The Complete Works of Walt Whitman. Walt Whitman

the poor distress’d

       head is free,

       The joints of the rheumatic move as smoothly as ever, and smoother

       than ever,

       Stiflings and passages open, the paralyzed become supple,

       The swell’d and convuls’d and congested awake to themselves in condition,

       They pass the invigoration of the night and the chemistry of the

       night, and awake.

      I too pass from the night,

       I stay a while away O night, but I return to you again and love you.

      Why should I be afraid to trust myself to you?

       I am not afraid, I have been well brought forward by you,

       I love the rich running day, but I do not desert her in whom I lay so long,

       I know not how I came of you and I know not where I go with you, but

       I know I came well and shall go well.

      I will stop only a time with the night, and rise betimes,

       I will duly pass the day O my mother, and duly return to you.

Transpositions

       Table of Contents

      Let the reformers descend from the stands where they are forever

       bawling — let an idiot or insane person appear on each of the stands;

       Let judges and criminals be transposed — let the prison-keepers be

       put in prison — let those that were prisoners take the keys;

       Let them that distrust birth and death lead the rest.

      BOOK XXIX

       Table of Contents

To Think of Time

       Table of Contents

      1

       To think of time — of all that retrospection,

       To think of to-day, and the ages continued henceforward.

      Have you guess’d you yourself would not continue?

       Have you dreaded these earth-beetles?

       Have you fear’d the future would be nothing to you?

      Is to-day nothing? is the beginningless past nothing?

       If the future is nothing they are just as surely nothing.

      To think that the sun rose in the east — that men and women were

       flexible, real, alive — that every thing was alive,

       To think that you and I did not see, feel, think, nor bear our part,

       To think that we are now here and bear our part.

      2

       Not a day passes, not a minute or second without an accouchement,

       Not a day passes, not a minute or second without a corpse.

      The dull nights go over and the dull days also,

       The soreness of lying so much in bed goes over,

       The physician after long putting off gives the silent and terrible

       look for an answer,

       The children come hurried and weeping, and the brothers and sisters

       are sent for,

       Medicines stand unused on the shelf, (the camphor-smell has long

       pervaded the rooms,)

       The faithful hand of the living does not desert the hand of the dying,

       The twitching lips press lightly on the forehead of the dying,

       The breath ceases and the pulse of the heart ceases,

       The corpse stretches on the bed and the living look upon it,

       It is palpable as the living are palpable.

      The living look upon the corpse with their eyesight,

       But without eyesight lingers a different living and looks curiously

       on the corpse.

      3

       To think the thought of death merged in the thought of materials,

       To think of all these wonders of city and country, and others taking

       great interest in them, and we taking no interest in them.

      To think how eager we are in building our houses,

       To think others shall be just as eager, and we quite indifferent.

      (I see one building the house that serves him a few years, or

       seventy or eighty years at most,

       I see one building the house that serves him longer than that.)

      Slow-moving and black lines creep over the whole earth — they never

       cease — they are the burial lines,

       He that was President was buried, and he that is now President shall

       surely be buried.

       4

       A reminiscence of the vulgar fate,

       A frequent sample of the life and death of workmen,

       Each after his kind.

      Cold dash of waves at the ferry-wharf, posh and ice in the river,

       half-frozen mud in the streets,

       A gray discouraged sky overhead, the short last daylight of December,

       A hearse and stages, the funeral of an old Broadway stage-driver,

       the cortege mostly drivers.

      Steady the trot to the cemetery, duly rattles the death-bell,

       The gate is pass’d, the new-dug grave is halted at, the living

       alight, the hearse uncloses,

       The coffin is pass’d out, lower’d and settled, the whip is laid on

       the coffin, the earth is swiftly shovel’d in,

       The mound above is flatted with the spades — silence,

       A minute — no one moves or speaks — it is done,

       He is decently put away — is there any thing more?

      He was a good fellow, free-mouth’d, quick-temper’d, not bad-looking,

       Ready with life or death for a friend, fond of women, gambled, ate

       hearty, drank hearty,

       Had known what it was to be flush, grew low-spirited toward the

       last, sicken’d, was help’d by a contribution,

       Died, aged forty-one years — and that was his funeral.

      Thumb extended, finger uplifted, apron, cape, gloves, strap,

       wet-weather clothes, whip carefully chosen,

       Boss, spotter, starter, hostler, somebody loafing on you, you

       loafing on somebody, headway, man before and man behind,

       Good day’s work, bad day’s work, pet stock, mean stock, first out,

       last out, turning-in at night,

       To think that these