Leaves of Grass. Walt Whitman

in my vision,

       Stepping with light feet . . . . swiftly and noiselessly stepping and stopping,

       Bending with open eyes over the shut eyes of sleepers;

       Wandering and confused . . . . lost to myself . . . . ill-assorted . . . . contradictory,

       Pausing and gazing and bending and stopping.

      How solemn they look there, stretched and still;

       How quiet they breathe, the little children in their cradles.

      The wretched features of ennuyees, the white features of corpses, the livid faces of drunkards, the sick-gray faces of onanists,

       The gashed bodies on battlefields, the insane in their strong-doored rooms, the sacred idiots,

       The newborn emerging from gates and the dying emerging from gates,

       The night pervades them and enfolds them.

      The married couple sleep calmly in their bed, he with his palm on the hip of the wife, and she with her palm on the hip of the husband,

       The sisters sleep lovingly side by side in their bed,

       The men sleep lovingly side by side in theirs,

       And the mother sleeps with her little child carefully wrapped.

      The blind sleep, and the deaf and dumb sleep,

       The prisoner sleeps well in the prison . . . . the runaway son sleeps,

       The murderer that is to be hung next day . . . . how does he sleep?

       And the murdered person . . . . how does he sleep?

      The female that loves unrequited sleeps,

       And the male that loves unrequited sleeps;

       The head of the moneymaker that plotted all day sleeps,

       And the enraged and treacherous dispositions sleep.

      I stand with drooping eyes by the worstsuffering and restless,

       I pass my hands soothingly to and fro a few inches from them;

       The restless sink in their beds . . . . they fitfully sleep.

      The earth recedes from me into the night,

       I saw that it was beautiful . . . . and I see that what is not the earth is beautiful.

      I go from bedside to bedside . . . . I sleep close with the other sleepers, each in turn;

       I dream in my dream all the dreams of the other dreamers,

       And I become the other dreamers.

      I am a dance . . . . Play up there! the fit is whirling me fast.

      I am the everlaughing . . . . it is new moon and twilight,

       I see the hiding of douceurs . . . . I see nimble ghosts whichever way I look,

       Cache and cache again deep in the ground and sea, and where it is neither ground or sea.

       Well do they do their jobs, those journeymen divine,

       Only from me can they hide nothing and would not if they could;

       I reckon I am their boss, and they make me a pet besides,

       And surround me, and lead me and run ahead when I walk,

       And lift their cunning covers and signify me with stretched arms, and resume the way;

       Onward we move, a gay gang of blackguards with mirthshouting music and wildflapping pennants of joy.

      I am the actor and the actress . . . . the voter . . the politician,

      The emigrant and the exile . . the criminal that stood in the box,

       He who has been famous, and he who shall be famous after today,

       The stammerer . . . . the wellformed person . . the wasted or feeble person.

      I am she who adorned herself and folded her hair expectantly,

       My truant lover has come and it is dark.

      Double yourself and receive me darkness,

       Receive me and my lover too . . . . he will not let me go without him.

      I roll myself upon you as upon a bed . . . . I resign myself to the dusk.

      He whom I call answers me and takes the place of my lover,

       He rises with me silently from the bed.

      Darkness you are gentler than my lover . . . . his flesh was sweaty and panting,

       I feel the hot moisture yet that he left me.

      My hands are spread forth . . I pass them in all directions,

       I would sound up the shadowy shore to which you are journeying.

      Be careful, darkness . . . . already, what was it touched me?

       I thought my lover had gone . . . . else darkness and he are one,

       I hear the heart-beat . . . . I follow . . I fade away.

      O hotcheeked and blushing! O foolish hectic!

       O for pity’s sake, no one must see me now! . . . . my clothes were stolen while I was abed,

       Now I am thrust forth, where shall I run?

      Pier that I saw dimly last night when I looked from the windows,

      Pier out from the main, let me catch myself with you and stay . . . . I will not chafe you;

       I feel ashamed to go naked about the world,

       And am curious to know where my feet stand . . . . and what is this flooding me, childhood or manhood . . . . and the hunger that crosses the bridge between.

      The cloth laps a first sweet eating and drinking,

       Laps life-swelling yolks . . . . laps ear of rose-corn, milky and just ripened:

       The white teeth stay, and the boss-tooth advances in darkness,

       And liquor is spilled on lips and bosoms by touching glasses, and the best liquor afterward.

      I descend my western course . . . . my sinews are flaccid,

       Perfume and youth course through me, and I am their wake.

      It is my face yellow and wrinkled instead of the old woman’s,

       I sit low in a strawbottom chair and carefully darn my grandson’s stockings.

      It is I too . . . . the sleepless widow looking out on the winter midnight,

       I see the sparkles of starshine on the icy and pallid earth.

      A shroud I see -- and I am the shroud . . . . I wrap a body and lie in the coffin;

       It is dark here underground . . . . it is not evil or pain here . . . . it is blank here, for reasons.

      It seems to me that everything in the light and air ought to be happy;

       Whoever is not in his coffin and the dark grave, let him know he has enough.

      I see a beautiful gigantic swimmer swimming naked through the eddies of the sea,

       His brown hair lies close and even to his head . . . . he strikes out with courageous arms . . . . he urges himself with his legs.

      I see his white body . . . . I see his undaunted eyes;

       I hate the swift-running eddies that would dash him headforemost on the rocks.

      What are you doing you ruffianly red-trickled waves?

       Will you kill the courageous giant? Will you kill him in the prime of his middle age?

      Steady and long he struggles;

       He is baffled and banged and bruised . . . . he holds out while his strength holds out,

       The slapping eddies are spotted with his blood . . . . they bear him away . . . . they roll him and swing him and turn him: