Give me faces and
streets!
Whitman
Father, what is that in the sky beckoning to me with long finger?
And what does it say to me all the while?
FATHER.
Nothing, my babe, you see in the sky;
And nothing at all to you it says. But look you, my babe,
Look at these dazzling things in the houses, and see you the money-shops
opening;
And see you the vehicles preparing to crawl along the streets with goods:
These! ah, these! how valued and toiled for, these!
How envied by all the earth!
POET.
Fresh and rosy red, the sun is mounting high;
On floats the sea in distant blue, careering through its channels;
On floats the wind over the breast of the sea, setting in toward land;
The great steady wind from west and west-by-south,
Floating so buoyant, with milk-white foam on the waters.
But I am not the sea, nor the red sun;
I am not the wind, with girlish laughter;
Not the immense wind which strengthens--not the wind which lashes;
Not the spirit that ever lashes its own body to terror and death:
But I am of that which unseen comes and sings, sings, sings,
Which babbles in brooks and scoots in showers on the land;
Which the birds know in the woods, mornings and evenings,
And the shore-sands know, and the hissing wave, and that banner and
pennant,
Aloft there flapping and flapping.
CHILD.
O father, it is alive--it is full of people--it has children!
O now it seems to me it is talking to its children!
I hear it--it talks to me--O it is wonderful!
O it stretches--it spreads and runs so fast! O my father,
It is so broad it covers the whole sky!
FATHER.
Cease, cease, my foolish babe,
What you are saying is sorrowful to me--much it displeases me;
Behold with the rest, again I say--behold not banners and pennants aloft;
But the well-prepared pavements behold--and mark the solid-walled houses.
BANNER AND PENNANT.
Speak to the child, O bard, out of Manhattan;
Speak to our children all, or north or south of Manhattan,
Where our factory-engines hum, where our miners delve the ground,
Where our hoarse Niagara rumbles, where our prairie-ploughs are ploughing;
Speak, O bard! point this day, leaving all the rest, to us over all--and
yet we know not why;
For what are we, mere strips of cloth, profiting nothing,
Only flapping in the wind?
POET.
I hear and see not strips of cloth alone;
I hear the tramp of armies, I hear the challenging sentry;
I hear the jubilant shouts of millions of men--I hear LIBERTY!
I hear the drums beat, and the trumpets blowing;
I myself move abroad, swift-rising, flying then;
I use the wings of the land-bird, and use the wings of the sea-bird, and
look down as from a height.
I do not deny the precious results of peace--I see populous cities, with
wealth incalculable;
I see numberless farms--I see the farmers working in their fields or barns;
I see mechanics working--I see buildings everywhere founded, going up, or
finished;
I see trains of cars swiftly speeding along railroad tracks, drawn by the
locomotives;
I see the stores, depots, of Boston, Baltimore, Charleston, New Orleans;
I see far in the west the immense area of grain--I dwell a while, hovering;
I pass to the lumber forests of the north, and again to the southern
plantation, and again to California;
Sweeping the whole, I see the countless profit, the busy gatherings, earned
wages;
See the identity formed out of thirty-six spacious and haughty States, (and
many more to come;)
See forts on the shores of harbours--see ships sailing in and out;
Then over all, (aye! aye! ) my little and lengthened pennant shaped like a
sword
Runs swiftly up, indicating war and defiance--And now the halyards have
raised it,
Side of my banner broad and blue--side of my starry banner,
Discarding peace over all the sea and land.
BANNER AND PENNANT.
Yet louder, higher, stronger, bard! yet farther, wider cleave!
No longer let our children deem us riches and peace alone;
We can be terror and carnage also, and are so now.
Not now are we one of these spacious and haughty States, (nor any five, nor
ten;)
Nor market nor depot are we, nor money-bank in the city;
But these, and all, and the brown and spreading land, and the mines below,
are ours;
And the shores of the sea are ours, and the rivers great and small;
And the fields they moisten are ours, and the crops, and the fruits are
ours;
Bays and channels, and ships sailing in and out, are ours--and we over all,
Over the area spread below, the three millions of square miles--the
capitals,
The thirty-five millions of people--O bard! in life and death supreme,
We, even we, from this day flaunt out masterful, high up above,
Not for the present alone, for a thousand years, chanting through you
This song to the soul of one poor little child.
CHILD.
O my father, I like not the houses;
They will never to me be anything--nor do I like money!
But to mount up there I would like, O father dear--that banner I like;
That pennant I would be, and must be.
FATHER.
Child of mine, you fill me with anguish,
To be that pennant would be too fearful;
Little you know what it is this day, and henceforth for ever;
It is to gain nothing, but risk and defy everything;
Forward to stand in front of wars--and O, such wars! --what have you to do
with them?
With passions of demons, slaughter, premature death?
POET.
Demons and death then I sing;
Put in all, aye all, will I--sword-shaped pennant for war, and banner so
broad and blue,
And a pleasure new and ecstatic, and the prattled yearning of children,
Blent with the sounds of the peaceful land, and the liquid wash of the sea;
And the icy cool of the far, far north, with rustling cedars and pines;
And the whirr of drums, and the sound of soldiers marching, and the hot sun
shining south;
And the beach-waves combing over the beach on my eastern shore, and my
western shore the same;
And all between those shores, and my ever-running Mississippi, with bends
and chutes;
And my Illinois fields, and my Kansas fields, and my fields of Missouri;
The CONTINENT--devoting the whole identity, without reserving an atom,
Pour in! whelm that which asks, which sings, with all, and the yield of
all.
