Chapter 13
As I ebbed with an ebb of the ocean of life, As I wended the shores I know, As I walked where the sea-ripples wash you, Paumanok, Where they rustle up, hoarse and sibilant, Where the fierce old Mother endlessly cries for her castaways, I, musing, late in the autumn day, gazing off southward, Alone, held by this eternal self of me, out of the pride of which I have uttered my poems, Was seized by the spirit that trails in the lines underfoot, In the rim, the sediment, that stands for all the water and all the land of the globe.
Fascinated, my eyes, reverting from the south, dropped, to follow those slender winrows, Chaff, straw, splinters of wood, weeds, and the sea-gluten, Scum, scales from shining rocks, leaves of salt-lettuce, left by the tide; Miles walking, the sound of breaking waves the other side of me, Paumanok, there and then, as I thought the old thought of likenesses. These you presented to me, you fish-shaped Island, As I wended the shores I know, As I walked with that eternal self of me, seeking types.
2.
As I wend to the shores I know not, As I list to the dirge, the voices of men and women wrecked, As I inhale the impalpable breezes that set in upon me, As the ocean so mysterious rolls toward me closer and closer, I too but signify, at the utmost, a little washed-up drift, A few sands and dead leaves to gather, Gather, and merge myself as part of the sands and drift.
O baffled, baulked, bent to the very earth, Oppressed with myself that I have dared to open my mouth, Aware now that, amid all the blab whose echoes recoil upon me, I have not once had the least idea who or what I am, But that before all my insolent poems, the real ME stands yet untouched, untold, altogether unreached, Withdrawn far, mocking me with mock-congratulatory signs and bows, With peals of distant ironical laughter at every word I have written, Pointing in silence to all these songs, and then to the sand beneath.
Now I perceive I have not understood anything--not a single object--and that no man ever can.
I perceive Nature, here in sight of the sea, is taking advantage of me, to dart upon me, and sting me, Because I have dared to open my mouth to sing at all.
3.
You oceans both! I close with you; These little shreds shall indeed stand for all.
You friable shore, with trails of debris! You fish-shaped Island! I take what is underfoot; What is yours is mine, my father.
I too, Paumanok, I too have bubbled up, floated the measureless float, and been washed on your shores; I too am but a trail of drift and debris, I too leave little wrecks upon you, you fish-shaped Island.
I throw myself upon your breast, my father, I cling to you so that you cannot unloose me, I hold you so firm till you answer me something.
Kiss me, my father, Touch me with your lips, as I touch those I love, Breathe to me, while I hold you close, the secret of the wondrous murmuring I envy.
4.
Ebb, ocean of life, (the flow will return.) Cease not your moaning, you fierce old Mother, Endlessly cry for your castaways--but fear not, deny not me, Rustle not up so hoarse and angry against my feet, as I touch you, or gather from you.
I mean tenderly by you, I gather for myself, and for this phantom, looking down where we lead, and following me and mine.
Me and mine! We, loose winrows, little corpses, Froth, snowy white, and bubbles, (See! from my dead lips the ooze exuding at last! See--the prismatic colours, glistening and rolling!) Tufts of straw, sands, fragments, Buoyed hither from many moods, one contradicting another, From the storm, the long calm, the darkness, the swell; Musing, pondering, a breath, a briny tear, a dab of liquid or soil; Up just as much out of fathomless workings fermented and thrown; A limp blossom or two, torn, just as much over waves floating, drifted at random; Just as much for us that sobbing dirge of Nature; Just as much, whence we come, that blare of the cloud-trumpets; We, capricious, brought hither, we know not whence, spread out before you, You, up there, walking or sitting, Whoever you are--we too lie in drifts at your feet.
_WONDERS._
1.
Who learns my lesson complete? Boss, journeyman, apprentice--churchman and atheist, The stupid and the 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 every one to another still.
2.
The great laws take and effuse 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 salaams.
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 globe, moving so exactly in its orbit for ever 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 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 any one else.
3.
Is it wonderful that I should be immortal? as every one 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.
_MIRACLES._
1.
What shall I give? and which are my miracles?
2.
Realism is mine--my miracles--Take freely, Take without end--I offer them to you wherever your feet can carry you or your eyes reach.
3.
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 any one I love--or sleep in the bed at night with any one I love, Or sit at the 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 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; Or whether I go among those I like best, and that like me best--mechanics, boatmen, farmers, Or among the savans--or to the _soirée_--or to the opera. Or stand a long while looking at the movements of machinery, Or behold children at their sports, Or the admirable sight of the perfect old man, or the perfect 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.
4.
To me, every hour of the light and dark is a miracle, Every inch of space is a miracle, Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same, Every cubic foot of the interior swarms with the same; Every spear of grass--the frames, limbs, organs, of men and women, and all that concerns them, All these to me are unspeakably perfect miracles.
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?
