Leaves of Grass. Walt Whitman

His beautiful body is borne in the circling eddies . . . . it is continually bruised on rocks,

       Swiftly and out of sight is borne the brave corpse.

      I turn but do not extricate myself;

       Confused . . . . a pastreading . . . . another, but with darkness yet.

      The beach is cut by the razory ice-wind . . . . the wreck-guns sound,

       The tempest lulls and the moon comes floundering through the drifts.

      I look where the ship helplessly heads end on . . . . I hear the burst as she strikes . . I hear the howls of dismay . . . . they grow fainter and fainter.

      I cannot aid with my wringing fingers;

       I can but rush to the surf and let it drench me and freeze upon me.

      I search with the crowd . . . . not one of the company is washed to us alive;

       In the morning I help pick up the dead and lay them in rows in a barn.

      Now of the old war-days . . the defeat at Brooklyn;

       Washington stands inside the lines . . he stands on the entrenched hills amid a crowd of officers,

       His face is cold and damp . . . . he cannot repress the weeping drops . . . . he lifts the glass perpetually to his eyes . . . . the color is blanched from his cheeks,

       He sees the slaughter of the southern braves confided to him by their parents.

      The same at last and at last when peace is declared,

       He stands in the room of the old tavern . . . . the wellbeloved soldiers all pass through,

       The officers speechless and slow draw near in their turns,

       The chief encircles their necks with his arm and kisses them on the cheek,

       He kisses lightly the wet cheeks one after another . . . . he shakes hands and bids goodbye to the army.

      Now I tell what my mother told me today as we sat at dinner together,

       Of when she was a nearly grown girl living home with her parents on the old homestead.

      A red squaw came one breakfasttime to the old homestead,

       On her back she carried a bundle of rushes for rushbottoming chairs;

       Her hair straight shiny coarse black and profuse halfenveloped her face,

       Her step was free and elastic . . . . her voice sounded exquisitely as she spoke.

       My mother looked in delight and amazement at the stranger,

       She looked at the beauty of her tallborne face and full and pliant limbs,

       The more she looked upon her she loved her,

       Never before had she seen such wonderful beauty and purity;

       She made her sit on a bench by the jamb of the fireplace . . . . she cooked food for her,

      She had no work to give her but she gave her remembrance and fondness.

      The red squaw staid all the forenoon, and toward the middle of the afternoon she went away;

       O my mother was loth to have her go away,

       All the week she thought of her . . . . she watched for her many a month,

       She remembered her many a winter and many a summer,

       But the red squaw never came nor was heard 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;