BANNER AND PENNANT.
Aye all! for ever, for all!
From sea to sea, north and south, east and west,
Fusing and holding, claiming, devouring the whole;
No more with tender lip, nor musical labial sound,
But out of the night emerging for good, our voice persuasive no more,
Croaking like crows here in the wind.
POET.
My limbs, my veins dilate;
The blood of the world has filled me full--my theme is clear at last.
--Banner so broad, advancing out of the night, I sing you haughty and
resolute;
I burst through where I waited long, too long, deafened and blinded;
My sight, my hearing and tongue, are come to me, (a little child taught
me;)
I hear from above, O pennant of war, your ironical call and demand;
Insensate! insensate! yet I at any rate chant you, O banner!
Not houses of peace are you, nor any nor all their prosperity; if need be,
you shall have every one of those houses to destroy them;
You thought not to destroy those valuable houses, standing fast, full of
comfort, built with money;
May they stand fast, then? Not an hour, unless you, above them and all,
stand fast.
--O banner! not money so precious are you, nor farm produce you, nor the
material good nutriment,
Nor excellent stores, nor landed on wharves from the ships;
Not the superb ships, with sail-power or steam-power, fetching and carrying
cargoes,
Nor machinery, vehicles, trade, nor revenues,--But you, as henceforth I see
you,
Running up out of the night, bringing your cluster of stars, ever-enlarging
stars;
Divider of daybreak you, cutting the air, touched by the sun, measuring the
sky,
Passionately seen and yearned for by one poor little child,
While others remain busy, or smartly talking, for ever teaching thrift,
thrift;
O you up there! O pennant! where you undulate like a snake, hissing so
curious,
Out of reach--an idea only--yet furiously fought for, risking bloody
death--loved by me!
So loved! O you banner, leading the day, with stars brought from the night!
Valueless, object of eyes, over all and demanding all--O banner and
pennant!
I too leave the rest--great as it is, it is nothing--houses, machines are
nothing--I see them not;
I see but you, O warlike pennant! O banner so broad, with stripes, I sing
you only,
Flapping up there in the wind.
_THE BIVOUAC'S FLAME. _
By the bivouac's fitful flame,
A procession winding around me, solemn and sweet and slow;--but first I
note
The tents of the sleeping army, the fields' and woods' dim outline,
The darkness, lit by spots of kindled fire--the silence;
Like a phantom far or near an occasional figure moving;
The shrubs and trees, (as I lift my eyes they seem to be stealthily
watching me;)
While wind in procession thoughts, O tender and wondrous thoughts,
Of life and death--of home and the past and loved, and of those that are
far away;
A solemn and slow procession there as I sit on the ground,
By the bivouac's fitful flame.
_BIVOUAC ON A MOUNTAIN-SIDE. _
I see before me now a travelling army halting;
Below, a fertile valley spread, with barns, and the orchards of summer;
Behind, the terraced sides of a mountain, abrupt in places, rising high;
Broken with rocks, with clinging cedars, with tall shapes, dingily seen;
The numerous camp-fires scattered near and far, some away up on the
mountain;
The shadowy forms of men and horses, looming, large-sized, flickering;
And over all, the sky--the sky! far, far out of reach, studded with the
eternal stars.
_CITY OF SHIPS. _
City of ships!
(O the black ships! O the fierce ships!
O the beautiful, sharp-bowed steam-ships and sail-ships! )
City of the world! (for all races are here;
All the lands of the earth make contributions here;)
City of the sea! city of hurried and glittering tides!
City whose gleeful tides continually rush or recede, whirling in and out,
with eddies and foam!
City of wharves and stores! city of tall facades of marble and iron!
Proud and passionate city! mettlesome, mad, extravagant city!
Spring up, O city! not for peace alone, but be indeed yourself, warlike!
Fear not! submit to no models but your own, O city!
Behold me! incarnate me, as I have incarnated you!
I have rejected nothing you offered me--whom you adopted, I have adopted;
Good or bad, I never question you--I love all--I do not condemn anything;
I chant and celebrate all that is yours--yet peace no more;
In peace I chanted peace, but now the drum of war is mine;
War, red war, is my song through your streets, O city!
_VIGIL ON THE FIELD. _
VIGIL strange I kept on the field one night,
When you, my son and my comrade, dropped at my side that day.
One look I but gave, which your dear eyes returned with a look I shall
never forget;
One touch of your hand to mine, O boy, reached up as you lay on the ground.
Then onward I sped in the battle, the even-contested battle;
Till, late in the night relieved, to the place at last again I made my way;
Found you in death so cold, dear comrade--found your body, son of
responding kisses, (never again on earth responding;)
Bared your face in the starlight--curious the scene--cool blew the moderate
night-wind.
Long there and then in vigil I stood, dimly around me the battlefield
spreading;
Vigil wondrous and vigil sweet, there in the fragrant silent night.