_VISAGES._
Of the visages of things--And of piercing through to the accepted hells beneath. Of ugliness--To me there is just as much in it as there is in beauty--And now the ugliness of human beings is acceptable to me. Of detected persons--To me, detected persons are not, in any respect, worse than undetected persons--and are not in any respect worse than I am myself. Of criminals--To me, any judge, or any juror, is equally criminal--and any reputable person is also--and the President is also.
_THE DARK SIDE._
I sit and look out upon all the sorrows of the world, and upon all oppression and shame; I hear secret convulsive sobs from young men, at anguish with themselves, remorseful after deeds done; I see, in low life, the mother misused by her children, dying, neglected, gaunt, desperate; I see the wife misused by her husband--I see the treacherous seducer of young women; I mark the ranklings of jealousy and unrequited love, attempted to be hid-- I see these sights on the earth; I see the workings of battle, pestilence, tyranny--I see martyrs and prisoners; I observe a famine at sea--I observe the sailors casting lots who shall be killed, to preserve the lives of the rest; I observe the slights and degradations cast by arrogant persons upon labourers, the poor, and upon negroes, and the like; All these--all the meanness and agony without end, I, sitting, look out upon; See, hear, and am silent.
_MUSIC._
I heard you, solemn-sweet pipes of the organ, as last Sunday morn I passed the church; Winds of autumn!--as I walked the woods at dusk, I heard your long-stretched sighs, up above, so mournful; I heard the perfect Italian tenor, singing at the opera--I heard the soprano in the midst of the quartette singing. --Heart of my love! you too I heard, murmuring low, through one of the wrists around my head; Heard the pulse of you, when all was still, ringing little bells last night under my ear.
_WHEREFORE?_
O me! O life!--of the questions of these recurring; Of the endless trains of the faithless--of cities filled with the foolish; Of myself for ever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?) Of eyes that vainly crave the light--of the objects mean--of the struggle ever renewed; Of the poor results of all--of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me; Of the empty and useless years of the rest--with the rest me intertwined; The question, O me! so sad, recurring--What good amid these, O me, O life?
_ANSWER_.
That you are here--that life exists, and identity; That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.
_QUESTIONABLE._
As I lay with my head in your lap, camerado, The confession I made I resume--what I said to you and the open air I resume. I know I am restless, and make others so; I know my words are weapons, full of danger, full of death; (Indeed I am myself the real soldier; It is not he, there, with his bayonet, and not the red-striped artilleryman;) For I confront peace, security, and all the settled laws, to unsettle them; I am more resolute because all have denied me than I could ever have been had all accepted me; I heed not, and have never heeded, either experience, cautions, majorities, nor ridicule; And the threat of what is called hell is little or nothing to me; And the lure of what is called heaven is little or nothing to me. --Dear camerado! I confess I have urged you onward with me, and still urge you, without the least idea what is our destination, Or whether we shall be victorious, or utterly quelled and defeated.
_SONG AT SUNSET._
1.
Splendour of ended day, floating and filling me! Hour prophetic--hour resuming the past: Inflating my throat--you, divine Average! You, Earth and Life, till the last ray gleams, I sing.
2.
Open mouth of my soul, uttering gladness, Eyes of my soul, seeing perfection, Natural life of me, faithfully praising things; Corroborating for ever the triumph of things.
3.
Illustrious every one! 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 seize something by the hand! To prepare for sleep, for bed--to look on my rose-coloured flesh, To be conscious of my body, so happy, so large, To be this incredible God I am, To have gone forth among other Gods--those 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 sun, moon, 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 the trees--some living soul.
O amazement of things! even the least particle! O spirituality of things! O strain musical, flowing through ages and continents--now reaching me and America! I take your strong chords--I intersperse them, and cheerfully pass 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 felt the resistless call of myself.
As I sailed 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; Wherever I have been, I have charged myself with contentment and triumph.
I sing the Equalities; I sing the endless finales of things; I say Nature continues--Glory continues; I praise with electric voice: For I do not see one imperfection in the universe; And I do not see one cause or result lamentable at last in the universe.
O setting sun! though the time has come, I still warble under you unmitigated adoration.
_LONGINGS FOR HOME._
O Magnet South! O glistening, perfumed South! my South! O quick mettle, 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,[1] the grains, plants, rivers; Dear to me my own slow, sluggish rivers, where they flow distant over flats of silvery sands or through swamps; Dear to me the Roanoke, the Savannah, the Altamahaw, the Pedee, the Tombigbee, the Santee, the Coosa, and the Sabine-- O pensive, far away wandering, I return with my soul to haunt their banks again. Again in Florida I float on transparent lakes--I float on Okeechobee--I cross the hummock land, or through pleasant openings or dense forests. I see the parrots in the woods, I see the papaw-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, hemp! The cactus, guarded with thorns--the laurel-tree, with large white flowers; The range afar--the richness and barrenness--the old woods charged with mistletoe and trailing moss, The piney odour and the gloom--the awful natural stillness, Here in these dense swamps the freebooter carries his gun, and the fugitive slave 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 whirr of the rattlesnake; The mocking-bird, the American mimic, singing all the forenoon--singing through the moon-lit night, The humming-bird, the wild-turkey, the raccoon, the opossum; A Tennessee corn-field--the tall, graceful, long-leaved corn--slender, flapping, bright green, with tassels--with beautiful ears, each well-sheathed in its husk; An Arkansas prairie--a sleeping lake, or still bayou. 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!
