the bowling and din we are reached that by divisions jealousies, recriminations on every side they close peremptorily upon us to surround us my comrade yet we walk unheld, free the whole earth over journeying up and down till we make our ineffisible mark upon time and the diverse eras till we saturate time and eras that the men and women of races ages to come may prove brethren and lovers as we are you felons on trial in courts you convicts in prison cells you sentenced assassins chained and handcuffed with iron who am I too that I am not on trial or in prison me, ruthless and devilish as any that my wrists are not chained with iron or my ankles with iron you prostitutes flaunting over the tratoirs and in your rooms who am I that I should call you more obscene than myself oh culpable I acknowledge I expose oh admirers praise not me compliment not me you make me wince I see what you do not I know what you do not inside these breastbones much and choked beneath this face that appear so impassive hell's tides continually run lusts and wickedness are acceptable to me I walk with delinquents with passionate love I feel I am of them I belong to those convicts and prostitutes myself and henceforth I will not deny them for how can I deny myself Laws for creations Laws for creations for strong artists and leaders for fresh brutes of teachers and perfect literates for America for noble savants and coming musicians all must have reference to the ensemble of the world and the compact truth of the world there shall be no subject too pronounced all works shall illustrate the divine law of indirections what do you suppose creation is what do you suppose will satisfy the soul except to walk free and own no superior what do you suppose I would intimate to you in a hundred ways but that man or woman is as good as God and that there is no God any more divine than yourself and that that is what the oldest and newest myths finally mean and that you or anyone must approach creations through such laws to a common prostitute be composed be at ease with me I am Walt Whitman liberal and lusty as nature not till the sun excludes you do I exclude you not till the waters refuse to glisten for you and the leaves to rustle for you do my words refuse to glisten and rustle for you my girl I appoint you with an appointment and I charge you that you make preparation to be worthy to meet me and I charge you that you be patient and perfect till I come till then I salute you with a significant look that you do not forget me I was looking a long while I was looking a long while for intentions for a clue to the history of the past for myself and for these chance and now I have found it it is not in those paged fables in the libraries then I neither accept nor reject it is no more in the legends than in all else it is in the present it is this earth today it is in democracy to purport and aim of all the past it is the life of one man or one woman today the average man of today it is in languages, social customs literature, arts it is in the broad show of artificial things ships, machinery, politics, creeds modern improvements and the interchange of nations all for the modern all for the average man of today thought of persons arrived at high positions ceremonies, wealth, scholarships and the like to me all that those persons have arrived at sinks away from them except as it results to their bodies and souls so that often to me they appear gaunt and naked and often to me each one mocks the others and mocks himself or herself and of each one the core of life namely happiness is full of the rotten excrement of maggots and often to me those men and women pass unwittingly the true realities of life and go toward false realities and often to me they are alive after what customers served them but nothing more and often to me they are sad, hasty unweight sunambules walking the dusk miracles why who makes much of a miracle as to me I know of nothing else but miracles whether I walk the streets of Manhattan or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the water or stand under trees in the woods or talk by day with anyone I love or sleep in the bed at night with anyone I love or sit at table at dinner with the rest or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car or watch honeybees busy around the hive of the summer forenoon or animals feeding in the fields or birds or the wonderfulness of insects in the air or the wonderfulness of the sundown or of stars shining so quiet and bright or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring these with the rest one and all are to me miracles the whole referring yet each distinct and in its place to me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle every cubic inch of space is a miracle every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same every foot of the interior swarms with the same to me the sea is a continual miracle the fishes that swim the rocks the motion of the waves the ships with men in them what stranger miracles are there sparkles from the wheel where the city's ceaseless crowd moves on to life long day withdrawn I join a group of children watching I pause aside with them by the curb toward the edge of the flag in a knife grinder works at his wheel sharpening a great knife bending over he carefully holds it to the stone by foot and knee with measured tread he turns rapidly as he presses with light but firm hand fourth issue then in copious golden jets sparkles from the wheel the scene and all its belongings how they seize