Leaves of Grass - Walt Whitman (love story novels in english txt) 📗

strong, the smoke, the deafening noise;

Away with your life of peace!—your joys of peace!

Give me my old wild battle-life again!”

 

} Stronger Lessons

 

Have you learn’d lessons only of those who admired you, and were

tender with you, and stood aside for you?

Have you not learn’d great lessons from those who reject you, and

brace themselves against you? or who treat you with contempt,

or dispute the passage with you?

 

} A Prairie Sunset

 

Shot gold, maroon and violet, dazzling silver, emerald, fawn,

The earth’s whole amplitude and Nature’s multiform power consign’d

for once to colors;

The light, the general air possess’d by them—colors till now unknown,

No limit, confine—not the Western sky alone—the high meridian—

North, South, all,

Pure luminous color fighting the silent shadows to the last.

 

} Twenty Years

 

Down on the ancient wharf, the sand, I sit, with a new-comer chatting:

He shipp’d as green-hand boy, and sail’d away, (took some sudden,

vehement notion;)

Since, twenty years and more have circled round and round,

While he the globe was circling round and round, —and now returns:

How changed the place—all the old landmarks gone—the parents dead;

(Yes, he comes back to lay in port for good—to settle—has a

well-fill’d purse—no spot will do but this;)

The little boat that scull’d him from the sloop, now held in leash I see,

I hear the slapping waves, the restless keel, the rocking in the sand,

I see the sailor kit, the canvas bag, the great box bound with brass,

I scan the face all berry-brown and bearded—the stout-strong frame,

Dress’d in its russet suit of good Scotch cloth:

(Then what the told-out story of those twenty years? What of the future?)

 

} Orange Buds by Mail from Florida

 

A lesser proof than old Voltaire’s, yet greater,

Proof of this present time, and thee, thy broad expanse, America,

To my plain Northern hut, in outside clouds and snow,

Brought safely for a thousand miles o’er land and tide,

Some three days since on their own soil live-sprouting,

Now here their sweetness through my room unfolding,

A bunch of orange buds by mall from Florida.

 

} Twilight

 

The soft voluptuous opiate shades,

The sun just gone, the eager light dispell’d—(I too will soon be

gone, dispell’d,)

A haze—nirwana—rest and night—oblivion.

 

} You Lingering Sparse Leaves of Me

 

You lingering sparse leaves of me on winter-nearing boughs,

And I some well-shorn tree of field or orchard-row;

You tokens diminute and lorn—(not now the flush of May, or July

clover-bloom—no grain of August now;)

You pallid banner-staves—you pennants valueless—you overstay’d of time,

Yet my soul-dearest leaves confirming all the rest,

The faithfulest—hardiest—last.

 

} Not Meagre, Latent Boughs Alone

 

Not meagre, latent boughs alone, O songs! (scaly and bare, like

eagles’ talons,)

But haply for some sunny day (who knows?) some future spring, some

summer—bursting forth,

To verdant leaves, or sheltering shade—to nourishing fruit,

Apples and grapes—the stalwart limbs of trees emerging—the fresh,

free, open air,

And love and faith, like scented roses blooming.

 

} The Dead Emperor

 

To-day, with bending head and eyes, thou, too, Columbia,

Less for the mighty crown laid low in sorrow—less for the Emperor,

Thy true condolence breathest, sendest out o’er many a salt sea mile,

Mourning a good old man—a faithful shepherd, patriot.

 

} As the Greek’s Signal Flame

 

As the Greek’s signal flame, by antique records told,

Rose from the hilltop, like applause and glory,

Welcoming in fame some special veteran, hero,

With rosy tinge reddening the land he’d served,

So I aloft from Mannahatta’s ship-fringed shore,

Lift high a kindled brand for thee, Old Poet.

 

} The Dismantled Ship

 

In some unused lagoon, some nameless bay,

On sluggish, lonesome waters, anchor’d near the shore,

An old, dismasted, gray and batter’d ship, disabled, done,

After free voyages to all the seas of earth, haul’d up at last and

hawser’d tight,

Lies rusting, mouldering.