But not a tear fell, not even a long-drawn sigh--Long, long I gazed;
Then on the earth partially reclining, sat by your side, leaning my chin in
my hands;
Passing sweet hours, immortal and mystic hours, with you, dearest comrade--
Not a tear, not a word;
Vigil of silence, love, and death--vigil for you, my son and my soldier,
As onward silently stars aloft, eastward new ones upward stole;
Vigil final for you, brave boy, (I could not save you, swift was your
death,
I faithfully loved you and cared for you living--I think we shall surely
meet again;)
Till at latest lingering of the night, indeed just as the dawn appeared,
My comrade I wrapped in his blanket, enveloped well his form,
Folded the blanket well, tucking it carefully over head, and carefully
under feet;
And there and then, and bathed by the rising sun, my son in his grave, in
his rude-dug grave, I deposited;
Ending my vigil strange with that--vigil of night and battlefield dim;
Vigil for boy of responding kisses, never again on earth responding;
Vigil for comrade swiftly slain, vigil I never forget--how as day
brightened
I rose from the chill ground, and folded my soldier well in his blanket,
And buried him where he fell.
_THE FLAG. _
Bathed in war's perfume--delicate flag!
O to hear you call the sailors and the soldiers! flag like a beautiful
woman!
O to hear the tramp, tramp, of a million answering men! O the ships they
arm with joy!
O to see you leap and beckon from the tall masts of ships!
O to see you peering down on the sailors on the decks!
Flag like the eyes of women.
_THE WOUNDED. _
A march in the ranks hard-pressed, and the road unknown;
A route through a heavy wood, with muffled steps in the darkness;
Our army foiled with loss severe, and the sullen remnant retreating;
Till after midnight glimmer upon us the lights of a dim-lighted building;
We come to an open space in the woods, and halt by the dim-lighted
building.
'Tis a large old church, at the crossing roads--'tis now an impromptu
hospital;
--Entering but for a minute, I see a sight beyond all the pictures and
poems ever made:
Shadows of deepest, deepest black, just lit by moving, candles and lamps,
And by one great pitchy torch, stationary, with wild red flame, and clouds
of smoke;
By these, crowds, groups of forms, vaguely I see, on the floor, some in the
pews laid down;
At my feet more distinctly, a soldier, a mere lad, in danger of bleeding to
death, (he is shot in the abdomen;)
I staunch the blood temporarily, (the youngster's face is white as a lily;)
Then before I depart I sweep my eyes o'er the scene, fain to absorb it all;
Faces, varieties, postures, beyond description, most in obscurity, some of
them dead;
Surgeons operating, attendants holding lights, the smell of ether, the
odour of blood;
The crowd, O the crowd of the bloody forms of soldiers--the yard outside
also filled;
Some on the bare ground, some on planks or stretchers, some in the death-
spasm sweating;
An occasional scream or cry, the doctor's shouted orders or calls;
The glisten of the little steel instruments catching the glint of the
torches;
These I resume as I chant--I see again the forms, I smell the odour;
Then hear outside the orders given, _Fall in, my men, Fall in_.
But first I bend to the dying lad--his eyes open--a half-smile gives he me;
Then the eyes close, calmly close: and I speed forth to the darkness,
Resuming, marching, as ever in darkness marching, on in the ranks,
The unknown road still marching.
_A SIGHT IN CAMP. _
1.
A sight in camp in the daybreak grey and dim,
As from my tent I emerge so early, sleepless,
As slow I walk in the cool fresh air the path near by the hospital tent,
Three forms I see on stretchers lying, brought out there, untended lying;
Over each the blanket spread, ample brownish woollen blanket,
Grey and heavy blanket, folding, covering all.
2.
Curious, I halt, and silent stand;
Then with light fingers I from the face of the nearest, the first, just
lift the blanket;
Who are you, elderly man, so gaunt and grim, with well-greyed hair, and
flesh all sunken about the eyes?
Who are you, my dear comrade?
Then to the second I step--And who are you, my child and darling?
Who are you, sweet boy, with cheeks yet blooming?
Then to the third--a face nor child nor old, very calm, as of beautiful
yellow-white ivory:
Young man, I think I know you--I think this face of yours is the face of
the Christ Himself;
Dead and divine and brother of all, and here again He lies.
_A GRAVE. _
1.
As toilsome I wandered Virginia's woods,
To the music of rustling leaves kicked by my feet--for 'twas autumn--
I marked at the foot of a tree the grave of a soldier;
Mortally wounded he, and buried on the retreat--easily all could I
understand;
The halt of a mid-day hour--when, Up! no time to lose! Yet this sign left
On a tablet scrawled and nailed on the tree by the grave,
_Bold, cautious, true, and my loving comrade_.
2.
Long, long I muse,--then on my way go wandering,
Many a changeful season to follow, and many a scene of life.
Yet at times through changeful season and scene, abrupt,--alone, or in the
crowded street,--
Comes before me the unknown soldier's grave, comes the inscription rude in
Virginia's woods,
_Bold, cautious, true, and my loving comrade_.
_THE DRESSER. _
1.
An old man bending, I come among new faces,
Years, looking backward, resuming, in answer to children,
"Come tell us, old man," (as from young men and maidens that love me, Years
hence) "of these scenes, of these furious passions, these chances,
Of unsurpassed heroes--(was one side so brave? the other was equally brave)
Now be witness again--paint the mightiest armies of earth;
Of those armies, so rapid, so wondrous, what saw you to tell us?
What stays with you latest and deepest? of curious panics,
Of hard-fought engagements, or sieges tremendous, what deepest remains? "
2.
