"
If you are interested in contributing scanning equipment or
software or other items, please contact Michael Hart at:
hart@pobox.
If you are interested in contributing scanning equipment or
software or other items, please contact Michael Hart at:
hart@pobox.
Whitman
The
_recherche_ or ethereal sense of the term, as used in my book, arises
probably from the actual Calamus presenting the biggest and hardiest kind
of spears of grass, and their fresh, aquatic, pungent _bouquet_. "]
_LOVE OF COMRADES. _
1.
Come, I will make the continent indissoluble;
I will make the most splendid race the sun ever yet shone upon!
I will make divine magnetic lands,
With the love of comrades,
With the life-long love of comrades.
2.
I will plant companionship thick as trees along all the rivers of America,
and along the shores of the great lakes, and all over the prairies;
I will make inseparable cities, with their arms about each other's necks;
By the love of comrades,
By the manly love of comrades.
3.
For you these, from me, O Democracy, to serve you, _ma femme_!
For you! for you, I am trilling these songs,
In the love of comrades,
In the high-towering love of comrades.
_PULSE OF MY LIFE. _
Not heaving from my ribbed breast only;
Not in sighs at night, in rage, dissatisfied with myself;
Not in those long-drawn, ill-suppressed sighs;
Not in many an oath and promise broken;
Not in my wilful and savage soul's volition;
Not in the subtle nourishment of the air;
Not in this beating and pounding at my temples and wrists;
Not in the curious systole and diastole within, which will one day cease;
Not in many a hungry wish, told to the skies only;
Not in cries, laughter, defiances, thrown from me when alone, far in the
wilds;
Not in husky pantings through clenched teeth;
Not in sounded and resounded words--chattering words, echoes, dead words;
Not in the murmurs of my dreams while I sleep,
Nor the other murmurs of these incredible dreams of every day;
Nor in the limbs and senses of my body, that take you and dismiss you
continually--Not there;
Not in any or all of them, O Adhesiveness! O pulse of my life!
Need I that you exist and show yourself, any more than in these songs.
_AUXILIARIES. _
WHAT place is besieged, and vainly tries to raise the siege?
Lo! I send to that place a commander, swift, brave, immortal;
And with him horse and foot, and parks of artillery,
And artillerymen, the deadliest that ever fired gun.
_REALITIES. _
1.
As I walk, solitary, unattended,
Around me I hear that _eclat_ of the world--politics, produce,
The announcements of recognised things--science,
The approved growth of cities, and the spread of inventions.
I see the ships, (they will last a few years,)
The vast factories, with their foremen and workmen,
And hear the endorsement of all, and do not object to it.
2.
But I too announce solid things;
Science, ships, politics, cities, factories, are not nothing--they serve,
They stand for realities--all is as it should be.
3.
Then my realities;
What else is so real as mine?
Libertad, and the divine Average-Freedom to every slave on the face of the
earth,
The rapt promises and _lumine_[1] of seers--the spiritual
world--these centuries-lasting songs,
And our visions, the visions of poets, the most solid announcements of any.
For we support all,
After the rest is done and gone, we remain,
There is no final reliance but upon us;
Democracy rests finally upon us, (I, my brethren, begin it,)
And our visions sweep through eternity.
[Footnote 1: I suppose Whitman gets this odd word _lumine_, by a process of
his own, out of _illuminati_, and intends it to stand for what would be
called clairvoyance, intuition. ]
_NEARING DEPARTURE. _
1.
As nearing departure,
As the time draws nigh, glooming, a cloud,
A dread beyond, of I know not what, darkens me.
2.
I shall _go_ forth,
I shall traverse the States--but I cannot tell whither or how long;
Perhaps soon, some day or night while I am singing, my voice will suddenly
cease.
3.
O book and chant! must all then amount to but this?
Must we barely arrive at this beginning of me? . . .
And yet it is enough, O soul!
O soul! we have positively appeared--that is enough.
_POETS TO COME. _
1.
Poets to come!
Not to-day is to justify me, and Democracy, and what we are for;
But you, a new brood, native, athletic, continental, greater than before
known,
You must justify me.
2.
I but write one or two indicative words for the future,
I but advance a moment, only to wheel and hurry back in the darkness.
I am a man who, sauntering along, without fully stopping, turns a casual
look upon you, and then averts his face,
Leaving it to you to prove and define it,
Expecting the main things from you.
_CENTURIES HENCE. _
Full of life now, compact, visible,
I, forty years old the eighty-third year of the States,
To one a century hence, or any number of centuries hence,
To you, yet unborn, these seeking you.