 

} Now Precedent Songs, Farewell

 

Now precedent songs, farewell—by every name farewell,

(Trains of a staggering line in many a strange procession, waggons,

From ups and downs—with intervals—from elder years, mid-age, or youth,)

“In Cabin’d Ships, or Thee Old Cause or Poets to Come

Or Paumanok, Song of Myself, Calamus, or Adam,

Or Beat! Beat! Drums! or To the Leaven’d Soil they Trod,

Or Captain! My Captain! Kosmos, Quicksand Years, or Thoughts,

Thou Mother with thy Equal Brood,” and many, many more unspecified,

From fibre heart of mine—from throat and tongue—(My life’s hot

pulsing blood,

The personal urge and form for me—not merely paper, automatic type

and ink,)

Each song of mine—each utterance in the past—having its long, long

history,

Of life or death, or soldier’s wound, of country’s loss or safety,

(O heaven! what flash and started endless train of all! compared

indeed to that!

What wretched shred e’en at the best of all!)

 

} An Evening Lull

 

After a week of physical anguish,

Unrest and pain, and feverish heat,

Toward the ending day a calm and lull comes on,

Three hours of peace and soothing rest of brain.

 

} Old Age’s Lambent Peaks

 

The touch of flame—the illuminating fire—the loftiest look at last,

O’er city, passion, sea—o’er prairie, mountain, wood—the earth itself,

The airy, different, changing hues of all, in failing twilight,

Objects and groups, bearings, faces, reminiscences;

The calmer sight—the golden setting, clear and broad:

So much i’ the atmosphere, the points of view, the situations whence

we scan,

Bro’t out by them alone—so much (perhaps the best) unreck’d before;

The lights indeed from them—old age’s lambent peaks.

 

} After the Supper and Talk

 

After the supper and talk—after the day is done,

As a friend from friends his final withdrawal prolonging,

Good-bye and Good-bye with emotional lips repeating,

(So hard for his hand to release those hands—no more will they meet,

No more for communion of sorrow and joy, of old and young,

A far-stretching journey awaits him, to return no more,)

Shunning, postponing severance—seeking to ward off the last word

ever so little,

E’en at the exit-door turning—charges superfluous calling back—

e’en as he descends the steps,

Something to eke out a minute additional—shadows of nightfall deepening,

Farewells, messages lessening—dimmer the forthgoer’s visage and form,

Soon to be lost for aye in the darkness—loth, O so loth to depart!

Garrulous to the very last.

 

[BOOKXXXV. GOOD-BYE MY FANCY]

 

} Sail out for Good, Eidolon Yacht!

 

Heave the anchor short!

Raise main-sail and jib—steer forth,

O little white-hull’d sloop, now speed on really deep waters,

(I will not call it our concluding voyage,

But outset and sure entrance to the truest, best, maturest;)

Depart, depart from solid earth—no more returning to these shores,

Now on for aye our infinite free venture wending,

Spurning all yet tried ports, seas, hawsers, densities, gravitation,

Sail out for good, eidolon yacht of me!

 

} Lingering Last Drops

 

And whence and why come you?

 

We know not whence, (was the answer,)

We only know that we drift here with the rest,

That we linger’d and lagg’d—but were wafted at last, and are now here,

To make the passing shower’s concluding drops.

 

} Good-Bye My Fancy

 

Good-bye my fancy—(I had a word to say,

But ‘tis not quite the time—The best of any man’s word or say,

Is when its proper place arrives—and for its meaning,

I keep mine till the last.)

 

} On, on the Same, Ye Jocund Twain!

 

On, on the same, ye jocund twain!

