Leaves of Grass. Walt Whitman

The nine months’ gone is in the parturition chamber, her faintness and pains are advancing;

       The pavingman leans on his twohanded rammer -- the reporter’s lead flies swiftly over the notebook -- the signpainter is lettering with red and gold,

       The canal-boy trots on the towpath -- the bookkeeper counts at his desk -- the shoemaker waxes his thread,

       The conductor beats time for the band and all the performers follow him,

       The child is baptised -- the convert is making the first professions,

       The regatta is spread on the bay . . . . how the white sails sparkle!

       The drover watches his drove, he sings out to them that would stray,

       The pedlar sweats with his pack on his back -- the purchaser higgles about the odd cent,

      The camera and plate are prepared, the lady must sit for her daguerreotype,

       The bride unrumples her white dress, the minutehand of the clock moves slowly,

       The opium eater reclines with rigid head and just-opened lips,

       The prostitute draggles her shawl, her bonnet bobs on her tipsy and pimpled neck,

       The crowd laugh at her blackguard oaths, the men jeer and wink to each other,

       (Miserable! I do not laugh at your oaths nor jeer you,)

       The President holds a cabinet council, he is surrounded by the great secretaries,

       On the piazza walk five friendly matrons with twined arms;

       The crew of the fish-smack pack repeated layers of halibut in the hold,

       The Missourian crosses the plains toting his wares and his cattle,

       The fare-collector goes through the train -- he gives notice by the jingling of loose change,

       The floormen are laying the floor -- the tinners are tinning the roof -- the masons are calling for mortar,

       In single file each shouldering his hod pass onward the laborers;

       Seasons pursuing each other the indescribable crowd is gathered . . . . it is the Fourth of July . . . . what salutes of cannon and small arms!

       Seasons pursuing each other the plougher ploughs and the mower mows and the wintergrain falls in the ground;

       Off on the lakes the pikefisher watches and waits by the hole in the frozen surface,

       The stumps stand thick round the clearing, the squatter strikes deep with his axe,

       The flatboatmen make fast toward dusk near the cottonwood or pekantrees,

       The coon-seekers go now through the regions of the Red river, or through those drained by the Tennessee, or through those of the Arkansas,

       The torches shine in the dark that hangs on the Chattahoochee or Altamahaw;

      Patriarchs sit at supper with sons and grandsons and great grandsons around them,

       In walls of adobe, in canvass tents, rest hunters and trappers after their day’s sport.

       The city sleeps and the country sleeps,

       The living sleep for their time . . . . the dead sleep for their time,

       The old husband sleeps by his wife and the young husband sleeps by his wife;

       And these one and all tend inward to me, and I tend outward to them,

       And such as it is to be of these more or less I am.

      I am of old and young, of the foolish as much as the wise,

       Regardless of others, ever regardful of others,

       Maternal as well as paternal, a child as well as a man,

       Stuffed with the stuff that is coarse, and stuffed with the stuff that is fine,

       One of the great nation, the nation of many nations -- the smallest the same and the largest the same,

       A southerner soon as a northerner, a planter nonchalant and hospitable,

       A Yankee bound my own way . . . . ready for trade . . . . my joints the limberest joints on earth and the sternest joints on earth,

       A Kentuckian walking the vale of the Elkhorn in my deerskin leggings,

       A boatman over the lakes or bays or along coasts . . . . a Hoosier, a Badger, a Buckeye,

       A Louisianian or Georgian, a poke-easy from sandhills and pines,

       At home on Canadian snowshoes or up in the bush, or with fishermen off Newfoundland,

       At home in the fleet of iceboats, sailing with the rest and tacking,

       At home on the hills of Vermont or in the woods of Maine or the Texan ranch,

       Comrade of Californians . . . . comrade of free northwesterners, loving their big proportions,

      Comrade of raftsmen and coalmen -- comrade of all who shake hands and welcome to drink and meat;

       A learner with the simplest, a teacher of the thoughtfulest,

       A novice beginning experient of myriads of seasons,

       Of every hue and trade and rank, of every caste and religion,

       Not merely of the New World but of Africa Europe or Asia . . . . a wandering savage,

       A farmer, mechanic, or artist . . . . a gentleman, sailor, lover or quaker,

       A prisoner, fancy-man, rowdy, lawyer, physician or priest.

      I resist anything better than my own diversity,

       And breathe the air and leave plenty after me,

       And am not stuck up, and am in my place.

      The moth and the fisheggs are in their place,

       The suns I see and the suns I cannot see are in their place,

       The palpable is in its place and the impalpable is in its place.

      These are the thoughts of all men in all ages and lands, they are not original with me,

       If they are not yours as much as mine they are nothing or next to nothing,

       If they do not enclose everything they are next to nothing,

       If they are not the riddle and the untying of the riddle they are nothing,

       If they are not just as close as they are distant they are nothing.

      This is the grass that grows wherever the land is and the water is,

       This is the common air that bathes the globe.

      This is the breath of laws and songs and behaviour,

       This is the the tasteless water of souls . . . . this is the true sustenance,

       It is for the illiterate . . . . it is for the judges of the supreme court . . . . it is for the federal capitol and the state capitols,

      It is for the admirable communes of literary men and composers and singers and lecturers and engineers and savans,

       It is for the endless races of working people and farmers and seamen.

      This is the trill of a thousand clear cornets and scream of the octave flute and strike of triangles.

      I play not a march for victors only . . . . I play great marches for conquered and slain persons.

      Have you heard that it was good to gain the day?

       I also say it is good to fall . . . . battles are lost in the same spirit in which they are won.

      I sound triumphal drums for the dead . . . . I fling through my embouchures the loudest and gayest music to them,

       Vivas to those who have failed, and to those whose war-vessels sank in the sea, and those themselves who sank in the sea,

       And to all generals that lost engagements, and all overcome heroes, and the numberless unknown heroes equal to the greatest heroes known.

      This