The Complete Works of Walt Whitman. Walt Whitman

of there again.

      Now Lucifer was not dead . . . . or if he was I am his sorrowful terrible heir;

       I have been wronged . . . . I am oppressed . . . . I hate him that oppresses me,

       I will either destroy him, or he shall release me.

      Damn him! how he does defile me,

       How he informs against my brother and sister and takes pay for their blood,

       How he laughs when I look down the bend after the steamboat that carries away my woman.

      Now the vast dusk bulk that is the whale’s bulk . . . . it seems mine,

       Warily, sportsman! though I lie so sleepy and sluggish, my tap is death.

      A show of the summer softness . . . . a contact of something unseen . . . . an amour of the light and air;

       I am jealous and overwhelmed with friendliness,

       And will go gallivant with the light and the air myself,

       And have an unseen something to be in contact with them also.

      O love and summer! you are in the dreams and in me,

       Autumn and winter are in the dreams . . . . the farmer goes with his thrift,

       The droves and crops increase . . . . the barns are wellfilled.

      Elements merge in the night . . . . ships make tacks in the dreams . . . . the sailor sails . . . . the exile returns home,

       The fugitive returns unharmed . . . . the immigrant is back beyond months and years;

       The poor Irishman lives in the simple house of his childhood, with the wellknown neighbors and faces,

       They warmly welcome him . . . . he is barefoot again . . . . he forgets he is welloff;

       The Dutchman voyages home, and the Scotchman and Welchman voyage home . . and the native of the Mediterranean voyages home;

       To every port of England and France and Spain enter wellfilled ships;

       The Swiss foots it toward his hills . . . . the Prussian goes his way, and the Hungarian his way, and the Pole goes his way,

       The Swede returns, and the Dane and Norwegian return.

      The homeward bound and the outward bound,

       The beautiful lost swimmer, the ennuyee, the onanist, the female that loves unrequited, the moneymaker,

       The actor and actress . . those through with their parts and those waiting to commence,

       The affectionate boy, the husband and wife, the voter, the nominee that is chosen and the nominee that has failed,

       The great already known, and the great anytime after to day,

       The stammerer, the sick, the perfectformed, the homely,

       The criminal that stood in the box, the judge that sat and sentenced him, the fluent lawyers, the jury, the audience,

       The laugher and weeper, the dancer, the midnight widow, the red squaw,

       The consumptive, the erysipalite, the idiot, he that is wronged,

       The antipodes, and every one between this and them in the dark,

       I swear they are averaged now . . . . one is no better than the other,

       The night and sleep have likened them and restored them.

      I swear they are all beautiful,

       Every one that sleeps is beautiful . . . . every thing in the dim night is beautiful,

       The wildest and bloodiest is over and all is peace.

      Peace is always beautiful,

       The myth of heaven indicates peace and night.

      The myth of heaven indicates the soul;

       The soul is always beautiful . . . . it appears more or it appears less . . . . it comes or lags behind,

       It comes from its embowered garden and looks pleasantly on itself and encloses the world;

       Perfect and clean the genitals previously jetting, and perfect and clean the womb cohering,

       The head wellgrown and proportioned and plumb, and the bowels and joints proportioned and plumb.

      The soul is always beautiful,

       The universe is duly in order . . . . every thing is in its place,

       What is arrived is in its place, and what waits is in its place;

       The twisted skull waits . . . . the watery or rotten blood waits,

       The child of the glutton or venerealee waits long, and the child of the drunkard waits long, and the drunkard himself waits long,

       The sleepers that lived and died wait . . . . the far advanced are to go on in their turns, and the far behind are to go on in their turns,

       The diverse shall be no less diverse, but they shall flow and unite . . . . they unite now.

      The sleepers are very beautiful as they lie unclothed,

       They flow hand in hand over the whole earth from east to west as they lie unclothed;

       The Asiatic and African are hand in hand . . . . the European and American are hand in hand,

       Learned and unlearned are hand in hand . . and male and female are hand in hand;

      The bare arm of the girl crosses the bare breast of her lover . . . . they press close without lust . . . . his lips press her neck,

       The father holds his grown or ungrown son in his arms with measureless love . . . . and the son holds the father in his arms with measureless love,

       The white hair of the mother shines on the white wrist of the daughter,

       The breath of the boy goes with the breath of the man . . . . friend is inarmed by friend,

       The scholar kisses the teacher and the teacher kisses the scholar . . . . the wronged is made right,

       The call of the slave is one with the master’s call . . and the master salutes the slave,

       The felon steps forth from the prison . . . . the insane becomes sane . . . . the suffering of sick persons is relieved,

       The sweatings and fevers stop . . the throat that was unsound is sound . . the lungs of the consumptive are resumed . . the poor distressed head is free,

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

       Stiflings and passages open . . . . the paralysed become supple,

       The swelled and convulsed 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 awhile 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;

       Not you will yield forth the dawn again more surely than you will yield forth me again,

       Not the womb yields the babe in its time more surely than I shall be yielded from you in my time.

      I Sing the Body Electric (1855)

       Table of Contents

      The