and affect me the sad sharp chained old man with worn clothes and broad shoulder band of leather myself a fusing and fluid a phantom curiously floating now here absorbed and arrested the group an unminded point set in a vast surrounding the attentive quiet children the loud proud restive base of the streets the low horse per of the whirling stone the light pressed blade diffusing dropping sideways darting in tiny showers of gold sparkles from the wheel to a pupil is reform needed is it through you the greater the reform needed the greater the personality you need to accomplish it you do you not see how it would serve to have eyes blood complexion clean and sweet do you not see how it would serve to have such a body and soul that when you enter an atmosphere of desire and command enters with you and everyone is impressed with your personality oh the magnet the flesh over and over go dear friend if need be give up all else and commence today to ignore yourself to pluck reality self-esteem definiteness elevatedness rest not till you rivet and publish yourself of your own personality unfolded out of the folds unfolded out of the folds of the woman man comes unfolded and is always to come unfolded unfolded only out of the superbist woman of the earth is to come the superbist man of the earth unfolded out of the friendliest woman is to come the friendliest man unfolded only out of the perfect body of a woman can a man be formed of perfect body unfolded only out of the inimitable poems of woman can come the poems of man only dense have my poems come unfolded out of the strong and arrogant woman I love only dense can appear the strong and arrogant man I love unfolded by brawny embraces from the well-muscled woman love only dense can the brawny embraces of the man unfolded out of the folds of the woman's brain come all the folds of the man's brain duly obedient unfolded out of the justice of the woman all justice is unfolded unfolded out of the sympathy of the woman is all sympathy a man is a great thing upon the earth and through eternity but every of the greatness of man is unfolded out of woman first the man is shaped in the woman he can then be shaped in himself what am I after all? what am I after all but a child pleased with the sound of my own name repeating it over and over I stand apart to hear it it never tires me to you your name also did you think there was nothing but two or three pronunciations in the sound of your name Kosmos who includes diversity and his nature who is the amplitude of the earth and the coarseness and sexuality of the earth and the great charity of the earth and the equilibrium also who has not looked forth from the windows the eyes for nothing or whose brain held audience with messengers for nothing who contains believers and disbelievers who is the most majestic lover who holds duly his or her triune proportion of realism spiritualism and of the aesthetic or intellectual who having considered the body finds all its organs and parts good who out of the theory of the earth and of his or her body understands by subtle analogies all other theories the theory of a city a poem and of the large politics of these states who believes not only in our globe with its sun and moon but in other globes with their suns and moons who constructing the house of himself or herself not for a day but for all time sees races eras dates generations the past the future dwelling there like space inseparable together others may praise what they like others may praise what they like but I from the banks of the running Missouri praise nothing in art or ought else till it has well inhaled the atmosphere of this river also to Western prairie scent and exudes it all again who learns my lesson complete who learns my lesson complete both journeyman apprentice churchman and atheist the stupid and wise thinker parents and offspring merchant clerk porter and customer editor author artist and schoolboy draw nigh and commence it is no lesson it lets down the bars to a good lesson and that to another and everyone to another still the great laws take and diffuse without argument I am of the same style for I am their friend I love them quits and quits I do not halt and make salams I lie abstracted and hear beautiful tales of things and the reasons of things they are so beautiful I nudge myself to listen I cannot say to any person what I hear I cannot say it to myself it is very wonderful it is no small matter this round and delicious glow moving so exactly in its orbit forever and ever without one jolt or the untruth of a single second I do not think it was made in six days or in ten thousand years nor ten billions of years nor planned and built one thing after another as an architect plans and builds a house I do not think seventy years is the time of a man or woman nor that seventy millions of years is the time of a man or woman nor that years will ever stop the existence of me or anyone else is it wonderful that I should be immortal as everyone is immortal I know it is wonderful but my eyesight is equally wonderful and how I was conceived in my mother's womb is equally wonderful and passed from a babe in the creeping trance of a couple of summers and winters to articulate and walk all this is equally wonderful and that my soul embraces you this hour and we affect each other without ever seeing each other and never perhaps to see each other is every bit as wonderful and that I can think such thoughts as these is just as wonderful and that I can remind you and you think them and