O maidens and young men I love, and that love me,
What you ask of my days, those the strangest and sudden your talking
recalls,
Soldier alert I arrive, after a long march, covered with sweat and dust;
In the nick of time I come, plunge in the fight, loudly shout in the rush
of successful charge;
Enter the captured works,. . . yet lo! like a swift-running river, they fade,
Pass, and are gone; they fade--I dwell not on soldiers' perils or soldiers'
joys;
(Both I remember well--many the hardships, few the joys, yet I was
content. )
But in silence, in dreams' projections,
While the world of gain and appearance and mirth goes on,
So soon what is over forgotten, and waves wash the imprints off the sand,
In nature's reverie sad, with hinged knees returning, I enter the
doors--(while for you up there, Whoever you are, follow me without
noise, and be of strong heart. )
Bearing the bandages, water, and sponge,
Straight and swift to my wounded I go,
Where they lie on the ground, after the battle brought in;
Where their priceless blood reddens the grass, the ground;
Or to the rows of the hospital tent, or under the roofed hospital;
To the long rows of cots, up and down, each side, I return;
To each and all, one after another, I draw near--not one do I miss;
An attendant follows, holding a tray--he carries a refuse-pail,
Soon to be filled with clotted rags and blood, emptied, and filled again.
I onward go, I stop,
With hinged knees and steady hand, to dress wounds;
I am firm with each--the pangs are sharp, yet unavoidable;
One turns to me his appealing eyes--poor boy! I never knew you,
Yet I think I could not refuse this moment to die for you if that would
save you.
On, on I go--(open, doors of time! open, hospital doors! )
The crushed head I dress (poor crazed hand, tear not the bandage away;)
The neck of the cavalry-man, with the bullet through and through, I
examine;
Hard the breathing rattles, quite glazed already the eye, yet life
struggles hard;
Come, sweet death! be persuaded, O beautiful death!
In mercy come quickly.
From the stump of the arm, the amputated hand,
I undo the clotted lint, remove the slough, wash off the matter and blood;
Back on his pillow the soldier bends, with curved neck, and side-falling
head;
His eyes are closed, his face is pale, he dares not look on the bloody
stump,
And has not yet looked on it.
I dress a wound in the side, deep, deep;
But a day or two more--for see, the frame all wasted and sinking,
And the yellow-blue countenance see.
I dress the perforated shoulder, the foot with the bullet wound,
Cleanse the one with a gnawing and putrid gangrene, so sickening, so
offensive,
While the attendant stands behind aside me, holding the tray and pail.
I am faithful, I do not give out;
The fractured thigh, the knee, the wound in the abdomen,
These and more I dress with impassive hand--yet deep in my breast a fire, a
burning flame.
3.
Thus in silence, in dreams' projections,
Returning, resuming, I thread my way through the hospitals;
The hurt and the wounded I pacify with soothing hand,
I sit by the restless all the dark night--some are so young,
Some suffer so much--I recall the experience sweet and sad.
Many a soldier's loving arms about this neck have crossed and rested,
Many a soldier's kiss dwells on these bearded lips.
_A LETTER FROM CAMP. _
1.
"Come up from the fields, father, here's a letter from our Pete;
And come to the front door, mother--here's a letter from thy dear son. "
2.
Lo, 'tis autumn;
Lo, where the trees, deeper green, yellower and redder,
Cool and sweeten Ohio's villages, with leaves fluttering in the moderate
wind;
Where apples ripe in the orchards hang, and grapes on the trellised vines;
Smell you the smell of the grapes on the vines?
Smell you the buckwheat, where the bees were lately buzzing?
Above all, lo, the sky, so calm, so transparent after the rain, and with
wondrous clouds;
Below, too, all calm, all vital and beautiful--and the farm prospers well.
3.
Down in the fields all prospers well;
But now from the fields come, father--come at the daughter's call;
And come to the entry, mother--to the front door come, right away.
Fast as she can she hurries--something ominous--her steps trembling;
She does not tarry to smooth her white hair, nor adjust her cap.
4.
Open the envelope quickly;
O this is not our son's writing, yet his name is signed;
O a strange hand writes for our dear son--O stricken mother's soul!
All swims before her eyes--flashes with black--she catches the main words
only;
Sentences broken--"_gun-shot wound in the breast, cavalry skirmish, taken
to hospital,
At present low, but will soon be better_. "
5.
Ah, now the single figure to me,
Amid all teeming and wealthy Ohio, with all its cities and farms,
Sickly white in the face and dull in the head, very faint,
By the jamb of a door leans.
6.
"Grieve not so, dear mother," the just-grown daughter speaks through her
sobs;
The little sisters huddle around, speechless and dismayed;
"See, dearest mother, the letter says Pete will soon be better. "
7.
Alas! poor boy, he will never be better, (nor maybe needs to be better,
that brave and simple soul;)
While they stand at home at the door, he is dead already;
The only son is dead.
But the mother needs to be better;
She, with thin form, presently dressed in black;
By day her meals untouched--then at night fitfully sleeping, often waking,
In the midnight waking, weeping, longing with one deep longing,
O that she might withdraw unnoticed--silent from life escape and withdraw,
To follow, to seek, to be with her dear dead son!
_WAR DREAMS. _
1.
In clouds descending, in midnight sleep, of many a face in battle,
Of the look at first of the mortally wounded, of that indescribable look,
Of the dead on their backs, with arms extended wide--
I dream, I dream, I dream.
2.
