The Complete Works of Walt Whitman. Walt Whitman

stand in the dark with drooping eyes by the worst-suffering and

       the most restless,

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

       The restless sink in their beds, they fitfully sleep.

      Now I pierce the darkness, new beings appear,

       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 ever-laughing — it is new moon and twilight,

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

       Cache and cache again deep in the ground and sea, and where it is

       neither ground nor 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,

       To lift their cunning covers to signify me with stretch’d arms, and

       resume the way;

       Onward we move, a gay gang of blackguards! with mirth-shouting

       music and wild-flapping pennants of joy!

      I am the actor, the actress, the voter, the politician,

       The emigrant and the exile, the criminal that stood in the box,

       He who has been famous and he who shall be famous after to-day,

       The stammerer, the well-form’d person, the wasted or feeble person.

      I am she who adorn’d herself and folded her hair expectantly,

       My truant lover has come, and it is dark.

      Double yourself and receive me darkness,

       Receive me and my lover too, he will not let me go without him.

      I roll myself upon you as upon a bed, I resign myself to the dusk.

      He whom I call answers me and takes the place of my lover,

       He rises with me silently from the bed.

      Darkness, you are gentler than my lover, his flesh was sweaty and panting,

       I feel the hot moisture yet that he left me.

      My hands are spread forth, I pass them in all directions,

       I would sound up the shadowy shore to which you are journeying.

      Be careful darkness! already what was it touch’d me?

       I thought my lover had gone, else darkness and he are one,

       I hear the heart-beat, I follow, I fade away.

      2

       I descend my western course, my sinews are flaccid,

       Perfume and youth course through me and I am their wake.

      It is my face yellow and wrinkled instead of the old woman’s,

       I sit low in a straw-bottom chair and carefully darn my grandson’s

       stockings.

      It is I too, the sleepless widow looking out on the winter midnight,

       I see the sparkles of starshine on the icy and pallid earth.

      A shroud I see and I am the shroud, I wrap a body and lie in the coffin,

       It is dark here under ground, it is not evil or pain here, it is

       blank here, for reasons.

      (It seems to me that every thing in the light and air ought to be happy,

       Whoever is not in his coffin and the dark grave let him know he has enough.)

      3

       I see a beautiful gigantic swimmer swimming naked through the eddies

       of the sea,

       His brown hair lies close and even to his head, he strikes out with

       courageous arms, he urges himself with his legs,

       I see his white body, I see his undaunted eyes,

       I hate the swift-running eddies that would dash him head-foremost on

       the rocks.

      What are you doing you ruffianly red-trickled waves?

       Will you kill the courageous giant? will you kill him in the prime

       of his middle age?

      Steady and long he struggles,

       He is baffled, bang’d, bruis’d, he holds out while his strength

       holds out,

       The slapping eddies are spotted with his blood, they bear him away,

       they roll him, swing him, turn him,

       His beautiful body is borne in the circling eddies, it is

       continually bruis’d on rocks,

       Swiftly and ought of sight is borne the brave corpse.

      4

       I turn but do not extricate myself,

       Confused, a past-reading, another, but with darkness yet.

      The beach is cut by the razory ice-wind, the wreck-guns sound,

       The tempest lulls, the moon comes floundering through the drifts.

      I look where the ship helplessly heads end on, I hear the burst as

       she strikes, I hear the howls of dismay, they grow fainter and fainter.

      I cannot aid with my wringing fingers,

       I can but rush to the surf and let it drench me and freeze upon me.

      I search with the crowd, not one of the company is wash’d to us alive,

       In the morning I help pick up the dead and lay them in rows in a barn.

      5

       Now of the older war-days, the defeat at Brooklyn,

       Washington stands inside the lines, he stands on the intrench’d

       hills amid a crowd of officers.

       His face is cold and damp, he cannot repress the weeping drops,

       He lifts the glass perpetually to his eyes, the color is blanch’d

       from his cheeks,

       He sees the slaughter of the southern braves confided to him by

       their parents.

      The same at last and at last when peace is declared,

       He stands in the room of the old tavern, the well-belov’d soldiers

       all pass through,

       The officers speechless and slow draw near in their turns,

       The chief encircles their necks with his arm and kisses them on the cheek,

       He kisses lightly the wet cheeks one after another, he shakes hands

       and bids good-by to the army.

      6

       Now what my mother told me one day as we sat at dinner together,

       Of when she was a nearly grown girl living home with her parents on