The Complete Works of Walt Whitman. Walt Whitman

was a burial-place;

       The houses full of life were equally full of death, (this house is now,)

       The streets, the shipping, the places of amusement, the Chicago,

       Boston, Philadelphia, the Mannahatta, were as full of the dead as

       of the living,

       And fuller, O vastly fuller of the dead than of the living;

       And what I dream’d I will henceforth tell to every person and age,

       And I stand henceforth bound to what I dream’d,

       And now I am willing to disregard burial-places and dispense with them,

       And if the memorials of the dead were put up indifferently everywhere,

       even in the room where I eat or sleep, I should be satisfied,

       And if the corpse of any one I love, or if my own corpse, be duly

       render’d to powder and pour’d in the sea, I shall be satisfied,

       Or if it be distributed to the winds I shall be satisfied.

Yet, Yet, Ye Downcast Hours

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      Yet, yet, ye downcast hours, I know ye also,

       Weights of lead, how ye clog and cling at my ankles,

       Earth to a chamber of mourning turns — I hear the o’erweening, mocking

       voice,

       Matter is conqueror — matter, triumphant only, continues onward.

      Despairing cries float ceaselessly toward me,

       The call of my nearest lover, putting forth, alarm’d, uncertain,

       The sea I am quickly to sail, come tell me,

       Come tell me where I am speeding, tell me my destination.

      I understand your anguish, but I cannot help you,

       I approach, hear, behold, the sad mouth, the look out of the eyes,

       your mute inquiry,

       Whither I go from the bed I recline on, come tell me, —

       Old age, alarm’d, uncertain — a young woman’s voice, appealing to

       me for comfort;

       A young man’s voice, Shall I not escape?

As If a Phantom Caress’d Me

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      As if a phantom caress’d me,

       I thought I was not alone walking here by the shore;

       But the one I thought was with me as now I walk by the shore, the

       one I loved that caress’d me,

       As I lean and look through the glimmering light, that one has

       utterly disappear’d.

       And those appear that are hateful to me and mock me.

Assurances

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      I need no assurances, I am a man who is preoccupied of his own soul;

       I do not doubt that from under the feet and beside the hands and

       face I am cognizant of, are now looking faces I am not cognizant

       of, calm and actual faces,

       I do not doubt but the majesty and beauty of the world are latent in

       any iota of the world,

       I do not doubt I am limitless, and that the universes are limitless,

       in vain I try to think how limitless,

       I do not doubt that the orbs and the systems of orbs play their

       swift sports through the air on purpose, and that I shall one day

       be eligible to do as much as they, and more than they,

       I do not doubt that temporary affairs keep on and on millions of years,

       I do not doubt interiors have their interiors, and exteriors have

       their exteriors, and that the eyesight has another eyesight, and

       the hearing another hearing, and the voice another voice,

       I do not doubt that the passionately-wept deaths of young men are

       provided for, and that the deaths of young women and the

       deaths of little children are provided for,

       (Did you think Life was so well provided for, and Death, the purport

       of all Life, is not well provided for?)

       I do not doubt that wrecks at sea, no matter what the horrors of

       them, no matter whose wife, child, husband, father, lover, has

       gone down, are provided for, to the minutest points,

       I do not doubt that whatever can possibly happen anywhere at any

       time, is provided for in the inherences of things,

       I do not think Life provides for all and for Time and Space, but I

       believe Heavenly Death provides for all.

Quicksand Years

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      Quicksand years that whirl me I know not whither,

       Your schemes, politics, fail, lines give way, substances mock and elude me,

       Only the theme I sing, the great and strong-possess’d soul, eludes not,

       One’s-self must never give way — that is the final substance — that

       out of all is sure,

       Out of politics, triumphs, battles, life, what at last finally remains?

       When shows break up what but One’s-Self is sure?

That Music Always Round Me

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      That music always round me, unceasing, unbeginning, yet long

       untaught I did not hear,

       But now the chorus I hear and am elated,

       A tenor, strong, ascending with power and health, with glad notes of

       daybreak I hear,

       A soprano at intervals sailing buoyantly over the tops of immense waves,

       A transparent base shuddering lusciously under and through the universe,

       The triumphant tutti, the funeral wailings with sweet flutes and

       violins, all these I fill myself with,

       I hear not the volumes of sound merely, I am moved by the exquisite

       meanings,

       I listen to the different voices winding in and out, striving,

       contending with fiery vehemence to excel each other in emotion;

       I do not think the performers know themselves — but now I think

       begin to know them.

What Ship