know them to be true is just as wonderful and that the moon spins round the earth and on with the earth is equally wonderful and that they balance themselves with the sun and stars is equally wonderful tests all submit to them where they sit inner secure unapproachable to analysis in the soul not traditions not the outer authorities are the judges they are the judges of outer authorities and of all traditions they corroborate as they go only whatever corroborates themselves and touches themselves for all that they have it forever in themselves to corroborate far and near without one exception the torch on my northwest coast in the midst of the night the fisherman's group stands watching out in the lake that expands before them others are spearing salmon the canoe a dim shadowy thing moves across the black water bearing a torch a blaze at the prow a star of France 1870 to 1871 a star of France the brightness of thy hope and strength and fame like some proud ship that led to fleet so long the seams today a wreck driven by the gale a mustless hulk and made its teeming maddened half-drowned crowds nor helm nor helmsman dim smitten star orb not of France alone pale symbol of my soul its dearest hopes the struggle and the daring rage divine for liberty of aspirations toward the far ideal enthusiast's dream of brotherhood of terror to the tyrant and a priest star crucified by traitor's soul star panting or a land of death heroic land strange passionate mocking frivolous land miserable yet for thy errors vanities sins I will not now rebuke thee thy unexampled woes and pangs have quelled them all and left thee sacred in that amid thy many faults thou ever aim'dst highly in that thou wouldst not really sell thyself however great the price in that thou surely wake'dst weeping from thy drugged sleep in that alone among thy sisters thou, giantus, dits drent the ones that shamed thee in that thou couldst not, wouldst not wear the usual chains this cross, thy livid face thy pierced hands and feet the spear thrust in thy side O star, o ship of France beat back and baffled long bear up, O smitten orb O ship, continue on sure as the ship of all the earth itself product of deathly fire and turbulent chaos forth from its spasms of fury and its poisons issuing at last imperfect power and beauty onward beneath the sun following its course so thee, O ship of France finished the days, the clouds dispelled, the travail or the long sought extrication when low, reborn, high o'er the European world in gladness answering thence as face afar to face reflecting ours, Columbia again, thy star, O France their lustrous star in heavenly peace clearer, more bright than ever shall beam immortal the ox tamer in a far away northern country in the placid pastoral region lives my farmer friend the theme of my recitative a famous tamer of oxen there they bring him the three year olds to break them he will take the wildest steer in the world and break him and tame him he will go fearless without any whip or the young bullock chafes up and down the yard the bullock's hand tosses restless high in the air with raging eyes yet see you how soon his rage subsides how soon this tamer tames him see you on the farms hear about a hundred oxen young and old and he is the man who has tamed them they all know him all are affectionate to him see you some are such beautiful animals so lofty looking some are both coloured some mottled one has a white line running along his back some are brindled some have white flaring horns a good sign see you the bright hides see the two with stars on their forehands see the round bodies and broad backs how straight and square they stand on their legs what fine sagacious eyes how straight they watch their tamer they wish him near them how they turn to look after him what yearning expression how uneasy they are when he moves away from them now I marvel what it can be he appears to them books, politics, poems depart all else departs I confess I envy only his fascination my silent, illiterate friend whom a hundred oxen love there in his life on farms in the northern country far in the placid pastoral region an old man's thought of school for the inauguration of a public school Camden, New Jersey 1874 an old man's thought of school an old man's gathering youthful memories and blooms that youth itself cannot now only do I know you O fair auroral skies O morning dew upon the grass and these I see these sparkling eyes these stores of mystic meaning these young lives building equipping like a fleet of ships immortal ships soon to sail out over the measureless seas on the soul's voyage only a lot of boys and girls only the tiresome spelling writing, ciphering classes only a public school ah, more infinitely more as George Fox raised his warning cry is it this pile of brick and mortar these dead floors windows, rails you call the church why this is not the church at all the church is living the church is living ever living souls and you America cast you the real reckoning for your present the lights and shadows of your future good or evil to girlhood boyhood look the teacher and the school wandering at morn wandering at morn emerging from the night from gloomy thoughts thee in my thoughts yearning for thee harmonious union thee singing bird divine thee coiled in evil times my country with craft and black dismay with every meanness treason thrust upon thee this common marvel I beheld the parent thrush I watched feeding its young the singing thrush tones of joy and faith ecstatic fail not to certify and