Leaves of Grass First and Death-Bed Editions (19 page)

 

Were mankind murderous or jealous upon you my brother or my
sister?
I am sorry for you .... they are not murderous or jealous upon me;
All has been gentle with me .... I keep no account with
lamentation;
What have I to do with lamentation?

 

I am an acme of things accomplished, and I an encloser of things to be.

 

My feet strike an apex of the apices of the stairs,
On every step bunches of ages, and larger bunches between the
steps,
All below duly traveled—and still I mount and mount.

 

Rise after rise bow the phantoms behind me,
Afar down I see the huge first Nothing, the vapor from the nostrils
of death,

I know I was even there .... I waited unseen and always,
And slept while God carried me through the lethargic mist,
And took my time .... and took no hurt from the foetid
carbon.
²⁸

 

Long I was hugged close .... long and long.

 

Immense have been the preparations for me,
Faithful and friendly the arms that have helped me.

 

Cycles ferried my cradle, rowing and rowing like cheerful
boatmen;
For room to me stars kept aside in their own rings,
They sent influences to look after what was to hold me.

 

Before I was born out of my mother generations guided me,
My embryo has never been torpid .... nothing could overlay it;
For it the nebula cohered to an orb .... the long slow strata piled
to rest it on .... vast vegetables gave it sustenance,
Monstrous sauroids transported it in their mouths and deposited it
with care.

 

All forces have been steadily employed to complete and delight me,
Now I stand on this spot with my soul.

 

Span of youth! Ever-pushed elasticity! Manhood balanced and florid and full!

 

My lovers suffocate me!
Crowding my lips, and thick in the pores of my skin,
Jostling me through streets and public halls .... coming naked to
me at night,
Crying by day Ahoy from the rocks of the river .... swinging and
chirping over my head,
Calling my name from flowerbeds or vines or tangled underbrush,
Or while I swim in the bath .... or drink from the pump at the
corner .... or the curtain is down at the opera .... or I
glimpse at a woman’s face in the railroad car;

Lighting on every moment of my life,
Bussing my body with soft and balsamic busses,
Noiselessly passing handfuls out of their hearts and giving them to
be mine.

 

Old age superbly rising! Ineffable grace of dying days!

 

Every condition promulges not only itself .... it promulges what
grows after and out of itself,
And the dark hush promulges as much as any.

 

I open my scuttle at night and see the far-sprinkled systems,
And all I see, multiplied as high as I can cipher, edge but the rim
of the farther systems.

 

Wider and wider they spread, expanding and always expanding,
Outward and outward and forever outward.

 

My sun has his sun, and round him obediently wheels,
He joins with his partners a group of superior circuit,
And greater sets follow, making specks of the greatest inside them.

 

There is no stoppage, and never can be stoppage;
If I and you and the worlds and all beneath or upon their
surfaces, and all the palpable life, were this moment reduced
back to a pallid float, it would not avail in the long run,
We should surely bring up again where we now stand,
And as surely go as much farther, and then farther and farther.

 

A few quadrillions of eras, a few octillions of cubic leagues, do
not hazard the span, or make it impatient,
They are but parts .... any thing is but a part.

 

See ever so far .... there is limitless space outside of that,
Count ever so much .... there is limitless time around that.

 

Our rendezvous is fitly appointed .... God will be there and wait
till we come.
I know I have the best of time and space—and that I was never
measured, and never will be measured.

 

I tramp a perpetual journey,
My signs are a rain-proof coat and good shoes and a staff cut from
the woods;
No friend of mine takes his ease in my chair,
I have no chair, nor church nor philosophy;
I lead no man to a dinner-table or library or exchange,
But each man and each woman of you I lead upon a
knoll,
My left hand hooks you round the waist,
My right hand points to landscapes of continents, and a plain
public road.

 

Not I, not any one else can travel that road for you,
You must travel it for yourself.

 

It is not far .... it is within reach,
Perhaps you have been on it since you were born, and did not
know,
Perhaps it is every where on water and on land.

 

Shoulder your duds, and I will mine, and let us hasten forth;
Wonderful cities and free nations we shall fetch as we go.

 

If you tire, give me both burdens, and rest the chuff of your hand
on my hip,
And in due time you shall repay the same service to me;
For after we start we never lie by again.

 

This day before dawn I ascended a hill and looked at the crowded
heaven,
And I said to my spirit, When we become the enfolders of those
orbs and the pleasure and knowledge of every thing in them,
shall we be filled and satisfied then?
And my spirit said No, we level that lift to pass and continue
beyond.

You are also asking me questions, and I hear you;
I answer that I cannot answer .... you must find out for yourself.

 

Sit awhile wayfarer,
Here are biscuits to eat and here is milk to drink,
But as soon as you sleep and renew yourself in sweet clothes I will
certainly kiss you with my goodbye kiss and open the gate for
your egress hence.

 

Long enough have you dreamed contemptible dreams,
Now I wash the gum from your eyes,
You must habit yourself to the dazzle of the light and of every
moment of your life.