Of scenes of nature, the fields and the mountains,
Of the skies so beauteous after the storm, and at night the
moon so unearthly bright,
Shining sweetly, shining down, where we dig the trenches,
and gather the heaps--
I dream, I dream, I dream.
3.
Long have they passed, long lapsed--faces, and trenches, and fields:
Long through the carnage I moved with a callous composure, or away from the
fallen
Onward I sped at the time. But now of their faces and forms, at night,
I dream, I dream, I dream.
_THE VETERAN'S VISION. _
While my wife at my side lies slumbering, and the wars are over long,
And my head on the pillow rests at home, and the mystic midnight passes,
And through the stillness, through the dark, I hear, just hear, the breath
of my infant,
There in the room, as I wake from sleep, this vision presses upon me.
The engagement opens there and then, in my busy brain unreal;
The skirmishers begin--they crawl cautiously ahead--I hear the irregular
snap! snap!
I hear the sound of the different missiles--the short _t-h-t! t-h-t! _ of
the rifle-balls;
I see the shells exploding, leaving small white clouds--I hear the great
shells shrieking as they pass;
The grape, like the hum and whirr of wind through the trees, (quick,
tumultuous, now the contest rages! )
All the scenes at the batteries themselves rise in detail before me again;
The crashing and smoking--the pride of the men in their pieces;
The chief gunner ranges and sights his piece, and selects a fuse of the
right time;
After firing, I see him lean aside, and look eagerly off to note the
effect;
--Elsewhere I hear the cry of a regiment charging--the young colonel leads
himself this time, with brandished sword;
I see the gaps cut by the enemy's volleys, quickly filled up--no delay;
I breathe the suffocating smoke--then the flat clouds hover low, concealing
all;
Now a strange lull comes for a few seconds, not a shot fired on either
side;
Then resumed, the chaos louder than ever, with eager calls, and orders of
officers;
While from some distant part of the field the wind wafts to my ears a shout
of applause, (some special success;)
And ever the sound of the cannon, far or near, rousing, even in dreams, a
devilish exultation, and all the old mad joy, in the depths of my
soul;
And ever the hastening of infantry shifting positions--batteries, cavalry,
moving hither and thither;
The falling, dying, I heed not--the wounded, dripping and red, I heed not--
some to the rear are hobbling;
Grime, heat, rush--aides-de-camp galloping by, or on a full run:
With the patter of small arms, the warning _s-s-t_ of the rifles, (these in
my vision I hear or see,)
And bombs bursting in air, and at night the vari-coloured rockets.
_O TAN-FACED PRAIRIE BOY. _
O tan-faced prairie boy!
Before you came to camp came many a welcome gift;
Praises and presents came, and nourishing food--till at last, among the
recruits,
You came, taciturn, with nothing to give--we but looked on each other,
When lo! more than all the gifts of the world you gave me.
_MANHATTAN FACES. _
1.
Give me the splendid silent sun, with all his beams full-dazzling;
Give me juicy autumnal fruit, ripe and red from the orchard;
Give me a field where the unmowed grass grows;
Give me an arbour, give me the trellised grape;
Give me fresh corn and wheat--give me serene-moving animals, teaching
content;
Give me nights perfectly quiet, as on high plateaus west of the
Mississippi, and I looking up at the stars;
Give me odorous at sunrise a garden of beautiful flowers, where I can walk
undisturbed;
Give me for marriage a sweet-breathed woman, of whom I should never tire;
Give me a perfect child--give me, away, aside from the noise of the world,
a rural domestic life;
Give me to warble spontaneous songs, relieved, recluse by myself, for my
own ears only;
Give me solitude--give me Nature--give me again, O Nature, your primal
sanities!
--These, demanding to have them, tired with ceaseless excitement, and
racked by the war-strife,
These to procure incessantly asking, rising in cries from my heart,
While yet incessantly asking, still I adhere to my city;
Day upon day, and year upon year, O city, walking your streets,
Where you hold me enchained a certain time, refusing to give me up,
Yet giving to make me glutted, enriched of soul--you give me for ever
faces;
O I see what I sought to escape, confronting, reversing my cries;
I see my own soul trampling down what it asked for.
2.
Keep your splendid silent sun;
Keep your woods, O Nature, and the quiet places by the woods;
Keep your fields of clover and timothy, and your cornfields and orchards;
Keep the blossoming buckwheat fields, where the ninth-month bees hum.
Give me faces and streets! give me these phantoms incessant and endless
along the _trottoirs_!
Give me interminable eyes! give me women! give me comrades and lovers by
the thousand!
Let me see new ones every day! let me hold new ones by the hand every day!
Give me such shows! give me the streets of Manhattan!
Give me Broadway, with the soldiers marching--give me the sound of the
trumpets and drums!
The soldiers in companies or regiments--some starting away, flushed and
reckless;
Some, their time up, returning, with thinned ranks--young, yet very old,
worn, marching, noticing nothing;
--Give me the shores and the wharves heavy-fringed with the black ships!
O such for me! O an intense life! O full to repletion, and varied!
The life of the theatre, bar-room, huge hotel, for me!
The saloon of the steamer, the crowded excursion, for me! the torchlight
procession!
The dense brigade, bound for the war, with high-piled military waggons
following;
People, endless, streaming, with strong voices, passions, pageants;
Manhattan streets, with their powerful throbs, with the beating drums, as
now;
The endless and noisy chorus, the rustle and clank of muskets, even the
sight of the wounded;
Manhattan crowds, with their turbulent musical chorus--with varied chorus
and light of the sparkling eyes;
Manhattan faces and eyes for ever for me!