cheer my soul dare pondered felt I if warms, snakes, loathsome grumps may to sweet spiritual songs be turned if vermin so transposed so used and blessed may be then may I trust in you your fortunes these my country who knows but these may be the lessons fit for you from these your future song may rise with joyous trills destined to fail the world Italian music in Dakota the seventeenth the finest regimental band I ever heard through the soft evening air and winding all rocks, woods, fort mountain, pacing centuries endless wilds in dulcet streams in flutes and cornets notes electric pensive, turbulent artificial yet strangely fitting even here meanings unknown before subtler than ever more harmony as if born here related here not to the city's frescoed rooms not to the audience of the opera house sounds echoes wandering strains as really here at home sonambulus innocent love trios with normas anguish and diastatic chorus poliuto raid in the limpid yellow slanting sundown music Italian music in Dakota while nature sovereign of this gnarled realm lurking in hidden barbaric grim recesses acknowledging rapport however far removed as some old root or soil of earth its lost born flower or fruit listens well pleased with all thy gifts with all thy gifts America standing secure rapidly tending overlooking the world power, wealth, extent vouchsafe to thee with these and like of these vouchsafe to thee what if one gift thou lackest the ultimate human problem never solving the gift of perfect women fit for thee what if that gift of gifts thou lackest the towering feminine of thee the beauty, health, completion fit for thee the mothers fit for thee my picture gallery in a little house keep eye picture suspended it is not a fixed house it is round it is only a few inches from one side to the other yet behold it has room for all the shows of the world all memories hear the tableaus of life and hear the groupings of death hear do you know this this is his rony himself with finger raised he points to the prodigal pictures the prairie states a newer garden of creation no primal solitude dense joyous modern populace millions cities and farms with iron interlaced composite tide many in one by all the world contributed freedoms and laws and thrift society the crown and teeming paradise so far of time's accumulations to justify the past end of book 24 recording by phone book 25 of Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman this Liberfox recording is in the public domain recording by phone proud music of the storm one proud music of the storm blast that career so free whistling across the prairies strong hum of forest treetops wind of the mountains personified dim shapes you hidden orchestras you seronades of phantoms with instruments alert blending with nature's rithmas all the tongues of nations you chords left as by vast composers you choruses you formless free religious dances you from the Orient you undertone of rivers roar of pouring cataracts you sounds from distant guns with galloping cavalry echoes of camps with all the different bugle calls trooping tumultuous filling the midnight late bending me powerless entering my lonesome slumber chamber why have you seized me too come forward oh my soul come forward oh my soul come forward oh my soul come forward oh my soul and let the rest retire listen lose not it is toward thee they tend parting the midnight entering my slumber chamber for thee they sing and dance oh soul a festival song the duet of the bridegroom and the bride a marriage march with lips of love and hearts of lovers filled to the brim with love the red flushed cheeks and perfumes the cortege swarming full of friendly faces young and old to flutes clear notes and sounding harps cantibule now loud approaching drums Victoria see as thou in powder smoke the banners torn but flying baffled hearest those shouts of a conquering army ah soul the sobs of women the wounded groaning in agony the hiss and crackle of flames the blackened ruins the embers of cities the dirge and desolation of mankind now heirs antique and medieval fill me see and hear old harpers with their harps at welsh festivals I hear the minna singers singing their lays of love I hear the minstrels gleamen turbidours of the middle ages now the great organ sounds tremulous while underneath as the hid footholds of the earth on which a rising rest and leaping forth depend all shapes of beauty grace and strength all hues we know green blades of grass and warbling birds children at gamble and play the clouds of heaven above the strong base stands and its pulsations intermits knot bathing supporting merging all the rest maternity of all the rest instrument every instrument in multitudes the players playing all the world's musicians the solemn hymns and masses rousing adoration all passionate heart chants sorrowful appeals the measureless sweet vocalists of ages and for their solvent setting earth's own diapason of winds and woods and mighty ocean waves a new composite orchestra binder of years and climes tenfold renewer as of the far back days the poets tell the paradiso the strained dance the separation long but now the wondering done the journey done the journeymen come home and man and art with nature fused again tutti for earth and heaven the almighty leader now for once has signalled with his wand the manly strove of the husbands of the world and all the wives responding the tongues of violins I think oh tongues you tell this heart that cannot tell itself this brooding yearning heart that cannot tell