Complete Works. Walt Whitman

I will not strip the clothes from my body to meet my lover the sea,

       I will not touch my flesh to the earth as to other flesh to renew me.

      O how can it be that the ground itself does not sicken?

       How can you be alive you growths of spring?

       How can you furnish health you blood of herbs, roots, orchards, grain?

       Are they not continually putting distemper’d corpses within you?

       Is not every continent work’d over and over with sour dead?

      Where have you disposed of their carcasses?

       Those drunkards and gluttons of so many generations?

       Where have you drawn off all the foul liquid and meat?

       I do not see any of it upon you to-day, or perhaps I am deceiv’d,

       I will run a furrow with my plough, I will press my spade through

       the sod and turn it up underneath,

       I am sure I shall expose some of the foul meat.

      2

       Behold this compost! behold it well!

       Perhaps every mite has once form’d part of a sick person — yet behold!

       The grass of spring covers the prairies,

       The bean bursts noiselessly through the mould in the garden,

       The delicate spear of the onion pierces upward,

       The apple-buds cluster together on the apple-branches,

       The resurrection of the wheat appears with pale visage out of its graves,

       The tinge awakes over the willow-tree and the mulberry-tree,

       The he-birds carol mornings and evenings while the she-birds sit on

       their nests,

       The young of poultry break through the hatch’d eggs,

       The new-born of animals appear, the calf is dropt from the cow, the

       colt from the mare,

       Out of its little hill faithfully rise the potato’s dark green leaves,

       Out of its hill rises the yellow maize-stalk, the lilacs bloom in

       the dooryards,

       The summer growth is innocent and disdainful above all those strata

       of sour dead.

      What chemistry!

       That the winds are really not infectious,

       That this is no cheat, this transparent green-wash of the sea which

       is so amorous after me,

       That it is safe to allow it to lick my naked body all over with its tongues,

       That it will not endanger me with the fevers that have deposited

       themselves in it,

       That all is clean forever and forever,

       That the cool drink from the well tastes so good,

       That blackberries are so flavorous and juicy,

       That the fruits of the apple-orchard and the orange-orchard, that

       melons, grapes, peaches, plums, will none of them poison me,

       That when I recline on the grass I do not catch any disease,

       Though probably every spear of grass rises out of what was once

       catching disease.

      Now I am terrified at the Earth, it is that calm and patient,

       It grows such sweet things out of such corruptions,

       It turns harmless and stainless on its axis, with such endless

       successions of diseas’d corpses,

       It distills such exquisite winds out of such infused fetor,

       It renews with such unwitting looks its prodigal, annual, sumptuous crops,

       It gives such divine materials to men, and accepts such leavings

       from them at last.

To a Foil’d European Revolutionaire

       Table of Contents

      Courage yet, my brother or my sister!

       Keep on — Liberty is to be subserv’d whatever occurs;

       That is nothing that is quell’d by one or two failures, or any

       number of failures,

       Or by the indifference or ingratitude of the people, or by any

       unfaithfulness,

       Or the show of the tushes of power, soldiers, cannon, penal statutes.

      What we believe in waits latent forever through all the continents,

       Invites no one, promises nothing, sits in calmness and light, is

       positive and composed, knows no discouragement,

       Waiting patiently, waiting its time.

      (Not songs of loyalty alone are these,

       But songs of insurrection also,

       For I am the sworn poet of every dauntless rebel the world over,

       And he going with me leaves peace and routine behind him,

       And stakes his life to be lost at any moment.)

      The battle rages with many a loud alarm and frequent advance and retreat,

       The infidel triumphs, or supposes he triumphs,

       The prison, scaffold, garrote, handcuffs, iron necklace and

       leadballs do their work,

       The named and unnamed heroes pass to other spheres,

       The great speakers and writers are exiled, they lie sick in distant lands,

       The cause is asleep, the strongest throats are choked with their own blood,

       The young men droop their eyelashes toward the ground when they meet;

       But for all this Liberty has not gone out of the place, nor the

       infidel enter’d into full possession.

      When liberty goes out of a place it is not the first to go, nor the

       second or third to go,

       It waits for all the rest to go, it is the last.

      When there are no more memories of heroes and martyrs,

       And when all life and all the souls of men and women are discharged

       from any part of the earth,

       Then only shall liberty or the idea of liberty be discharged from

       that part of the earth,

       And the infidel come into full possession.

      Then courage European revolter, revoltress!

       For till all ceases neither must you cease.

      I do not know what you are for, (I do not know what I am for myself,

       nor what any thing is for,)

       But I will search carefully for it even in being foil’d,

       In defeat, poverty, misconception, imprisonment — for they too are great.

      Did we think victory great?

       So it is — but now it seems to me, when it cannot be help’d, that

       defeat is great,

       And that death and dismay are great.

Unnamed