Poems by Walt Whitman

by Walt Whitman

Victory, union, faith, identity, time, Yourself, the present and future lands, the indissoluble compacts, riches, mystery, Eternal progress, the kosmos, and the modern reports. This, then, is life; Here is what has come to the surface after so many throes and convulsions. How curious! how real! Under foot the divine soil—over head the sun.

Creeds and schools in abeyance, (Retiring back a while, sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten.) I harbour, for good or bad—I permit to speak, at every hazard— Nature now without check, with original energy.

In the name of these States, shall I scorn the antique? Why, these are the children of the antique, to justify it.

What are you doing, young man? Are you so earnest—so given up to literature, science, art, amours? These ostensible realities, politics, points? Your ambition or business, whatever it may be? It is well—Against such I say not a word—I am their poet also; But behold! such swiftly subside—burnt up for religion's sake; For not all matter is fuel to heat, impalpable flame, the essential life of the earth, Any more than such are to religion.

And I will show of male and female that either is but the equal of the other; And I will show that there is no imperfection in the present—and can be none in the future; And I will show that, whatever happens to anybody, it may be turned to beautiful results—and I will show that nothing can happen more beautiful than death; And I will thread a thread through my poems that time and events are compact, And that all the things of the universe are perfect miracles, each as profound as any.

We consider Bibles and religions divine—I do not say they are not divine; I say they have all grown out of you, and may grow out of you still; It is not they who give the life—it is you who give the life; Leaves are not more shed from the trees, or trees from the earth, than they are shed out of you.

Muscle and pluck for ever! What invigorates life invigorates death, And the dead advance as much as the living advance, And the future is no more uncertain than the present, And the roughness of the earth and of man encloses as much as the delicatesse of the earth and of man, And nothing endures but personal qualities. What do you think endures? Do you think the great city endures? Or a teeming manufacturing state? or a prepared constitution? or the best- built steamships? Or hotels of granite and iron? or any chefs-d'oeuvre of engineering, forts, armaments? Away! These are not to be cherished for themselves; They fill their hour, the dancers dance, the musicians play for them; The show passes, all does well enough of course, All does very well till one flash of defiance. The great city is that which has the greatest man or woman; If it be a few ragged huts, it is still the greatest city in the whole world.

Where the city stands with the brawniest breed of orators and bards; Where the city stands that is beloved by these, and loves them in return, and understands them; Where no monuments exist to heroes but in the common words and deeds; Where thrift is in its place, and prudence is in its place; Where the men and women think lightly of the laws; Where the slave ceases, and the master of slaves ceases; Where the populace rise at once against the never-ending audacity of elected persons; Where fierce men and women pour forth, as the sea to the whistle of death pours its sweeping and unripped waves; Where outside authority enters always after the precedence of inside authority; Where the citizen is always the head and ideal—and President, Mayor, Governor, and what not, are agents for pay; Where children are taught to be laws to themselves, and to depend on themselves; Where equanimity is illustrated in affairs; Where speculations on the Soul are encouraged; Where women walk in public processions in the streets, the same as the men; Where they enter the public assembly and take places the same as the men; Where the city of the faithfullest friends stands; Where the city of the cleanliness of the sexes stands; Where the city of the healthiest fathers stands; Where the city of the best-bodied mothers stands,— There the great city stands.

But, for all this, Liberty has not gone out of the place, nor the infidel entered into possession. When Liberty goes out of a place, it is not the first to go, nor the second or third to go, It waits for all the rest to go—it is the last. When there are no more memories of heroes and martyrs, And when all life and all the souls of men and women are discharged from any part of the earth, Then only shall Liberty be discharged from that part of the earth, And the infidel and the tyrant come into possession.

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.

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.

That you are here—that life exists, and identity; That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.

This moment yearning and thoughtful, sitting alone, It seems to me there are other men in other lands, yearning and thoughtful; It seems to me I can look over and behold them in Prussia, Italy, France, Spain—or far, far away, in China, or in Russia or India—talking other dialects; And it seems to me, if I could know those men, I should become attached to them, as I do to men in my own lands. O I know we should be brethren and lovers; I know I should be happy with them.

When I peruse the conquered fame of heroes, and the victories of mighty generals, I do not envy the generals, Nor the President in his Presidency, nor the rich in his great house. But when I read of the brotherhood of lovers, how it was with them; How through life, through dangers, odium, unchanging, long and long, Through youth, and through middle and old age, how unfaltering, how affectionate and faithful they were, Then I am pensive—I hastily put down the book, and walk away, filled with the bitterest envy.

In the swamp, in secluded recesses, A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song. Solitary, the thrush, The hermit, withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements, Sings by himself a song: Song of the bleeding throat! Death's outlet song of life—for well, dear brother, I know, If thou wast not gifted to sing, thou wouldst surely die.

Youth, large, lusty, loving—Youth, full of grace, force, fascination! Do you know that Old Age may come after you, with equal grace, force, fascination? Day, full-blown and splendid—Day of the immense sun, action, ambition, laughter, The Night follows close, with millions of suns, and sleep, and restoring darkness. Wealth, with the flush hand, fine clothes, hospitality; But then the soul's wealth, which is candour, knowledge, pride, enfolding love; Who goes for men and women showing Poverty richer than wealth? Expression of speech! in what is written or said, forget not that Silence is also expressive; That anguish as hot as the hottest, and contempt as cold as the coldest, may be without words.

Great is the quality of Truth in man; The quality of truth in man supports itself through all changes; It is inevitably in the man—he and it are in love, and never leave each other. The truth in man is no dictum, it is vital as eyesight;

I swear I think there is nothing but immortality! That the exquisite scheme is for it, and the nebulous float is for it, and the cohering is for it; And all preparation is for it! and identity is for it! and life and death are altogether for it!

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.

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.