itself three ah from a little child thou knowest soul how to me all sounds became music my mother's voice in lullaby or hymn the voice oh tender voices memories loving voices lost miracle of all oh dearest mothers sisters voices the rain the growing corn the breeze among the long-leaved corn the measured sea surf beating on the sand the twittering bird the hawks sharp screen the wild fowls notes at night as flying low migrating north or south the psalm in the country church or met the clustering trees the open air camp meeting the fiddler in the tavern the glee the long strung sailor song the lowing camp the long the lowing cattle bleeding sheep the growing cock at dawn all songs of current lands come sounding round me the german airs of friendship wine and love irish balance merry jigs and dances english warbles chanson's of france scotch tunes and order rest peerless compositions across the stage with pallor on her face yet lurid passion stalks norma brandishing the dagger in her hand i see poor crazed lucia's eyes a natural gleam her hair down her back falls loose and dishevelled i see where ur nanny walking the bridal garden amid dissent of night roses radiant holding his bride by the hand here's the infernal coal the death pledge of the horn to crossing swords and grey hairs bared to heaven the clear electric base and baritone of the world the trombone duo libertad forever from spanish chestnut trees then shade by old and heavy convent walls a wailing song song of lost love the torch of youth and life quenched in despair song of the dying swan fernando's heart is breaking awaking from her woes at last retrieved amina sings copious as stars and glad as morning light the torrents of her joy the teeming lady comes the lustrious orb venus contralto the blooming mother sister of loftiest gods alboni's self i hear four i hear those odes symphonies operas i hear in the william tell the music of an aroused and angry people i hear mayerbeer's huganodes the prophet or robert gonot's foust or mozart's don huan i hear the dance music of all nations the waltz some delicious measure lapsing bathing me in bliss the bolero to tinkling guitars and clattering castagnets i hear religious dances old and new i hear the sound of the hebrew lyre i see the crusaders marching bearing the cross on high to the marshal clang of cymbals i hear dervishes monotonously chanting interspersed with frantic shouts as they spin around turning always towards mecca i see the rapt religious dances of the persians and the arabes again at eluces home of series i see the modern greeks dancing i hear them clapping their hands as they bend their bodies i hear the metrical shuffling of their feet i see again the wild old coribantian dance the performers wounding each other i see the roman youth to the shrill sound of flageolets throwing and catching their weapons as they fall on their knees and rise again i hear from the musliman mosque the muetsen calling i see the worshippers within nor form nor sermon argument nor word but silent, strange devout raised glowing hands ecstatic faces i hear the egyptian harp of many strings the primitive chants of the nile boatmen the sacred imperial hymns of china to the delicate sounds of the king the stricken wood and stone or to hindu flutes and the fretting twang of devina a band of bayadiers thalif now asia africa leave me europe seizing inflates me to organs huge and bands i hear as from vast concurses of voices luthers strong hymn aine feste burk is unser got rosinis stabat mater dolorosa or floating in some high cathedral dim with gorgeous colored windows the passionate agnus dey or gloria in excelsis composers mighty maestros and you sweet singers of old lands soprani to nori basi to you a new bard caroling in the west obeisant sends his love such led to thee o soul all senses shows and objects lead to thee but now it seems to me sound leads or all the rest i hear the annual singing of the children in saint paul's cathedral or under the high roof of some colossal hole the symphonies or atorios of Beethoven handle or hyden the creation in bellows of godhood laves me give me to hold all sounds i madly struggling cry fill me with all the voices of the universe and down me with their throbbing natures also the tempests, waters, winds operas and chants marches and dances ator pour in for i would take them all six then i woke softly and pausing questioning a while the music of my dream and questioning all those reminiscences the tempest in his fury and all the songs of sopranos and tenors and those wrapped oriental dances of religious fervor and the sweet varied instruments and the diapason of organs and all the artless planes of love and grief and death i said to my silent curious soul out of the bed of the slumber chamber come for i have found the clue i sought so long let us go forth refreshed amid the day carefully tallying life walking the world the real nourished henceforth by our celestial dream and i said moreover happily what thou has heard oh soul was not the sound of winds nor dream of raging storm nor seahawks flapping wings nor harsh scream nor vocalism of sun bright italy nor german organ majestic nor vast concourse of voices nor layers of harmonies nor stroves of husbands and wives nor sound of marching soldiers nor flutes nor harps nor vocal calls of camps but to a new rithmus fitted for thee poems bridging the way from life to death vaguely wafted in night air uncaught unwritten which let us go forth in the bold day and write end of book 25 recording by foam