Section 43

Melt, melt away, ye armies! disperse, ye blue-clad soldiers !
Resolve ye back again—give up, for good, your deadly arms ; 90
Other the arms, the fields henceforth for you, or South or North, or East or West,
With saner wars—sweet wars—life-giving wars.
Io
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 till’d and untill’d 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. 100
LEAVES OF GRASS AI9Q
If
I see where America, Mother of All, Well-pleased, 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 cane ; Open, unseeded fallows, rich fields of clover and timothy, Kine and horses feeding, and droves of sheep and swine, And many a stately river flowing, and many a jocund brook, And healthy uplands with their herby-perfumed breezes, 110 And the good green grass—that delicate miracle, the ever-recur- ring grass. 12
Toil on, Heroes! harvest the products ! Not alone on those warlike fields, the Mother of All, With dilated form and lambent eyes, watch’d 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 as with life, the
revolving hay-rakes, 120 The steam-power reaping-machines, and the horse-power ma- chines,
The engines, thrashers of grain, and cleaners of grain, well separating the straw—the nimble work of the patent pitch-fork ;
Beholdest the newer saw-mill, the southern cotton-gin, and the rice-cleanser.
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 maize-stalk dangle, as now, its silken tassels in peace. )
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13
Under Thee only they harvest—even but a wisp of hay, under thy great face, only ;
Harvest the wheat of Ohio, Illinois, Wisconsin—every barbed spear, under thee ; 130
Harvest the maize of Missouri, Kentucky, Tennessee—each ear in its light-green sheath,
Gather the hay to its myriad mows, in the odorous, tranquil barns,
Oats to their bins—the white potato, the buckwheat of Michi- gan, to theirs ;
Gather the cotton in Mississippi or Alabama—dig and hoard the golden, the sweet potato of Georgia and the 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 aught that ripens in all These States, or North or South,
Under the beaming sun, and under Thee.
5d
THE SINGER IN THE PRISON.
First published in 1870.
I
O sight of shame, and pain, and dole! O fearful thought—a convict Soul /
Ranc the refrain along the hall, 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 ceas’d their pacing,
Making the hearer’s pulses stop for extasy and awe.
2
O sight of pity, gloom, and dole! O pardon me, a hapless Soul !
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The sun was low in the west one winter day, 10
When down a narrow aisle, amid the thieves and outlaws of the land,
(There by the hundreds seated, sear-faced murderers, wily coun- terfeiters,
Gather’d to Sunday church in prison walls—the keepers round,
Plenteous, well-arm’d, watching, with vigilant eyes, )
All that dark, cankerous blotch, a nation’s criminal mass,
Calmly a Lady walk’d, 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 pre- lude,
In voice surpassing all, sang forth a quaint old hymn.
3 THe Hymn.
A Soul, confined by bars and bands, 20 Cries, Help! O help! and wrings her hands;
Blinded her eyes—bleeding her breast,
Nor pardon finds, nor balm of rest.
O sight of shame, and pain, and dole ! O fearful thought—a convict Soul !
Ceaseless, she paces to and fro ;
O heart-sick days! O nights of wo! Nor hand of friend, nor loving face ; Nor favor comes, nor word of grace.
O sight of pity, gloom, and dole! 30 O pardon me, a hapless Soul!
It was not I that sinn’d the sin, The ruthless Body dragg’d me in; Though long I strove courageously, The Body was too much for me.
O Life ! no life, but, bitter dole / O burning, beaten, bafied Soul !
(Dear prison’d Soul, bear up a space, For soon or late the certain grace ;
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To set thee free, and bear thee home, 40 The Heavenly Pardoner, Death shall come.
Convict no more—nor shame, nor dole / Depart ! a God-enfranchis' d Soul !)
4 The singer ceas’d ; One glance swept from her clear, calm eyes, o’er all those up- turn’d faces ; Strange sea of prison faces—a thousand varied, crafty, brutal, seam’d and beauteous faces ; Then rising, passing back along the narrow aisle between them, While her gown touch’d them, rustling in the silence, She vanish’d with her children in the dusk.
5
While upon all, convicts and armed keepers, ere they stirr’d, 50
(Convict forgetting prison, keeper his loaded pistol, )
A hush and pause fell down, a wondrous minute,
With deep, half-stifled sobs, and sound of bad men bow’d, and moved to weeping,
And youth’s convulsive breathings, memories of home,
The mother’s voice in lullaby, the sister’s care, the happy child- hood,
The long-pent spirit rous’d 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: 60
O sight of shame, and pain, and dole! O fearful thought—a convict Soul !