When you read these, I, that was visible, am become invisible;
Now it is you, compact, visible, realising my poems, seeking me;
Fancying how happy you were, if I could be with you, and become your loving
comrade;
Be it as if I were with you. Be not too certain but I am now with you.
_SO LONG! _
1.
To conclude--I announce what comes after me;
I announce mightier offspring, orators, days, and then depart,
I remember I said, before my leaves sprang at all,
I would raise my voice jocund and strong, with reference to consummations.
When America does what was promised,
When there are plentiful athletic bards, inland and sea-board,
When through these States walk a hundred millions of superb persons,
When the rest part away for superb persons, and contribute to them,
When breeds of the most perfect mothers denote America,
Then to me my due fruition.
I have pressed through in my own right,
I have offered my style to every one--I have journeyed with confident step.
While my pleasure is yet at the full, I whisper, _So long_!
And take the young woman's hand, and the young man's hand for the last
time.
2.
I announce natural persons to arise,
I announce justice triumphant,
I announce uncompromising liberty and equality,
I announce the justification of candour, and the justification of pride.
I announce that the identity of these States is a single identity only,
I announce the Union, out of all its struggles and wars, more and more
compact,
I announce splendours and majesties to make all the previous politics of
the earth insignificant.
I announce a man or woman coming--perhaps you are the one (_So long_! )
I announce the great individual, fluid as Nature, chaste, affectionate,
compassionate, fully armed.
I announce a life that shall be copious, vehement, spiritual, bold,
And I announce an old age that shall lightly and joyfully meet its
translation.
3.
O thicker and faster! (_So long_! )
O crowding too close upon me;
I foresee too much--it means more than I thought,
It appears to me I am dying.
Hasten throat, and sound your last!
Salute me--salute the days once more. Peal the old cry once more.
Screaming electric, the atmosphere using,
At random glancing, each as I notice absorbing,
Swiftly on, but a little while alighting,
Curious enveloped messages delivering,
Sparkles hot, seed ethereal, down in the dirt dropping,
Myself unknowing, my commission obeying, to question it never daring,
To ages, and ages yet, the growth of the seed leaving,
To troops out of me rising--they the tasks I have set promulging,
To women certain whispers of myself bequeathing--their affection me more
clearly explaining,
To young men my problems offering--no dallier I--I the muscle of their
brains trying,
So I pass--a little time vocal, visible, contrary,
Afterward, a melodious echo, passionately bent for--death making me really
undying,--
The best of me then when no longer visible--for toward that I have been
incessantly preparing.
What is there more, that I lag and pause, and crouch extended with unshut
mouth?
Is there a single final farewell?
4.
My songs cease--I abandon them,
From behind the screen where I hid, I advance personally, solely to you.
Camerado! This is no book;
Who touches this touches a man.
(Is it night? Are we here alone? )
It is I you hold, and who holds you,
I spring from the pages into your arms--decease calls me forth.
O how your fingers drowse me!
Your breath falls around me like dew--your pulse lulls the tympans of my
ears,
I feel immerged from head to foot,
Delicious--enough.
Enough, O deed impromptu and secret!
Enough, O gliding present! Enough, O summed-up past!
5.
Dear friend, whoever you are, here, take this kiss,
I give it especially to you--Do not forget me,
I feel like one who has done his work--I progress on,--(long enough have I
dallied with Life,)
The unknown sphere, more real than I dreamed, more direct, awakening rays
about me--_So long_!
Remember my words--I love you--I depart from materials,
I am as one disembodied, triumphant, dead.
POSTSCRIPT.
While this Selection was passing through the press, it has been my
privilege to receive two letters from Mr. Whitman, besides another
communicated to me through a friend. I find my experience to be the same as
that of some previous writers: that, if one admires Whitman in reading his
books, one loves him on coming into any personal relation with him--even
the comparatively distant relation of letter-writing.
The more I have to thank the poet for the substance and tone of his
letters, and some particular expressions in them, the more does it become
incumbent upon me to guard against any misapprehension. He has had nothing
whatever to do with this Selection, as to either prompting, guiding, or
even ratifying it: except only that he did not prohibit my making two or
three verbal omissions in the _Prose Preface to the Leaves of Grass_, and
he has supplied his own title, _President Lincoln's Funeral Hymn_, to a
poem which, in my Prefatory Notice, is named (by myself) _Nocturn for the
Death of Lincoln_. All admirers of his poetry will rejoice to learn that
there is no longer any doubt of his adding to his next edition "a brief
cluster of pieces born of thoughts on the deep themes of Death and
Immortality. " A new American edition will be dear to many: a complete
English edition ought to be an early demand of English poetic readers, and
would be the right and crowning result of the present Selection.
