Leaves of Grass. Walt Whitman

toward the powder-magazine,

       One of the pumps was shot away . . . . it was generally thought we were sinking.

      Serene stood the little captain,

       He was not hurried . . . . his voice was neither high nor low,

       His eyes gave more light to us than our battle-lanterns.

      Toward twelve at night, there in the beams of the moon they surrendered to us.

      Stretched and still lay the midnight,

       Two great hulls motionless on the breast of the darkness,

       Our vessel riddled and slowly sinking . . . . preparations to pass to the one we had conquered,

       The captain on the quarter deck coldly giving his orders through a countenance white as a sheet,

       Near by the corpse of the child that served in the cabin,

       The dead face of an old salt with long white hair and carefully curled whiskers,

       The flames spite of all that could be done flickering aloft and below,

       The husky voices of the two or three officers yet fit for duty,

       Formless stacks of bodies and bodies by themselves . . . . dabs of flesh upon the masts and spars,

       The cut of cordage and dangle of rigging . . . . the slight shock of the soothe of waves,

       Black and impassive guns, and litter of powder-parcels, and the strong scent,

       Delicate sniffs of the seabreeze . . . . smells of sedgy grass and fields by the shore . . . death-messages given in charge to survivors,

       The hiss of the surgeon’s knife and the gnawing teeth of his saw,

       The wheeze, the cluck, the swash of falling blood . . . . the short wild scream, the long dull tapering groan,

       These so . . . . these irretrievable.

      O Christ! My fit is mastering me!

       What the rebel said gaily adjusting his throat to the rope-noose,

       What the savage at the stump, his eye-sockets empty, his mouth spirting whoops and defiance,

       What stills the traveler come to the vault at Mount Vernon,

      What sobers the Brooklyn boy as he looks down the shores of the Wallabout and remembers the prison ships,

       What burnt the gums of the redcoat at Saratoga when he surrendered his brigades,

       These become mine and me every one, and they are but little,

       I become as much more as I like.

      I become any presence or truth of humanity here,

       And see myself in prison shaped like another man,

       And feel the dull unintermitted pain.

      For me the keepers of convicts shoulder their carbines and keep watch,

       It is I let out in the morning and barred at night.

      Not a mutineer walks handcuffed to the jail, but I am handcuffed to him and walk by his side,

       I am less the jolly one there, and more the silent one with sweat on my twitching lips.

      Not a youngster is taken for larceny, but I go up too and am tried and sentenced.

      Not a cholera patient lies at the last gasp, but I also lie at the last gasp,

       My face is ash-colored, my sinews gnarl . . . . away from me people retreat.

      Askers embody themselves in me, and I am embodied in them,

       I project my hat and sit shamefaced and beg.

      I rise extatic through all, and sweep with the true gravitation,

       The whirling and whirling is elemental within me.

      Somehow I have been stunned. Stand back!

       Give me a little time beyond my cuffed head and slumbers and dreams and gaping,

       I discover myself on a verge of the usual mistake.

      That I could forget the mockers and insults!

       That I could forget the trickling tears and the blows of the bludgeons and hammers!

      That I could look with a separate look on my own crucifixion and bloody crowning!

      I remember . . . . I resume the overstaid fraction,

       The grave of rock multiplies what has been confided to it . . . . or to any graves,

       The corpses rise . . . . the gashes heal . . . . the fastenings roll away.

      I troop forth replenished with supreme power, one of an average unending procession,

       We walk the roads of Ohio and Massachusetts and Virginia and Wisconsin and New York and New Orleans and Texas and Montreal and San Francisco and Charleston and Savannah and Mexico,

       Inland and by the seacoast and boundary lines . . . . and we pass the boundary lines.

      Our swift ordinances are on their way over the whole earth,

       The blossoms we wear in our hats are the growth of two thousand years.

      Eleves I salute you,

       I see the approach of your numberless gangs . . . . I see you understand yourselves and me,

       And know that they who have eyes are divine, and the blind and lame are equally divine,

       And that my steps drag behind yours yet go before them,

       And are aware how I am with you no more than I am with everybody.

      The friendly and flowing savage . . . . Who is he?

       Is he waiting for civilization or past it and mastering it?

      Is he some southwesterner raised outdoors? Is he Canadian?

       Is he from the Mississippi country? or from Iowa, Oregon or California? or from the mountains? or prairie life or bush-life? or from the sea?

      Wherever he goes men and women accept and desire him,

       They desire he should like them and touch them and speak to them and stay with them.

      Behaviour lawless as snow-flakes . . . . words simple as grass . . . . uncombed head and laughter and naivete;

       Slowstepping feet and the common features, and the common modes and emanations,

       They descend in new forms from the tips of his fingers,

       They are wafted with the odor of his body or breath . . . . they fly out of the glance of his eyes.

      Flaunt of the sunshine I need not your bask . . . . lie over,

       You light surfaces only . . . . I force the surfaces and the depths also.

      Earth! you seem to look for something at my hands,

       Say old topknot! what do you want?

      Man or woman! I might tell how I like you, but cannot,

       And might tell what it is in me and what it is in you, but cannot,

       And might tell the pinings I have . . . . the pulse of my nights and days.

      Behold I do not give lectures or a little charity,

       What I give I give out of myself.

      You there, impotent, loose in the knees, open your scarfed chops till I blow grit within you,

       Spread your palms and lift the flaps of your pockets,

       I am not to be denied . . . . I compel . . . . I have stores plenty and to spare,

       And any thing I have I bestow.

      I do not ask who you are . . . . that is not important to me,

       You can do nothing and be nothing but what I will infold you.

      To a drudge of the cottonfields or emptier of privies I lean . . . . on his right cheek I