&
WARBLE FOR LILAC-TIME. First published in 1870, WARBLE me now, for joy of Lilac-time, Sort me, O tongue and lips, for Nature’s sake, and sweet life’s sake—and death’s the same as life’s,
LEAVES OF GRASS 423
Souvenirs of earliest summer—birds’ eggs, and the first berries ;
Gather the welcome signs, (as children, with pebbles, or string- ing shells ; )
Put in April and May—the hylas croaking in the ponds—the elastic air,
Bees, butterflies, the sparrow with its simple notes,
Blue-bird, and darting swallow—nor forget the high-hole flashing his golden wings,
The tranquil sunny haze, the clinging smoke, the vapor,
Spiritual, airy insects, humming on gossamer wings,
Shimmer of waters, with fish in them—the cerulean above; 10
All that is jocund 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 call 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 spring-time is here! the summer is here ! and what is this in it and from it?
Thou, Soul, unloosen’d—the restlessness after I know not what ;
Come! let us lag here no longer—let us be up and away !
O for another world! O if one could but fly like a bird! 20
O to escape—to sail forth, as in a ship !
To glide with thee, O Soul, o’er all, in all, as a ship o’er the waters !
—Gathering these hints, these preludes—the blue sky, the grass, the morning drops of dew ;
(With additional songs—every spring will I now strike up ad- ditional songs,
Nor ever again forget, these tender days, the chants of Death as well as Life ;)
The lilac-scent, the bushes, and the dark green, heart-shaped leaves, ;
Wood violets, the little delicate pale blossoms called innocence,
Samples and sorts not for themselves alone, but for their atmos- phere,
To tally, drench’d with them, tested by them,
Cities and artificial life, and all their sights and scenes, 30
My mind henceforth, and all its meditations—my recitatives,
“My land, my age, my race, for once to serve in songs,
424. LEAVES OF GRASS
(Sprouts, tokens ever of death indeed the same as life, ) To grace the bush I love—to sing with the birds, A warble for joy of Lilac-time.
&
WHO LEARNS MY LESSON COMPLETE?
First published in 1855.
Wuo learns my lesson complete ?
Boss, journeyman, apprentice—churchman and atheist,
The stupid and the wise thinker—parents and offspring—mer- chant, clerk, porter and customer,
Editor, author, artist, and schoolboy—Draw nigh and commence ;
It is no lesson—it lets down the bars to a good lesson,
And that to another, and every one to another still.
The great laws take and effuse without argument ; JI am of the same style, for I am their friend, I love them quits and quits—I do not halt, and make salaams.
I lie abstracted, and hear beautiful tales of things, and the rea- sons of things ; Io They are so beautiful, I nudge myself to listen.
I cannot say to any person what I hear—lI cannot say it to my- self—it is very wonderful.
At is no small matter, this round and delicious globe, 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, nor in ten thousand years, nor ten billions of years,
Nor plann’d and built one thing after another, as an architect plans and builds a house.
I do not think seventy years is the time of a man or woman, Nor that seventy millions of years is the time of a man or woman, Nor that years will ever stop the existence of me, or any one else.
Is it wonderful that I should be immortal? as every one is im- mortal ;
LEAVES OF GRASS 426
I know it is wonderful, but my eyesight is equally wonderful, and how I was conceived in my mother’s womb is equally wonderful ; 20
‘And pass’d 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.*
&
THOUGHT.
First published in 1860. Part of ‘‘ Thought 4” in that and edition of 1867.
OF Justice—As if Justice could be anything but the same ample law, expounded by natural judges and saviors, As if it might be this thing or that thing, according to decisions.
1 1855 756 begin line 21 ‘¢ And how I was not palpable once but am now— and was born on the last day of May 1819 and passed from a babe in the creeping trance of three summers and three winters to articulate,”’ etc.
1860 reads as above with change ‘‘and was born on the last day of the
Fifth Month, in the year 43 of America.’’
2 After line 21, 1855 adds ‘¢And that I grew six feet high—and that I have become a man thirty-six years old in 1855—and that I am here anyhow —are all equally wonderful.” \
1860 ’67 read as above with change ‘‘ thirty-six years old in the year 79 of
America.”’ rp
8 1855 56 add ‘*Come! I should like to hear you tell me what there is in yourself that is not just as wonderful, and I should like to hear the name of anything between Sunday morning and Saturday night that is not just as wonderful.”’