W. M. R.
1868.
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, POEMS BY WALT WHITMAN ***
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_recherche_ or ethereal sense of the term, as used in my book, arises
probably from the actual Calamus presenting the biggest and hardiest kind
of spears of grass, and their fresh, aquatic, pungent _bouquet_. "]
_LOVE OF COMRADES. _
1.
Come, I will make the continent indissoluble;
I will make the most splendid race the sun ever yet shone upon!
I will make divine magnetic lands,
With the love of comrades,
With the life-long love of comrades.
2.
I will plant companionship thick as trees along all the rivers of America,
and along the shores of the great lakes, and all over the prairies;
I will make inseparable cities, with their arms about each other's necks;
By the love of comrades,
By the manly love of comrades.
3.
For you these, from me, O Democracy, to serve you, _ma femme_!
For you! for you, I am trilling these songs,
In the love of comrades,
In the high-towering love of comrades.
_PULSE OF MY LIFE. _
Not heaving from my ribbed breast only;
Not in sighs at night, in rage, dissatisfied with myself;
Not in those long-drawn, ill-suppressed sighs;
Not in many an oath and promise broken;
Not in my wilful and savage soul's volition;
Not in the subtle nourishment of the air;
Not in this beating and pounding at my temples and wrists;
Not in the curious systole and diastole within, which will one day cease;
Not in many a hungry wish, told to the skies only;
Not in cries, laughter, defiances, thrown from me when alone, far in the
wilds;
Not in husky pantings through clenched teeth;
Not in sounded and resounded words--chattering words, echoes, dead words;
Not in the murmurs of my dreams while I sleep,
Nor the other murmurs of these incredible dreams of every day;
Nor in the limbs and senses of my body, that take you and dismiss you
continually--Not there;
Not in any or all of them, O Adhesiveness! O pulse of my life!
Need I that you exist and show yourself, any more than in these songs.
_AUXILIARIES. _
WHAT place is besieged, and vainly tries to raise the siege?
Lo! I send to that place a commander, swift, brave, immortal;
And with him horse and foot, and parks of artillery,
And artillerymen, the deadliest that ever fired gun.
_REALITIES. _
1.
As I walk, solitary, unattended,
Around me I hear that _eclat_ of the world--politics, produce,
The announcements of recognised things--science,
The approved growth of cities, and the spread of inventions.
I see the ships, (they will last a few years,)
The vast factories, with their foremen and workmen,
And hear the endorsement of all, and do not object to it.
2.
But I too announce solid things;
Science, ships, politics, cities, factories, are not nothing--they serve,
They stand for realities--all is as it should be.
3.
Then my realities;
What else is so real as mine?
Libertad, and the divine Average-Freedom to every slave on the face of the
earth,
The rapt promises and _lumine_[1] of seers--the spiritual
world--these centuries-lasting songs,
And our visions, the visions of poets, the most solid announcements of any.
For we support all,
After the rest is done and gone, we remain,
There is no final reliance but upon us;
Democracy rests finally upon us, (I, my brethren, begin it,)
And our visions sweep through eternity.
[Footnote 1: I suppose Whitman gets this odd word _lumine_, by a process of
his own, out of _illuminati_, and intends it to stand for what would be
called clairvoyance, intuition. ]
_NEARING DEPARTURE. _
1.
As nearing departure,
As the time draws nigh, glooming, a cloud,
A dread beyond, of I know not what, darkens me.
2.
I shall _go_ forth,
I shall traverse the States--but I cannot tell whither or how long;
Perhaps soon, some day or night while I am singing, my voice will suddenly
cease.
3.
O book and chant! must all then amount to but this?
Must we barely arrive at this beginning of me? . . .
And yet it is enough, O soul!
O soul! we have positively appeared--that is enough.
_POETS TO COME. _
1.
Poets to come!
Not to-day is to justify me, and Democracy, and what we are for;
But you, a new brood, native, athletic, continental, greater than before
known,
You must justify me.
2.
I but write one or two indicative words for the future,
I but advance a moment, only to wheel and hurry back in the darkness.
I am a man who, sauntering along, without fully stopping, turns a casual
look upon you, and then averts his face,
Leaving it to you to prove and define it,
Expecting the main things from you.
_CENTURIES HENCE. _
Full of life now, compact, visible,
I, forty years old the eighty-third year of the States,
To one a century hence, or any number of centuries hence,
To you, yet unborn, these seeking you.
When you read these, I, that was visible, am become invisible;
Now it is you, compact, visible, realising my poems, seeking me;
Fancying how happy you were, if I could be with you, and become your loving
comrade;
Be it as if I were with you. Be not too certain but I am now with you.
