WALT WHITMAN Ultimate Collection: 500+ Works in Poetry & Prose. Walt Whitman

Pleased with the primitive tunes of the choir of the whitewashed church,

       Pleased with the earnest words of the sweating Methodist preacher, or any preacher . . . . looking seriously at the camp-meeting;

       Looking in at the shop-windows in Broadway the whole forenoon . . . . pressing the flesh of my nose to the thick plate-glass,

       Wandering the same afternoon with my face turned up to the clouds;

       My right and left arms round the sides of two friends and I in the middle;

       Coming home with the bearded and dark-cheeked bush-boy . . . . riding behind him at the drape of the day;

       Far from the settlements studying the print of animals’ feet, or the moccasin print;

       By the cot in the hospital reaching lemonade to a feverish patient,

       By the coffined corpse when all is still, examining with a candle;

       Voyaging to every port to dicker and adventure;

       Hurrying with the modern crowd, as eager and fickle as any,

       Hot toward one I hate, ready in my madness to knife him;

       Solitary at midnight in my back yard, my thoughts gone from me a long while,

       Walking the old hills of Judea with the beautiful gentle god by my side;

      Speeding through space . . . . speeding through heaven and the stars,

       Speeding amid the seven satellites and the broad ring and the diameter of eighty thousand miles,

       Speeding with tailed meteors . . . . throwing fire-balls like the rest,

       Carrying the crescent child that carries its own full mother in its belly;

       Storming enjoying planning loving cautioning,

       Backing and filling, appearing and disappearing,

       I tread day and night such roads.

      I visit the orchards of God and look at the spheric product,

       And look at quintillions ripened, and look at quintillions green.

      I fly the flight of the fluid and swallowing soul,

       My course runs below the soundings of plummets.

      I help myself to material and immaterial,

       No guard can shut me off, no law can prevent me.

      I anchor my ship for a little while only,

       My messengers continually cruise away or bring their returns to me.

       I go hunting polar furs and the seal . . . . leaping chasms with a pike-pointed staff . . . . clinging to topples of brittle and blue.

      I ascend to the foretruck . . . . I take my place late at night in the crow’s nest . . . . we sail through the arctic sea . . . . it is plenty light enough,

       Through the clear atmosphere I stretch around on the wonderful beauty,

       The enormous masses of ice pass me and I pass them . . . . the scenery is plain in all directions,

       The white-topped mountains point up in the distance . . . . I fling out my fancies toward them;

      We are about approaching some great battlefield in which we are soon to be engaged,

       We pass the colossal outposts of the encampments . . . . we pass with still feet and caution;

       Or we are entering by the suburbs some vast and ruined city . . . . the blocks and fallen architecture more than all the living cities of the globe.

      I am a free companion . . . . I bivouac by invading watchfires.

      I turn the bridegroom out of bed and stay with the bride myself,

       And tighten her all night to my thighs and lips.

      My voice is the wife’s voice, the screech by the rail of the stairs,

       They fetch my man’s body up dripping and drowned.

      I understand the large hearts of heroes,

       The courage of present times and all times;

       How the skipper saw the crowded and rudderless wreck of the steamship, and death chasing it up and down the storm,

       How he knuckled tight and gave not back one inch, and was faithful of days and faithful of nights,

       And chalked in large letters on a board, Be of good cheer, We will not desert you;

       How he saved the drifting company at last,

       How the lank loose-gowned women looked when boated from the side of their prepared graves,

       How the silent old-faced infants, and the lifted sick, and the sharp-lipped unshaved men;

       All this I swallow and it tastes good . . . . I like it well, and it becomes mine,

       I am the man . . . . I suffered . . . . I was there.

      The disdain and calmness of martyrs,

       The mother condemned for a witch and burnt with dry wood, and her children gazing on;

      The hounded slave that flags in the race and leans by the fence, blowing and covered with sweat,

       The twinges that sting like needles his legs and neck,

       The murderous buckshot and the bullets,

       All these I feel or am.

      I am the hounded slave . . . . I wince at the bite of the dogs,

       Hell and despair are upon me . . . . crack and again crack the marksmen,

       I clutch the rails of the fence . . . . my gore dribs thinned with the ooze of my skin,

       I fall on the weeds and stones,

       The riders spur their unwilling horses and haul close,

       They taunt my dizzy ears . . . . they beat me violently over the head with their whip-stocks.

      Agonies are one of my changes of garments;

       I do not ask the wounded person how he feels . . . . I myself become the wounded person,

       My hurt turns livid upon me as I lean on a cane and observe.

      I am the mashed fireman with breastbone broken . . . . tumbling walls buried me in their debris,

       Heat and smoke I inspired . . . . I heard the yelling shouts of my comrades,

       I heard the distant click of their picks and shovels;

       They have cleared the beams away . . . . they tenderly lift me forth.

      I lie in the night air in my red shirt . . . . the pervading hush is for my sake,

       Painless after all I lie, exhausted but not so unhappy,

       White and beautiful are the faces around me . . . . the heads are bared of their fire-caps,

       The kneeling crowd fades with the light of the torches.

      Distant and dead resuscitate,

       They show as the dial or move as the hands of me . . . . and I am the clock myself.

      I am an old artillerist, and tell of some fort’s bombardment . . . . and am there again.

      Again the reveille of drummers . . . . again the attacking cannon and mortars and howitzers,

       Again the attacked send their cannon responsive.

      I take part . . . . I see and hear the whole,

       The cries and curses and roar . . . . the plaudits for well aimed shots,

       The ambulanza slowly passing and trailing its red drip,

       Workmen searching after damages and to make indispensible repairs,

       The fall of grenades through the rent roof . . . . the fan-shaped explosion,

       The whizz of limbs heads stone wood and iron high in the air.

       Again gurgles the mouth