_OVER THE CARNAGE. _
1.
Over the carnage rose prophetic a voice,--
Be not disheartened--Affection shall solve the problems of Freedom yet;
Those who love each other shall become invincible--they shall yet make
Columbia victorious.
Sons of the Mother of all! you shall yet be victorious!
You shall yet laugh to scorn the attacks of all the remainder of the earth.
No danger shall baulk Columbia's lovers;
If need be, a thousand shall sternly immolate themselves for one.
One from Massachusetts shall be a Missourian's comrade;
From Maine and from hot Carolina, and another an Oregonese, shall be
friends triune,
More precious to each other than all the riches of the earth.
To Michigan, Florida perfumes shall tenderly come;
Not the perfumes of flowers, but sweeter, and wafted beyond death.
It shall be customary in the houses and streets to see manly affection;
The most dauntless and rude shall touch face to face lightly;
The dependence of Liberty shall be lovers,
The continuance of Equality shall be comrades.
These shall tie you and band you stronger than hoops of iron;
I, ecstatic, O partners! O lands! with the love of lovers tie you.
2.
Were you looking to be held together by the lawyers?
Or by an agreement on a paper? or by arms?
--Nay--nor the world nor any living thing will so cohere.
_THE MOTHER OF ALL. _
Pensive, on her dead gazing, I heard the Mother of all,
Desperate, on the torn bodies, on the forms covering the battlefields,
gazing;
As she called to her earth with mournful voice while she stalked.
"Absorb them well, O my earth! " she cried--"I charge you, lose not my sons!
lose not an atom;
And you, streams, absorb them well, taking their dear blood;
And you local spots, and you airs that swim above lightly,
And all you essences of soil and growth--and you, O my rivers' depths;
And you mountain-sides--and the woods where my dear children's blood,
trickling, reddened;
And you trees, down in your roots, to bequeath to all future trees,
My dead absorb--my young men's beautiful bodies absorb--and their precious,
precious, precious blood;
Which, holding in trust for me, faithfully back again give me, many a year
hence,
In unseen essence and odour of surface and grass, centuries hence;
In blowing airs from the fields, back again give me my darlings--give my
immortal heroes;
Exhale me them centuries hence--breathe me their breath--let not an atom be
lost.
O years and graves! O air and soil! O my dead, an aroma sweet!
Exhale them, perennial, sweet death, years, centuries hence. "
_CAMPS OF GREEN. _
1.
Not alone our camps of white, O soldiers,
When, as ordered forward, after a long march,
Footsore and weary, soon as the light lessens, we halt for the night;
Some of us so fatigued, carrying the gun and knapsack, dropping asleep in
our tracks;
Others pitching the little tents, and the fires lit up begin to sparkle;
Outposts of pickets posted, surrounding, alert through the dark,
And a word provided for countersign, careful for safety;
Till to the call of the drummers at daybreak loudly beating the drums,
We rise up refreshed, the night and sleep passed over, and resume our
journey,
Or proceed to battle.
2.
Lo! the camps of the tents of green,
Which the days of peace keep filling, and the days of war keep filling,
With a mystic army, (is it too ordered forward? is it too only halting a
while,
Till night and sleep pass over? )
Now in those camps of green--in their tents dotting the world;
In the parents, children, husbands, wives, in them--in the old and young,
Sleeping under the sunlight, sleeping under the moonlight, content and
silent there at last;
Behold the mighty bivouac-field and waiting-camp of us and ours and all,
Of our corps and generals all, and the President over the corps and
generals all,
And of each of us, O soldiers, and of each and all in the ranks we fight,
There without hatred we shall all meet.
For presently, O soldiers, we too camp in our place in the bivouac-camps of
green;
But we need not provide for outposts, nor word for the countersign,
Nor drummer to beat the morning drum.
_DIRGE FOR TWO VETERANS. _
1.
The last sunbeam
Lightly falls from the finished Sabbath
On the pavement here--and, there beyond, it is looking
Down a new-made double grave.
2.
Lo! the moon ascending!
Up from the east, the silvery round moon;
Beautiful over the house-tops, ghastly, phantom moon;
Immense and silent moon.
3.
I see a sad procession,
And I hear the sound of coming full-keyed bugles;
All the channels of the city streets they're flooding,
As with voices and with tears.
4.
I hear the great drums pounding,
And the small drums steady whirring;
And every blow of the great convulsive drums
Strikes me through and through.
5.
For the son is brought with the father;
In the foremost ranks of the fierce assault they fell;
Two veterans, son and father, dropped together,
And the double grave awaits them.
6.
Now nearer blow the bugles,
And the drums strike more convulsive;
And the daylight o'er the pavement quite has faded,
And the strong dead-march enwraps me.
7.
In the eastern sky up-buoying,
The sorrowful vast phantom moves illumined,
'Tis some mother's large, transparent face,
In heaven brighter growing.
8.
O strong dead-march, you please me!
O moon immense, with your silvery face you soothe me!
O my soldiers twain! O my veterans, passing to burial!
What I have I also give you.
9.
The moon gives you light,
And the bugles and the drums give you music;
And my heart, O my soldiers, my veterans,
My heart gives you love.
