The Essential Works of Walt Whitman. Walt Whitman

of those not rich -- boys apprenticed to trades,

       Young fellows working on farms and old fellows working on farms;

       The naive . . . . the simple and hardy . . . . he going to the polls to vote . . . . he who has a good time, and he who has a bad time;

       Mechanics, southerners, new arrivals, sailors, mano’warsmen, merchantmen, coasters,

       All these I see . . . . but nigher and farther the same I see;

       None shall escape me, and none shall wish to escape me.

      I bring what you much need, yet always have,

       I bring not money or amours or dress or eating . . . . but I bring as good;

       And send no agent or medium . . . . and offer no representative of value -- but offer the value itself.

      There is something that comes home to one now and perpetually,

       It is not what is printed or preached or discussed . . . . it eludes discussion and print,

       It is not to be put in a book . . . . it is not in this book,

       It is for you whoever you are . . . . it is no farther from you than your hearing and sight are from you,

       It is hinted by nearest and commonest and readiest . . . . it is not them, though it is endlessly provoked by them . . . . What is there ready and near you now?

      You may read in many languages and read nothing about it;

       You may read the President’s message and read nothing about it there,

       Nothing in the reports from the state department or treasury department . . . . or in the daily papers, or the weekly papers,

       Or in the census returns or assessors’ returns or prices current or any accounts of stock.

      The sun and stars that float in the open air . . . . the appleshaped earth and we upon it . . . . surely the drift of them is something grand;

       I do not know what it is except that it is grand, and that it is happiness,

       And that the enclosing purport of us here is not a speculation, or bon-mot or reconnoissance,

       And that it is not something which by luck may turn out well for us, and without luck must be a failure for us,

       And not something which may yet be retracted in a certain contingency.

      The light and shade -- the curious sense of body and identity -- the greed that with perfect complaisance devours all things -- the endless pride and outstretching of man -- unspeakable joys and sorrows,

       The wonder every one sees in every one else he sees . . . . and the wonders that fill each minute of time forever and each acre of surface and space forever,

       Have you reckoned them as mainly for a trade or farmwork? or for the profits of a store? or to achieve yourself a position? or to fill a gentleman’s leisure or a lady’s leisure?

      Have you reckoned the landscape took substance and form that it might be painted in a picture?

       Or men and women that they might be written of, and songs sung?

       Or the attraction of gravity and the great laws and harmonious combinations and the fluids of the air as subjects for the savans?

       Or the brown land and the blue sea for maps and charts?

      Or the stars to be put in constellations and named fancy names?

       Or that the growth of seeds is for agricultural tables or agriculture itself?

      Old institutions . . . . these arts libraries legends collections -- and the practice handed along in manufactures . . . . will we rate them so high?

       Will we rate our prudence and business so high? . . . . I have no objection,

       I rate them as high as the highest . . . . but a child born of a woman and man I rate beyond all rate.

      We thought our Union grand and our Constitution grand;

       I do not say they are not grand and good -- for they are,

       I am this day just as much in love with them as you,

       But I am eternally in love with you and with all my fellows upon the earth.

      We consider the bibles and religions divine . . . . I do not say they are not divine,

       I say they have all grown out of you and may grow out of you still,

       It is not they who give the life . . . . it is you who give the life;

       Leaves are not more shed from the trees or trees from the earth than they are shed out of you.

      The sum of all known value and respect I add up in you whoever you are;

       The President is up there in the White House for you . . . . it is not you who are here for him,

       The Secretaries act in their bureaus for you . . . . not you here for them,

       The Congress convenes every December for you,

       Laws, courts, the forming of states, the charters of cities, the going and coming of commerce and mails are all for you.

      All doctrines, all politics and civilization exurge from you,

       All sculpture and monuments and anything inscribed anywhere are tallied in you,

      The gist of histories and statistics as far back as the records reach is in you this hour -- and myths and tales the same;

       If you were not breathing and walking here where would they all be?

       The most renowned poems would be ashes . . . . orations and plays would be vacuums.

      All architecture is what you do to it when you look upon it;

       Did you think it was in the white or gray stone? or the lines of the arches and cornices?

      All music is what awakens from you when you are reminded by the instruments,

       It is not the violins and the cornets . . . . it is not the oboe nor the beating drums -- nor the notes of the baritone singer singing his sweet romanza . . . . nor those of the men’s chorus, nor those of the women’s chorus,

       It is nearer and farther than they.

      Will the whole come back then?

       Can each see the signs of the best by a look in the lookingglass? Is there nothing greater or more?

       Does all sit there with you and here with me?

      The old forever new things . . . . you foolish child! . . . . the closest simplest things -- this moment with you,

       Your person and every particle that relates to your person,

       The pulses of your brain waiting their chance and encouragement at every deed or sight;

       Anything you do in public by day, and anything you do in secret betweendays,

       What is called right and what is called wrong . . . . what you behold or touch . . . . what causes your anger or wonder,

       The anklechain of the slave, the bed of the bedhouse, the cards of the gambler, the plates of the forger;

       What is seen or learned in the street, or intuitively learned,

       What is learned in the public school -- spelling, reading, writing and ciphering . . . . the blackboard and the teacher’s diagrams:

      The panes of the windows and all that appears through them . . . . the going forth in the morning and the aimless spending of the day;

       (What is it that you made money? what is it that you got what you wanted?)

       The usual routine . . . . the workshop, factory, yard, office, store, or desk;

       The jaunt of hunting or fishing, or the life of hunting or fishing,

       Pasturelife, foddering, milking and herding, and all the personnel and usages;

       The plum-orchard and apple-orchard . . . . gardening . . seedlings,