My life and recitative, containing birth, youth, mid-age years,

Fitful as motley-tongues of flame, inseparably twined and merged in

one—combining all,

My single soul—aims, confirmations, failures, joys—Nor single soul alone,

I chant my nation’s crucial stage, (America’s, haply humanity’s)—

the trial great, the victory great,

A strange eclaircissement of all the masses past, the eastern world,

the ancient, medieval,

Here, here from wanderings, strayings, lessons, wars, defeats—here

at the west a voice triumphant—justifying all,

A gladsome pealing cry—a song for once of utmost pride and satisfaction;

I chant from it the common bulk, the general average horde, (the

best sooner than the worst)—And now I chant old age,

(My verses, written first for forenoon life, and for the summer’s,

autumn’s spread,

I pass to snow-white hairs the same, and give to pulses

winter-cool’d the same;)

As here in careless trill, I and my recitatives, with faith and love,

wafting to other work, to unknown songs, conditions,

On, on ye jocund twain! continue on the same!

 

} MY 71st Year

 

After surmounting three-score and ten,

With all their chances, changes, losses, sorrows,

My parents’ deaths, the vagaries of my life, the many tearing

passions of me, the war of ‘63 and ‘4,

As some old broken soldier, after a long, hot, wearying march, or

haply after battle,

To-day at twilight, hobbling, answering company roll-call, Here,

with vital voice,

Reporting yet, saluting yet the Officer over all.

 

} Apparitions

 

A vague mist hanging ‘round half the pages:

(Sometimes how strange and clear to the soul,

That all these solid things are indeed but apparitions, concepts,

non-realities.)

 

} The Pallid Wreath

 

Somehow I cannot let it go yet, funeral though it is,

Let it remain back there on its nail suspended,

With pink, blue, yellow, all blanch’d, and the white now gray and ashy,

One wither’d rose put years ago for thee, dear friend;

But I do not forget thee. Hast thou then faded?

Is the odor exhaled? Are the colors, vitalities, dead?

No, while memories subtly play—the past vivid as ever;

For but last night I woke, and in that spectral ring saw thee,

Thy smile, eyes, face, calm, silent, loving as ever:

So let the wreath hang still awhile within my eye-reach,

It is not yet dead to me, nor even pallid.

 

} An Ended Day

 

The soothing sanity and blitheness of completion,

The pomp and hurried contest-glare and rush are done;

Now triumph! transformation! jubilate!

 

} Old Age’s Ship & Crafty Death’s

 

From east and west across the horizon’s edge,

Two mighty masterful vessels sailers steal upon us:

But we’ll make race a-time upon the seas—a battle-contest yet! bear

lively there!

(Our joys of strife and derring-do to the last!)

Put on the old ship all her power to-day!

Crowd topsail, top-gallant and royal studding-sails,

Out challenge and defiance—flags and flaunting pennants added,

As we take to the open—take to the deepest, freest waters.

 

} To the Pending Year

 

Have I no weapon-word for thee—some message brief and fierce?

(Have I fought out and done indeed the battle?) Is there no shot left,

For all thy affectations, lisps, scorns, manifold silliness?

Nor for myself—my own rebellious self in thee?

 

Down, down, proud gorge!—though choking thee;

Thy bearded throat and high-borne forehead to the gutter;

Crouch low thy neck to eleemosynary gifts.

 

} Shakspere-Bacon’s Cipher

 

I doubt it not—then more, far more;

In each old song bequeath’d—in every noble page or text,

(Different—something unreck’d before—some unsuspected author,)

In every object, mountain, tree, and star—in every birth and life,

As part of each—evolv’d from each—meaning, behind the ostent,

A mystic cipher waits infolded.

 

} Long, Long Hence

 

After a long, long course, hundreds of years, denials,

Accumulations, rous’d love and joy and thought,

Hopes, wishes, aspirations, ponderings, victories, myriads of readers,

Coating, compassing, covering—after ages’ and ages’ encrustations,

Then only may these songs reach fruition.

 

} Bravo, Paris Exposition!

 

Add to your show, before you close it, France,

With all the rest, visible, concrete, temples, towers, goods,

machines and ores,

Our sentiment wafted from many million heart-throbs, ethereal but solid,

(We grandsons and great-grandsons do not forget your grandsires,)

From fifty Nations and nebulous Nations, compacted, sent oversea to-day,

America’s applause, love, memories and good-will.

 

} Interpolation Sounds