_SO LONG! _
1.
To conclude--I announce what comes after me;
I announce mightier offspring, orators, days, and then depart,
I remember I said, before my leaves sprang at all,
I would raise my voice jocund and strong, with reference to consummations.
When America does what was promised,
When there are plentiful athletic bards, inland and sea-board,
When through these States walk a hundred millions of superb persons,
When the rest part away for superb persons, and contribute to them,
When breeds of the most perfect mothers denote America,
Then to me my due fruition.
I have pressed through in my own right,
I have offered my style to every one--I have journeyed with confident step.
While my pleasure is yet at the full, I whisper, _So long_!
And take the young woman's hand, and the young man's hand for the last
time.
2.
I announce natural persons to arise,
I announce justice triumphant,
I announce uncompromising liberty and equality,
I announce the justification of candour, and the justification of pride.
I announce that the identity of these States is a single identity only,
I announce the Union, out of all its struggles and wars, more and more
compact,
I announce splendours and majesties to make all the previous politics of
the earth insignificant.
I announce a man or woman coming--perhaps you are the one (_So long_! )
I announce the great individual, fluid as Nature, chaste, affectionate,
compassionate, fully armed.
I announce a life that shall be copious, vehement, spiritual, bold,
And I announce an old age that shall lightly and joyfully meet its
translation.
3.
O thicker and faster! (_So long_! )
O crowding too close upon me;
I foresee too much--it means more than I thought,
It appears to me I am dying.
Hasten throat, and sound your last!
Salute me--salute the days once more. Peal the old cry once more.
Screaming electric, the atmosphere using,
At random glancing, each as I notice absorbing,
Swiftly on, but a little while alighting,
Curious enveloped messages delivering,
Sparkles hot, seed ethereal, down in the dirt dropping,
Myself unknowing, my commission obeying, to question it never daring,
To ages, and ages yet, the growth of the seed leaving,
To troops out of me rising--they the tasks I have set promulging,
To women certain whispers of myself bequeathing--their affection me more
clearly explaining,
To young men my problems offering--no dallier I--I the muscle of their
brains trying,
So I pass--a little time vocal, visible, contrary,
Afterward, a melodious echo, passionately bent for--death making me really
undying,--
The best of me then when no longer visible--for toward that I have been
incessantly preparing.
What is there more, that I lag and pause, and crouch extended with unshut
mouth?
Is there a single final farewell?
4.
My songs cease--I abandon them,
From behind the screen where I hid, I advance personally, solely to you.
Camerado! This is no book;
Who touches this touches a man.
(Is it night? Are we here alone? )
It is I you hold, and who holds you,
I spring from the pages into your arms--decease calls me forth.
O how your fingers drowse me!
Your breath falls around me like dew--your pulse lulls the tympans of my
ears,
I feel immerged from head to foot,
Delicious--enough.
Enough, O deed impromptu and secret!
Enough, O gliding present! Enough, O summed-up past!
5.
Dear friend, whoever you are, here, take this kiss,
I give it especially to you--Do not forget me,
I feel like one who has done his work--I progress on,--(long enough have I
dallied with Life,)
The unknown sphere, more real than I dreamed, more direct, awakening rays
about me--_So long_!
Remember my words--I love you--I depart from materials,
I am as one disembodied, triumphant, dead.
POSTSCRIPT.
While this Selection was passing through the press, it has been my
privilege to receive two letters from Mr. Whitman, besides another
communicated to me through a friend. I find my experience to be the same as
that of some previous writers: that, if one admires Whitman in reading his
books, one loves him on coming into any personal relation with him--even
the comparatively distant relation of letter-writing.
The more I have to thank the poet for the substance and tone of his
letters, and some particular expressions in them, the more does it become
incumbent upon me to guard against any misapprehension. He has had nothing
whatever to do with this Selection, as to either prompting, guiding, or
even ratifying it: except only that he did not prohibit my making two or
three verbal omissions in the _Prose Preface to the Leaves of Grass_, and
he has supplied his own title, _President Lincoln's Funeral Hymn_, to a
poem which, in my Prefatory Notice, is named (by myself) _Nocturn for the
Death of Lincoln_. All admirers of his poetry will rejoice to learn that
there is no longer any doubt of his adding to his next edition "a brief
cluster of pieces born of thoughts on the deep themes of Death and
Immortality. " A new American edition will be dear to many: a complete
English edition ought to be an early demand of English poetic readers, and
would be the right and crowning result of the present Selection.
W. M. R.
1868.
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, POEMS BY WALT WHITMAN ***
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