[Footnote 1: These expressions cannot be understood in a literal sense, for Whitman was born, not in the South, but in the State of New York. The precise sense to be attached to them may be open to some difference of opinion.]
_APPEARANCES._
Of the terrible doubt of appearances, Of the uncertainty after all--that we may be deluded, That maybe reliance and hope are but speculations after all, That maybe identity beyond the grave is a beautiful fable only, Maybe the things I perceive--the animals, plants, men, hills, shining and flowing waters, The skies of day and night--colours, densities, forms--Maybe these are (as doubtless they are) only apparitions, and the real something has yet to be known; (How often they dart out of themselves, as if to confound me and mock me! How often I think neither I know, nor any man knows, aught of them!) Maybe seeming to me what they are (as doubtless they indeed but seem) as from my present point of view--And might prove (as of course they would) naught of what they appear, or naught anyhow, from entirely changed points of view; --To me, these, and the like of these, are curiously answered by my lovers, my dear friends. When he whom I love travels with me, or sits a long while holding me by the hand, When the subtle air, the impalpable, the sense that words and reason hold not, surround us and pervade us, Then I am charged with untold and untellable wisdom--I am silent--I require nothing further, I cannot answer the question of appearances, or that of identity beyond the grave; But I walk or sit indifferent--I am satisfied, He ahold of my hand has completely satisfied me.
_THE FRIEND._
Recorders ages hence! Come, I will take you down underneath this impassive exterior--I will tell you what to say of me; Publish my name and hang up my picture as that of the tenderest lover, The friend, the lover's portrait, of whom his friend, his lover, was fondest, Who was not proud of his songs, but of the measureless ocean of love within him--and freely poured it forth, Who often walked lonesome walks, thinking of his dear friends, his lovers, Who pensive, away from one he loved, often lay sleepless and dissatisfied at night, Who knew too well the sick, sick dread lest the one he loved might secretly be indifferent to him, Whose happiest days were far away, through fields, in woods, on hills, he and another, wandering hand in hand, they twain, apart from other men, Who oft, as he sauntered the streets, curved with his arm the shoulder of his friend--while the arm of his friend rested upon him also.
_MEETING AGAIN._
When I heard at the close of the day how my name had been received with plaudits in the capitol, still it was not a happy night for me that followed; And else, when I caroused, or when my plans were accomplished, still I was not happy. But the day when I rose at dawn from the bed of perfect health, refreshed, singing, inhaling the ripe breath of autumn, When I saw the full moon in the west grow pale and disappear in the morning light, When I wandered alone over the beach, and undressing bathed, laughing with the cool waters, and saw the sunrise, And when I thought how my dear friend, my lover, was on his way coming, O then I was happy; O then each breath tasted sweeter--and all that day my food nourished me more--and the beautiful day passed well, And the next came with equal joy--and with the next, at evening, came my friend; And that night, while all was still, I heard the waters roll slowly continually up the shores, I heard the hissing rustle of the liquid and sands, as directed to me, whispering, to congratulate me; For the one I love most lay sleeping by me under the same cover in the cool night, In the stillness, in the autumn moonbeams, his face was inclined toward me, And his arm lay lightly around my breast--and that night I was happy.
_A DREAM._
Of him I love day and night, I dreamed I heard he was dead; And I dreamed I went where they had buried him I love--but he was not in that place; And I dreamed I wandered, searching among burial-places, to find him; And I found that every place was a burial-place; The houses full of life were equally full of death, (this house is now;) The streets, the shipping, the places of amusement, the Chicago, Boston, Philadelphia, the Mannahatta, were as full of the dead as of the living, And fuller, O vastly fuller, of the dead than of the living. --And what I dreamed I will henceforth tell to every person and age, And I stand henceforth bound to what I dreamed; And now I am willing to disregard burial-places, and dispense with them; And if the memorials of the dead were put up indifferently everywhere, even in the room where I eat or sleep, I should be satisfied; And if the corpse of any one I love, or if my own corpse, be duly rendered to powder, and poured in the sea, I shall be satisfied; Or if it be distributed to the winds, I shall be satisfied.
_PARTING FRIENDS._
What think you I take my pen in hand to record? The battle-ship, perfect-modelled, majestic, that I saw pass the offing to- day under full sail? The splendours of the past day? Or the splendour of the night that envelops me? Or the vaunted glory and growth of the great city spread around me?--No; But I record of two simple men I saw to-day, on the pier, in the midst of the crowd, parting the parting of dear friends; The one to remain hung on the other's neck, and passionately kissed him, While the one to depart tightly pressed the one to remain in his arms.
_TO A STRANGER._