Complete Works. Walt Whitman

Swarming, trailing on the rear, O you dread accruing army,

       O you regiments so piteous, with your mortal diarrhoea, with your fever,

       O my land’s maim’d darlings, with the plenteous bloody bandage and

       the crutch,

       Lo, your pallid army follows.)

      5

       But on these days of brightness,

       On the far-stretching beauteous landscape, the roads and lanes the

       high-piled farm-wagons, and the fruits and barns,

       Should the dead intrude?

      Ah the dead to me mar not, they fit well in Nature,

       They fit very well in the landscape under the trees and grass,

       And along the edge of the sky in the horizon’s far margin.

      Nor do I forget you Departed,

       Nor in winter or summer my lost ones,

       But most in the open air as now when my soul is rapt and at peace,

       like pleasing phantoms,

       Your memories rising glide silently by me.

      6

       I saw the day the return of the heroes,

       (Yet the heroes never surpass’d shall never return,

       Them that day I saw not.)

      I saw the interminable corps, I saw the processions of armies,

       I saw them approaching, defiling by with divisions,

       Streaming northward, their work done, camping awhile in clusters of

       mighty camps.

      No holiday soldiers — youthful, yet veterans,

       Worn, swart, handsome, strong, of the stock of homestead and workshop,

       Harden’d of many a long campaign and sweaty march,

       Inured on many a hard-fought bloody field.

      A pause — the armies wait,

       A million flush’d embattled conquerors wait,

       The world too waits, then soft as breaking night and sure as dawn,

       They melt, they disappear.

      Exult O lands! victorious lands!

       Not there your victory on those red shuddering fields,

       But here and hence your victory.

      Melt, melt away ye armies — disperse ye blue-clad soldiers,

       Resolve ye back again, give up for good your deadly arms,

       Other the arms the fields henceforth for you, or South or North,

       With saner wars, sweet wars, life-giving wars.

      7

       Loud O my throat, and clear O soul!

       The season of thanks and the voice of full-yielding,

       The chant of joy and power for boundless fertility.

      All till’d and untill’d fields expand before me,

       I see the true arenas of my race, or first or last,

       Man’s innocent and strong arenas.

      I see the heroes at other toils,

       I see well-wielded in their hands the better weapons.

      I see where the Mother of All,

       With full-spanning eye gazes forth, dwells long,

       And counts the varied gathering of the products.

      Busy the far, the sunlit panorama,

       Prairie, orchard, and yellow grain of the North,

       Cotton and rice of the South and Louisianian cane,

       Open unseeded fallows, rich fields of clover and timothy,

       Kine and horses feeding, and droves of sheep and swine,

       And many a stately river flowing and many a jocund brook,

       And healthy uplands with herby-perfumed breezes,

       And the good green grass, that delicate miracle the ever-recurring grass.

      8

       Toil on heroes! harvest the products!

       Not alone on those warlike fields the Mother of All,

       With dilated form and lambent eyes watch’d you.

      Toil on heroes! toil well! handle the weapons well!

       The Mother of All, yet here as ever she watches you.

      Well-pleased America thou beholdest,

       Over the fields of the West those crawling monsters,

       The human-divine inventions, the labor-saving implements;

       Beholdest moving in every direction imbued as with life the

       revolving hay-rakes,

       The steam-power reaping-machines and the horse-power machines

       The engines, thrashers of grain and cleaners of grain, well

       separating the straw, the nimble work of the patent pitchfork,

       Beholdest the newer saw-mill, the southern cotton-gin, and the

       rice-cleanser.

      Beneath thy look O Maternal,

       With these and else and with their own strong hands the heroes harvest.

      All gather and all harvest,

       Yet but for thee O Powerful, not a scythe might swing as now in security,

       Not a maize-stalk dangle as now its silken tassels in peace.

      Under thee only they harvest, even but a wisp of hay under thy great

       face only,

       Harvest the wheat of Ohio, Illinois, Wisconsin, every barbed spear

       under thee,

       Harvest the maize of Missouri, Kentucky, Tennessee, each ear in its

       light-green sheath,

       Gather the hay to its myriad mows in the odorous tranquil barns,

       Oats to their bins, the white potato, the buckwheat of Michigan, to theirs;

       Gather the cotton in Mississippi or Alabama, dig and hoard the

       golden the sweet potato of Georgia and the Carolinas,

       Clip the wool of California or Pennsylvania,

       Cut the flax in the Middle States, or hemp or tobacco in the Borders,

       Pick the pea and the bean, or pull apples from the trees or bunches

       of grapes from the vines,

       Or aught that ripens in all these States or North or South,

       Under the beaming sun and under thee.

There Was a Child Went Forth

       Table of Contents

      There was a child went forth every day,

       And the first object he look’d upon, that object he became,

       And that object became part of him for the day or a certain part of the day,

       Or for many years or stretching cycles of years.

      The early lilacs became part of this child,

       And grass and white and red morning-glories, and white and red

       clover, and the song of the phoebe-bird,

       And the Third-month lambs and