The Complete Works of Walt Whitman. Walt Whitman

and bearded, it asks no odds of the rest,

       This face is flavor’d fruit ready for eating,

       This face of a healthy honest boy is the programme of all good.

      These faces bear testimony slumbering or awake,

       They show their descent from the Master himself.

      Off the word I have spoken I except not one — red, white, black, are

       all deific,

       In each house is the ovum, it comes forth after a thousand years.

      Spots or cracks at the windows do not disturb me,

       Tall and sufficient stand behind and make signs to me,

       I read the promise and patiently wait.

      This is a full-grown lily’s face,

       She speaks to the limber-hipp’d man near the garden pickets,

       Come here she blushingly cries, Come nigh to me limber-hipp’d man,

       Stand at my side till I lean as high as I can upon you,

       Fill me with albescent honey, bend down to me,

       Rub to me with your chafing beard, rub to my breast and shoulders.

      5

       The old face of the mother of many children,

       Whist! I am fully content.

      Lull’d and late is the smoke of the First-day morning,

       It hangs low over the rows of trees by the fences,

       It hangs thin by the sassafras and wild-cherry and cat-brier under them.

      I saw the rich ladies in full dress at the soiree,

       I heard what the singers were singing so long,

       Heard who sprang in crimson youth from the white froth and the water-blue.

      Behold a woman!

       She looks out from her quaker cap, her face is clearer and more

       beautiful than the sky.

      She sits in an armchair under the shaded porch of the farmhouse,

       The sun just shines on her old white head.

      Her ample gown is of cream-hued linen,

       Her grandsons raised the flax, and her grand-daughters spun it with

       the distaff and the wheel.

      The melodious character of the earth,

       The finish beyond which philosophy cannot go and does not wish to go,

       The justified mother of men.

The Mystic Trumpeter

       Table of Contents

      1

       Hark, some wild trumpeter, some strange musician,

       Hovering unseen in air, vibrates capricious tunes to-night.

      I hear thee trumpeter, listening alert I catch thy notes,

       Now pouring, whirling like a tempest round me,

       Now low, subdued, now in the distance lost.

      2

       Come nearer bodiless one, haply in thee resounds

       Some dead composer, haply thy pensive life

       Was fill’d with aspirations high, unform’d ideals,

       Waves, oceans musical, chaotically surging,

       That now ecstatic ghost, close to me bending, thy cornet echoing, pealing,

       Gives out to no one’s ears but mine, but freely gives to mine,

       That I may thee translate.

      3

       Blow trumpeter free and clear, I follow thee,

       While at thy liquid prelude, glad, serene,

       The fretting world, the streets, the noisy hours of day withdraw,

       A holy calm descends like dew upon me,

       I walk in cool refreshing night the walks of Paradise,

       I scent the grass, the moist air and the roses;

       Thy song expands my numb’d imbonded spirit, thou freest, launchest me,

       Floating and basking upon heaven’s lake.

      4

       Blow again trumpeter! and for my sensuous eyes,

       Bring the old pageants, show the feudal world.

      What charm thy music works! thou makest pass before me,

       Ladies and cavaliers long dead, barons are in their castle halls,

       the troubadours are singing,

       Arm’d knights go forth to redress wrongs, some in quest of the holy Graal;

       I see the tournament, I see the contestants incased in heavy armor

       seated on stately champing horses,

       I hear the shouts, the sounds of blows and smiting steel;

       I see the Crusaders’ tumultuous armies — hark, how the cymbals clang,

       Lo, where the monks walk in advance, bearing the cross on high.

      5

       Blow again trumpeter! and for thy theme,

       Take now the enclosing theme of all, the solvent and the setting,

       Love, that is pulse of all, the sustenance and the pang,

       The heart of man and woman all for love,

       No other theme but love — knitting, enclosing, all-diffusing love.

      O how the immortal phantoms crowd around me!

       I see the vast alembic ever working, I see and know the flames that

       heat the world,

       The glow, the blush, the beating hearts of lovers,

       So blissful happy some, and some so silent, dark, and nigh to death;

       Love, that is all the earth to lovers — love, that mocks time and space,

       Love, that is day and night — love, that is sun and moon and stars,

       Love, that is crimson, sumptuous, sick with perfume,

       No other words but words of love, no other thought but love.

      6

       Blow again trumpeter — conjure war’s alarums.

      Swift to thy spell a shuddering hum like distant thunder rolls,

       Lo, where the arm’d men hasten — lo, mid the clouds of dust the glint

       of bayonets,

       I see the grime-faced cannoneers, I mark the rosy flash amid the

       smoke, I hear the cracking of the guns;

       Nor war alone — thy fearful music-song, wild player, brings every

       sight of fear,

       The deeds of ruthless brigands, rapine, murder — I hear the cries for help!

       I see ships foundering at sea, I behold on deck and below deck the

       terrible tableaus.

      7

       O trumpeter, methinks I am myself the instrument thou playest,

       Thou melt’st my heart, my brain — thou movest, drawest, changest

       them at will;

       And now thy sullen notes send darkness through me,

       Thou takest away all cheering light, all hope,