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

and black lines go ceaselessly over the earth,

       Northerner goes carried and southerner goes carried . . . . and they on the Atlantic side and they on the Pacific, and they between, and all through the Mississippi country . . . . and all over the earth.

      The great masters and kosmos are well as they go . . . . the heroes and good-doers are well,

       The known leaders and inventors and the rich owners and pious and distinguished may be well,

       But there is more account than that . . . . there is strict account of all.

      The interminable hordes of the ignorant and wicked are not nothing,

       The barbarians of Africa and Asia are not nothing,

       The common people of Europe are not nothing . . . . the American aborigines are not nothing,

       A zambo or a foreheadless Crowfoot or a Camanche is not nothing,

       The infected in the immigrant hospital are not nothing . . . . the murderer or mean person is not nothing,

       The perpetual succession of shallow people are not nothing as they go,

       The prostitute is not nothing . . . . the mocker of religion is not nothing as he goes.

      I shall go with the rest . . . . we have satisfaction:

       I have dreamed that we are not to be changed so much . . . . nor the law of us changed;

       I have dreamed that heroes and good-doers shall be under the present and past law,

       And that murderers and drunkards and liars shall be under the present and past law;

       For I have dreamed that the law they are under now is enough.

      And I have dreamed that the satisfaction is not so much changed . . . . and that there is no life without satisfaction;

       What is the earth? what are body and soul without satisfaction?

      I shall go with the rest,

       We cannot be stopped at a given point . . . . that is no satisfaction;

       To show us a good thing or a few good things for a space of time -- that is no satisfaction;

       We must have the indestructible breed of the best, regardless of time.

       If otherwise, all these things came but to ashes of dung;

       If maggots and rats ended us, then suspicion and treachery and death.

      Do you suspect death? If I were to suspect death I should die now,

       Do you think I could walk pleasantly and well-suited toward annihilation?

      Pleasantly and well-suited I walk,

       Whither I walk I cannot define, but I know it is good,

       The whole universe indicates that it is good,

       The past and the present indicate that it is good.

      How beautiful and perfect are the animals! How perfect is my soul!

       How perfect the earth, and the minutest thing upon it!

       What is called good is perfect, and what is called sin is just as perfect;

       The vegetables and minerals are all perfect . . and the imponderable fluids are perfect;

       Slowly and surely they have passed on to this, and slowly and surely they will yet pass on.

      O my soul! if I realize you I have satisfaction,

       Animals and vegetables! if I realize you I have satisfaction,

       Laws of the earth and air! if I realize you I have satisfaction.

      I cannot define my satisfaction . . yet it is so,

       I cannot define my life . . yet it is so.

      I swear I see now that every thing has an eternal soul!

       The trees have, rooted in the ground . . . . the weeds of the sea have . . . . the animals.

      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 for it.

      The Sleepers (1855)

       Table of Contents

      I wander all night in my vision,

       Stepping with light feet . . . . swiftly and noiselessly stepping and stopping,

       Bending with open eyes over the shut eyes of sleepers;

       Wandering and confused . . . . lost to myself . . . . ill-assorted . . . . contradictory,

       Pausing and gazing and bending and stopping.

      How solemn they look there, stretched and still;

       How quiet they breathe, the little children in their cradles.

      The wretched features of ennuyees, the white features of corpses, the livid faces of drunkards, the sick-gray faces of onanists,

       The gashed bodies on battlefields, the insane in their strong-doored rooms, the sacred idiots,

       The newborn emerging from gates and the dying emerging from gates,

       The night pervades them and enfolds them.

      The married couple sleep calmly in their bed, he with his palm on the hip of the wife, and she with her palm on the hip of the husband,

       The sisters sleep lovingly side by side in their bed,

       The men sleep lovingly side by side in theirs,

       And the mother sleeps with her little child carefully wrapped.

      The blind sleep, and the deaf and dumb sleep,

       The prisoner sleeps well in the prison . . . . the runaway son sleeps,

       The murderer that is to be hung next day . . . . how does he sleep?

       And the murdered person . . . . how does he sleep?

      The female that loves unrequited sleeps,

       And the male that loves unrequited sleeps;

       The head of the moneymaker that plotted all day sleeps,

       And the enraged and treacherous dispositions sleep.

      I stand with drooping eyes by the worstsuffering and restless,

       I pass my hands soothingly to and fro a few inches from them;

       The restless sink in their beds . . . . they fitfully sleep.

      The earth recedes from me into the night,

       I saw that it was beautiful . . . . and I see that what is not the earth is beautiful.

      I go from bedside to bedside . . . . I sleep close with the other sleepers, each in turn;

       I dream in my dream all the dreams of the other dreamers,

       And I become the other dreamers.

      I am a dance . . . . Play up there! the fit is whirling me fast.

      I am the everlaughing . . . . it is new moon and twilight,

       I see the hiding of douceurs . . . . I see nimble ghosts whichever way I look,

       Cache and cache again deep in the ground and sea, and where it is neither ground or sea.

       Well do they do their jobs, those journeymen divine,

       Only from me can they hide nothing and would not if they could;

       I reckon I am their boss, and they make me a pet besides,

       And surround me, and lead me and run ahead when I walk,

       And lift their cunning covers and signify