The Complete Works of Walt Whitman. Walt Whitman

pass’d on her way to the school,

       And the friendly boys that pass’d, and the quarrelsome boys,

       And the tidy and fresh-cheek’d 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 father’d him and she that had conceiv’d

       him in her womb and birth’d 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

       odor falling off her person and clothes as she walks by,

       The father, strong, self-sufficient, manly, mean, anger’d, 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 gainsay’d, 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-plank’d wharves, the huge crossing at

       the ferries,

       The village on the highland seen from afar at sunset, the river between,

       Shadows, aureola and mist, the light falling on roofs and gables of

       white or brown two miles off,

       The schooner near by sleepily dropping down the tide, the little

       boat slack-tow’d astern,

       The hurrying tumbling waves, quick-broken crests, slapping,

       The strata of color’d 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.

Old Ireland

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      Far hence amid an isle of wondrous beauty,

       Crouching over a grave an ancient sorrowful mother,

       Once a queen, now lean and tatter’d seated on the ground,

       Her old white hair drooping dishevel’d round her shoulders,

       At her feet fallen an unused royal harp,

       Long silent, she too long silent, mourning her shrouded hope and heir,

       Of all the earth her heart most full of sorrow because most full of love.

      Yet a word ancient mother,

       You need crouch there no longer on the cold ground with forehead

       between your knees,

       O you need not sit there veil’d in your old white hair so dishevel’d,

       For know you the one you mourn is not in that grave,

       It was an illusion, the son you love was not really dead,

       The Lord is not dead, he is risen again young and strong in another country,

       Even while you wept there by your fallen harp by the grave,

       What you wept for was translated, pass’d from the grave,

       The winds favor’d and the sea sail’d it,

       And now with rosy and new blood,

       Moves to-day in a new country.

The City Dead-House

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      By the city dead-house by the gate,

       As idly sauntering wending my way from the clangor,

       I curious pause, for lo, an outcast form, a poor dead prostitute brought,

       Her corpse they deposit unclaim’d, it lies on the damp brick pavement,

       The divine woman, her body, I see the body, I look on it alone,

       That house once full of passion and beauty, all else I notice not,

       Nor stillness so cold, nor running water from faucet, nor odors

       morbific impress me,

       But the house alone — that wondrous house — that delicate fair house

       — that ruin!

       That immortal house more than all the rows of dwellings ever built!

       Or white-domed capitol with majestic figure surmounted, or all the

       old high-spired cathedrals,

       That little house alone more than them all — poor, desperate house!

       Fair, fearful wreck — tenement of a soul — itself a soul,

       Unclaim’d, avoided house — take one breath from my tremulous lips,

       Take one tear dropt aside as I go for thought of you,

       Dead house of love — house of madness and sin, crumbled, crush’d,

       House of life, erewhile talking and laughing — but ah, poor house,

       dead even then,

       Months, years, an echoing, garnish’d house — but dead, dead, dead.

This Compost

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      1

       Something startles me where I thought I was safest,

       I withdraw from the still woods I loved,

       I will not go now on the pastures to walk,

       I will not strip the clothes from my body to meet my lover the sea,

       I will not touch my flesh to the earth as to other flesh to renew me.

      O how can it be that the ground itself does not sicken?

       How can you be alive you growths of spring?

       How can you furnish health you blood of herbs, roots, orchards, grain?

       Are they not continually putting distemper’d corpses within you?

       Is not every continent work’d over and over with sour dead?

      Where have you disposed of their carcasses?

       Those drunkards and gluttons of so many generations?

       Where have you drawn off all the foul liquid and meat?

       I do not see any of it upon you to-day, or perhaps I am deceiv’d,

       I will run a furrow