_SURVIVORS. _
How solemn, as one by one,
As the ranks returning, all worn and sweaty--as the men file by where I
stand;
As the faces, the masks appear--as I glance at the faces, studying the
masks;
As I glance upward out of this page, studying you, dear friend, whoever you
are;--
How solemn the thought of my whispering soul, to each in the ranks, and to
you!
I see, behind each mask, that wonder, a kindred soul.
O the bullet could never kill what you really are, dear friend,
Nor the bayonet stab what you really are.
--The soul, yourself, I see, great as any, good as the best,
Waiting secure and content,--which the bullet could never kill,
Nor the bayonet stab, O friend!
_HYMN OF DEAD SOLDIERS. _
1.
One breath, O my silent soul!
A perfumed thought--no more I ask, for the sake of all dead soldiers.
2.
Buglers off in my armies!
At present I ask not you to sound;
Not at the head of my cavalry, all on their spirited horses,
With their sabres drawn and glistening, and carbines clanking by their
thighs--(ah, my brave horsemen! My handsome, tan-faced horsemen!
what life, what joy and pride, With all the perils, were yours! )
Nor you drummers--neither at _reveille_, at dawn,
Nor the long roll alarming the camp--nor even the muffled beat for a
burial;
Nothing from you, this time, O drummers, bearing my warlike drums.
3.
But aside from these, and the crowd's hurrahs, and the land's
congratulations,
Admitting around me comrades close, unseen by the rest, and voiceless,
I chant this chant of my silent soul, in the name of all dead soldiers.
4.
Faces so pale, with wondrous eyes, very dear, gather closer yet;
Draw close, but speak not.
Phantoms, welcome, divine and tender!
Invisible to the rest, henceforth become my companions;
Follow me ever! desert me not, while I live!
Sweet are the blooming cheeks of the living, sweet are the musical voices
sounding;
But sweet, ah sweet, are the dead, with their silent eyes.
Dearest comrades! all now is over;
But love is not over--and what love, O comrades!
Perfume from battlefields rising--up from foetor arising.
Perfume therefore my chant, O love! immortal love!
Give me to bathe the memories of all dead soldiers.
Perfume all! make all wholesome!
O love! O chant! solve all with the last chemistry.
Give me exhaustless--make me a fountain,
That I exhale love from me wherever I go,
For the sake of all dead soldiers.
_SPIRIT WHOSE WORK IS DONE. _
Spirit whose work is done! spirit of dreadful hours!
Ere, departing, fade from my eyes your forests of bayonets--
Spirit of gloomiest fears and doubts, yet onward ever unfaltering pressing!
Spirit of many a solemn day, and many a savage scene! Electric spirit!
That with muttering voice, through the years now closed, like a tireless
phantom flitted,
Rousing the land with breath of flame, while you beat and beat the drum;
--Now, as the sound of the drum, hollow and harsh to the last, reverberates
round me;
As your ranks, your immortal ranks, return, return from the battles;
While the muskets of the young men yet lean over their shoulders;
While I look on the bayonets bristling over their shoulders;
While those slanted bayonets, whole forests of them, appearing in the
distance, approach and pass on, returning homeward,
Moving with steady motion, swaying to and fro, to the right and left,
Evenly, lightly, rising and falling, as the steps keep time:
--Spirit of hours I knew, all hectic red one day, but pale as death next
day;
Touch my mouth, ere you depart--press my lips close!
Leave me your pulses of rage! bequeath them to me! fill me with currents
convulsive!
Let them scorch and blister out of my chants, when you are gone;
Let them identify you to the future in these songs!
_RECONCILIATION. _
Word over all, beautiful as the sky!
Beautiful that war, and all its deeds of carnage, must in time be utterly
lost;
That the hands of the sisters Death and Night incessantly, softly wash
again, and ever again, this soiled world.
For my enemy is dead--a man divine as myself is dead.
I look where he lies, white-faced and still, in the coffin--I draw near;
I bend down and touch lightly with my lips the white face in the coffin.
_AFTER THE WAR. _
To the leavened soil they trod, calling, I sing, for the last;
Not cities, nor man alone, nor war, nor the dead:
But forth from my tent emerging for good--loosing, untying the tent-ropes;
In the freshness, the forenoon air, in the far-stretching circuits and
vistas, again to peace restored;
To the fiery fields emanative, and the endless vistas beyond--to the south
and the north;
To the leavened soil of the general Western World, to attest my songs,
To the average earth, the wordless earth, witness of war and peace,
To the Alleghanian hills, and the tireless Mississippi,
To the rocks I, calling, sing, and all the trees in the woods,
To the plain of the poems of heroes, to the prairie spreading wide,
To the far-off sea, and the unseen winds, and the sane impalpable air.
And responding they answer all, (but not in words,)
The average earth, the witness of war and peace, acknowledges mutely;
The prairie draws me close, as the father, to bosom broad, the son:--
The Northern ice and rain, that began me, nourish me to the end;
But the hot sun of the South is to ripen my songs.
WALT WHITMAN
_ASSIMILATIONS. _
1.
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 tretching cycles of years.
2.
The early lilacs became part of this child,
And grass, and white and red morning-glories,[1] and white and red clover,
and the song of the phoebe-bird,[2]
And the Third-month lambs, and the sow's pink-faint litter, and the mare's
foal, and the cow's calf,
And the noisy brood of the barn-yard, or by the mire of the pond-side,
And the fish suspending themselves so curiously below there--and the
beautiful, curious liquid,
And the water-plants with their graceful fiat heads--all became part of
him.