1860 reads as above with change ‘First Day morning and Seventh Day
night.”
426. LEAVES OF GRASS
MYSELF AND MINE.
First published in 1860.
MyseE.F and mine gymnastic ever,’
To stand the cold or heat—to take good aim with a gun—to sail a boat—to manage horses—to beget superb children,
To speak readily and clearly—to feel at home among common people,
And to hold our own in terrible positions, on land and sea.
Not for an embroiderer ;
(There will always be plenty of embroiderers—I welcome them also ;)
But for the fibre of things, and for inherent men and women.
Not to chisel ornaments,
But to chisel with free stroke the heads and limbs of plenteous Supreme Gods, that The States may realize them, walk- ing and talking.
Let me have my own way ; 10 Let others promulge the laws—I will make no account of the laws ;
Let others praise eminent men and hold up peace—I hold up agitation and conflict ;
I praise no eminent man—I rebuke to his face the one that was thought most worthy.
(Who are you? you mean devil! And what are you secretly guilty of, all your life ?
Will you turn aside all your life? Will you grub and chatter all your life ?)
(And who are you—blabbing by rote, years, pages, languages, reminiscences,
Unwitting to-day that you do not know how to speak a single word ?)
Let others finish specimens—I never finish specimens ; I shower them by exhaustless laws, as Nature does, fresh and modern continually.
1 1860 for line I reads ‘‘ It is ended—I dally no more, after to-day I inure myself to run, leap, swim, wrestle, fight,’’
LEAVES OF GRASS 427
I give nothing as duties; . 20 What others give as duties, I give as living impulses ; (Shall I give the heart’s action as a duty ?)
Let others dispose of questions—I dispose of nothing—I arouse unanswerable questions ;
Who are they I see and touch, and what about them ?
What about these likes of myself, that draw me so close by tender directions and indirections ?"
I call to the world to distrust the accounts of my friends, but listen to my enemies—as I myself do ;
I charge you, too, forever, reject those who would expound me —for I cannot expound myself ;
I charge that there be no theory or school founded out of me;
I charge you to leave all free, as I have left all free.
After me, vista ! 30
O, I see life is not short, but immeasurably long ;
I henceforth tread the world, chaste, temperate, an early riser,? a steady grower,
Every hour the semen of centuries—and still of centuries.
I will follow up these continual lessons of the air, water, earth ; I perceive I have no time to lose.
ad
TO OLD AGE.
First published in 1860.
I sEE in you the estuary that enlarges and spreads itself grandly as it pours in the great Sea.
1 After line 25, 1860 reads ‘‘ Let others deny the evil their enemies charge against them—but how can I the like? ‘ Nothing ever has been, or ever can be, charged against me, half as bad as the evil I really am.”’ 2 1860 adds ‘a gymnast.”’
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MIIACLES.!
First published in 1856 under tit.of ‘* Poem of Perfect Miracles.”
Wuy! who makes much of a miicle?
As to me, I know of nothing else bt. miracles,
Whether I walk the streets of Manhatta,
Or dart my sight over the roofs of housestoward the sky,
Or wade with naked feet along the beach, jet.in the edge of the water,
Or stand under trees in the woods,
Or talk by day with any one I love—or sleep in thehed at night with any one I love,
Or sit at table at dinner with my mother,
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive, of a sumny fore- noon, Io
Or animals feeding in the fields,
Or birds—or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,
Or the wonderfulness of the sun-down—or of stars shiningg quiet and bright,
Or the exquisite, delicate, thin curve of the new moon in sprin.
Or whether I go among those I like best, and that like me by —mechanics, boatmen, farmers,
Or among the savans—or to the soiree—or to the opera,
Or stand a long while looking at the movements of machiner
Or behold children at their sports,
Or the admirable sight of the perfect old man, or the perf, old woman,
Or the sick in hospitals, or the dead carried to burial, °
Or my own eyes and figure in the glass ;
These, with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,
The whole referring—yet each distinct, and in its place.
To me, every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with ,e same,
1 1856 begins poem “ Realism is mine, my miracles Take all of the rest—take freely—I keep but my own—I give only of thi I offer them without end—lI offer them to you wherever your feet can carry,y or your eyes reach.”’ i 1860 ’67 read ‘* What shall I give? and which are my miracles ? Realism is mine—my miracles—Take freely, Take without end, I offer them to you,’’ etc,, as in 1855.