 

Long have you timidly waded, holding a plank by the shore,
Now I will you to be a bold swimmer,
To jump off in the midst of the sea, and rise again and nod to me
and shout, and laughingly dash with your hair.

 

I am the teacher of athletes,
He that by me spreads a wider breast than my own proves the
width of my own,
He most honors my style who learns under it to destroy the
teacher.

 

The boy I love, the same becomes a man not through derived
power but in his own right,
Wicked, rather than virtuous out of conformity or fear,
Fond of his sweetheart, relishing well his steak,
Unrequited love or a slight cutting him worse than a wound cuts,
First rate to ride, to fight, to hit the bull’s eye, to sail a skiff, to
sing a song or play on the banjo,
Preferring scars and faces pitted with smallpox over all latherers
and those that keep out of the sun.

 

I teach straying from me, yet who can stray from me?
I follow you whoever you are from the present hour;
My words itch at your ears till you understand them.

I do not say these things for a dollar, or to fill up the time while I
wait for a boat;
It is you talking just as much as myself .... I act as the tongue
of you,
It was tied in your mouth .... in mine it begins to be loosened.

I swear I will never mention love or death inside a house,
And I swear I never will translate myself at all, only to him or her
who privately stays with me in the open air.

 

If you would understand me go to the heights or water-shore,
The nearest gnat is an explanation and a drop or the motion of
waves a key,
The maul the oar and the handsaw second my words.

 

No shuttered room or school can commune with me,
But roughs and little children better than they.

 

The young mechanic is closest to me .... he knows me pretty well,
The woodman that takes his axe and jug with him shall take me
with him all day,
The farmboy ploughing in the field feels good at the sound of my
voice,
In vessels that sail my words must sail .... I go with fishermen
and seamen, and love them,
My face rubs to the hunter’s face when he lies down alone in his
blanket,
The driver thinking of me does not mind the jolt of his wagon,
The young mother and old mother shall comprehend me,
The girl and the wife rest the needle a moment and forget where
they are,
They and all would resume what I have told them.

I have said that the soul is not more than the body,
And I have said that the body is not more than the soul,
And nothing, not God, is greater to one than one‘s-self is,
And whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his own
funeral, dressed in his shroud,

And I or you pocketless of a dime may purchase the pick of the
earth,
And to glance with an eye or show a bean in its pod confounds
the learning of all times,
And there is no trade or employment but the young man
following it may become a hero,
And there is no object so soft but it makes a hub for the wheeled
universe,
And any man or woman shall stand cool and supercilious before
a million universes.

 

And I call to mankind, Be not curious about God,
For I who am curious about each am not curious about God,
No array of terms can say how much I am at peace about God
and about death.

 

I hear and behold God in every object, yet I understand God not
in the least,
Nor do I understand who there can be more wonderful than myself.

 

Why should I wish to see God better than this day?
I see something of God each hour of the twenty-four, and each
moment then,
In the faces of men and women I see God, and in my own face in
the glass;
I find letters from God dropped in the street, and every one is
signed by God’s name,
And I leave them where they are, for I know that others will
punctually come forever and ever.

 

And as to you death, and you bitter hug of mortality .... it is idle to try to alarm me.

 

To his work without flinching the accoucheur
^v
comes,
I see the elderhand pressing receiving supporting,
I recline by the sills of the exquisite flexible doors .... and mark
the outlet, and mark the relief and escape.

 

And as to you corpse I think you are good manure, but that does
not offend me,
I smell the white roses sweetscented and growing,
I reach to the leafy lips .... I reach to the polished breasts of
melons,

 

And as to you life, I reckon you are the leavings of many deaths,
No doubt I have died myself ten thousand times before.

 

I hear you whispering there O stars of heaven,
O suns .... O grass of graves .... O perpetual transfers and
promotions .... if you do not say anything how can I say
anything?

 

Of the turbid pool that lies in the autumn forest,
Of the moon that descends the steeps of the soughing twilight,
Toss, sparkles of day and dusk .... toss on the black stems that
decay in the muck,
Toss to the moaning gibberish of the dry limbs.

 

I ascend from the moon .... I ascend from the night,
And perceive of the ghastly glitter the sunbeams reflected,
And debouch to the steady and central from the offspring great or
small.

 

There is that in me .... I do not know what it is .... but I know it is in me.

 

Wrenched and sweaty .... calm and cool then my body becomes; I sleep .... I sleep long.

 

I do not know it .... it is without name .... it is a word
unsaid,
It is not in any dictionary or utterance or symbol.

Something it swings on more than the earth I swing on,
To it the creation is the friend whose embracing awakes me.

 

Perhaps I might tell more .... Outlines! I plead for my brothers and sisters.

 

Do you see O my brothers and sisters?
It is not chaos or death .... it is form and union and plan .... it
is eternal life .... it is happiness.

 

The past and present wilt .... I have filled them and emptied
them,
And proceed to fill my next fold of the future.

 

Listener up there! Here you .... what have you to confide to me?
Look in my face while I snuff the sidle of evening,
Talk honestly, for no one else hears you, and I stay only a minute
longer.

 

Do I contradict myself?
Very well then .... I contradict myself;
I am large .... I contain multitudes.