The field-sprouts of Fourth-month and Fifth-month became part or him;
3.
Winter-grain sprouts, and those of the light-yellow corn, and the esculent
roots of the garden,
And the apple-trees covered with blossoms, and the fruit afterward, and
wood-berries, 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 the 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 odour
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 gainsaid--the sense of what is real--the thought
if after all it should prove unreal,
The doubts of day-time 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
ferries,
The village on the highland, seen from afar at sunset--the river between;
Shadows, aureola and mist, light falling on roofs and gables of white or
brown, three miles off;
The schooner near by, sleepily dropping down the tide--the little boat
slack-towed astern,
The hurrying tumbling waves quick-broken crests slapping,
The strata of coloured 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 mud;--
These became part of that child who went forth every day, and who now goes,
and will always go forth every day.
[Footnote 1: The name of "morning-glory" is given to the bindweed, or a
sort of bindweed, in America. I am not certain whether this expressive name
is used in England also. ]
[Footnote 2: A dun-coloured little bird with a cheerful note, sounding like
the word Phoebe. ]
_A WORD OUT OF THE SEA. _
1.
Out of the rocked cradle,
Out of the mocking-bird's throat, the musical shuttle,
Out of the Ninth-month midnight,
Over the sterile sands, and the fields beyond, where the child, leaving his
bed, wandered alone, bareheaded, barefoot,
Down from the showered halo,
Up from the mystic play of shadows, twining and twisting; as if they were
alive,
Out from the patches of briars and blackberries,
From the memories of the birds that chanted to me,
From your memories, sad brother--from the fitful risings and fallings I
heard,
From under that yellow half-moon, late-risen, and swollen as if with tears,
From those beginning notes of sickness and love, there in the transparent
mist,
From the thousand responses of my heart, never to cease,
From the myriad thence-aroused words,
From the word stronger and more delicious than any,--
From such, as now they start, the scene revisiting,
As a flock, twittering, rising, or overhead passing,
Borne hither--ere all eludes me, hurriedly,--
A man--yet by these tears a little boy again,
Throwing myself on the sand, confronting the waves,
I, chanter of pains and joys, uniter of here and hereafter,
Taking all hints to use them, but swiftly leaping beyond
them,
A reminiscence sing.
2.
Once, Paumanok,
When the snows had melted, and the Fifth-month grass
was growing,
Up this sea-shore, in some briars,
Two guests from Alabama--two together,
And their nest, and four light-green eggs spotted with brown;
And every day the he-bird, to and fro, near at hand,
And every day the she-bird, crouched on her nest, silent,
with bright eyes;
And every day I, a curious boy, never too close, never
disturbing them,
Cautiously peering, absorbing, translating.
3.
_Shine! shine! shine!
Pour down your warmth, great Sun!
While we bask--we two together.
Two together!
Winds blow South, or winds blow North,
Day come white or night come black,
Home, or rivers and mountains from home,
Singing all time, minding no time,
If we two but keep together_.
4.
Till of a sudden,
Maybe killed, unknown to her mate,
One forenoon the she-bird crouched not on the nest,
Nor returned that afternoon, nor the next,
Nor ever appeared again.
And thenceforward, all summer, in the sound of the sea,
And at night, under the full of the moon, in calmer weather,
Over the hoarse surging of the sea,
Or flitting from briar to briar by day,
I saw, I heard at intervals, the remaining one, the he-bird,
The solitary guest from Alabama.
5.
_Blow! blow! blow!
Blow up, sea-winds, along Paumanok's shore!
I wait and I wait, till you blow my mate to me_.
6.
Yes, when the stars glistened.
All night long, on the prong of a moss-scalloped stake,
Down, almost amid the slapping waves,
Sat the lone singer, wonderful, causing tears.
He called on his mate;
He poured forth the meanings which I, of all men, know.
Yes, my brother, I know;
The rest might not--but I have treasured every note;
For once, and more than once, dimly, down to the beach gliding,
Silent, avoiding the moonbeams, blending myself with the shadows,
Recalling now the obscure shapes, the echoes, the sounds and sights after
their sorts,
The white arms out in the breakers tirelessly tossing,
I, with bare feet, a child, the wind wafting my hair,
Listened long and long.
Listened, to keep, to sing--now translating the notes,
Following you, my brother.
7.
_Soothe! soothe! soothe!
Close on its wave soothes the wave behind,
And again another behind, embracing and lapping, every one close,--
But my love soothes not me, not me.
Low hangs the moon--it rose late;
O it is lagging--O I think it is heavy with love, with love.
O madly the sea pushes, pushes upon the land,
With love--with love.
O night! do I not see my love fluttering out there among the breakers?
What is that little black thing I see there in the white?
Loud! loud! loud!
Loud. I call to you, my love!
High and clear I shoot my voice over the waves;
Surely you must know who is here, is here;
You must know who I am, my love.
Low-hanging moon!
What is that dusky spot in your brown yellow?
O it is the shape, the shape of my mate!
O moon, do not keep her from me any longer!
Land! land! O land!
Whichever way I turn, O I think you could give me my mate back again, if
you only would;
For I am almost sure I see her dimly whichever way I look.
O rising stars!
Perhaps the one I want so much will rise, will rise with some of you.
