Leaves of Grass, Walt Whitman [books to read for 12 year olds txt] 📗

retain’d entire—Of north, south, east and west, your

items all;

Of me myself—the jocund heart yet beating in my breast,

The body wreck’d, old, poor and paralyzed—the strange inertia

falling pall-like round me,

The burning fires down in my sluggish blood not yet extinct,

The undiminish’d faith—the groups of loving friends.

 

} The Bravest Soldiers

 

Brave, brave were the soldiers (high named to-day) who lived through

the fight;

But the bravest press’d to the front and fell, unnamed, unknown.

 

} A Font of Type

 

This latent mine—these unlaunch’d voices—passionate powers,

Wrath, argument, or praise, or comic leer, or prayer devout,

(Not nonpareil, brevier, bourgeois, long primer merely,)

These ocean waves arousable to fury and to death,

Or sooth’d to ease and sheeny sun and sleep,

Within the pallid slivers slumbering.

 

} As I Sit Writing Here

 

As I sit writing here, sick and grown old,

Not my least burden is that dulness of the years, querilities,

Ungracious glooms, aches, lethargy, constipation, whimpering ennui,

May filter in my dally songs.

 

} My Canary Bird

 

Did we count great, O soul, to penetrate the themes of mighty books,

Absorbing deep and full from thoughts, plays, speculations?

But now from thee to me, caged bird, to feel thy joyous warble,

Filling the air, the lonesome room, the long forenoon,

Is it not just as great, O soul?

 

} Queries to My Seventieth Year

 

Approaching, nearing, curious,

Thou dim, uncertain spectre—bringest thou life or death?

Strength, weakness, blindness, more paralysis and heavier?

Or placid skies and sun? Wilt stir the waters yet?

Or haply cut me short for good? Or leave me here as now,

Dull, parrot-like and old, with crack’d voice harping, screeching?

 

} The Wallabout Martyrs

 

Greater than memory of Achilles or Ulysses,

More, more by far to thee than tomb of Alexander,

Those cart loads of old charnel ashes, scales and splints of mouldy bones,

Once living men—once resolute courage, aspiration, strength,

The stepping stones to thee to-day and here, America.

 

} The First Dandelion

 

Simple and fresh and fair from winter’s close emerging,

As if no artifice of fashion, business, politics, had ever been,

Forth from its sunny nook of shelter’d grass—innocent, golden, calm

as the dawn,

The spring’s first dandelion shows its trustful face.

 

} America

 

Centre of equal daughters, equal sons,

All, all alike endear’d, grown, ungrown, young or old,

Strong, ample, fair, enduring, capable, rich,

Perennial with the Earth, with Freedom, Law and Love,

A grand, sane, towering, seated Mother,

Chair’d in the adamant of Time.

 

} Memories

 

How sweet the silent backward tracings!

The wanderings as in dreams—the meditation of old times resumed

—their loves, joys, persons, voyages.

 

} To-Day and Thee

 

The appointed winners in a long-stretch’d game;

The course of Time and nations—Egypt, India, Greece and Rome;

The past entire, with all its heroes, histories, arts, experiments,

Its store of songs, inventions, voyages, teachers, books,

Garner’d for now and thee—To think of it!

The heirdom all converged in thee!

 

} After the Dazzle of Day

 

After the dazzle of day is gone,

Only the dark, dark night shows to my eyes the stars;

After the clangor of organ majestic, or chorus, or perfect band,

Silent, athwart my soul, moves the symphony true.

 

} Abraham Lincoln, Born Feb. 12, 1809

 

To-day, from each and all, a breath of prayer—a pulse of thought,

To memory of Him—to birth of Him.

 

} Out of May’s Shows Selected

 

Apple orchards, the trees all cover’d with blossoms;

Wheat fields carpeted far and near in vital emerald green;

The eternal, exhaustless freshness of each early morning;

The yellow, golden, transparent haze of the warm afternoon sun;

The aspiring lilac bushes with profuse purple or white flowers.

 

} Halcyon Days

 

Not from successful love alone,

Nor wealth, nor honor’d middle age, nor victories of politics or war;

But as life wanes, and all the turbulent passions calm,

As gorgeous, vapory, silent hues cover the evening sky,

As softness, fulness, rest, suffuse the frame, like freshier, balmier air,

As the days take on a mellower light, and the apple at last hangs

really finish’d and indolent-ripe on the tree,

Then for the teeming quietest, happiest days of all!

The brooding and blissful halcyon days!

 

[FANCIES AT NAVESINK]

 

}[I] The Pilot in the Mist

 

Steaming the northern rapids—(an old St. Lawrence reminiscence,

A sudden memory-flash comes back, I know not why,

Here waiting for the sunrise, gazing from this hill;)

Again ‘tis just at morning—a heavy haze contends with daybreak,

Again the trembling, laboring vessel veers me—I press through

foam-dash’d rocks that almost touch me,

Again I mark where aft the small thin Indian helmsman

Looms in the mist, with brow elate and governing hand.

 

}[II] Had I the Choice

 

Had I the choice to tally greatest bards,

To limn their portraits, stately, beautiful, and emulate at will,

Homer with all his wars and warriors—Hector, Achilles, Ajax,

Or Shakspere’s woe-entangled Hamlet, Lear, Othello—Tennyson’s fair ladies,

Metre or wit the best, or choice conceit to wield in perfect rhyme,

delight of singers;

These, these, O sea, all these I’d gladly barter,

Would you the undulation of one wave, its trick to me transfer,

Or breathe one breath of yours upon my verse,

And leave its odor there.

 

}[III] You Tides with Ceaseless Swell

 

You tides with ceaseless swell! you power that does this work!

You unseen force, centripetal, centrifugal, through space’s spread,

Rapport of sun, moon, earth, and all the constellations,

What are the messages by you from distant stars to us? what Sirius’?

what Capella’s?

What central heart—and you the pulse—vivifies all? what boundless

aggregate of all?

What subtle indirection and significance in you? what clue to all in

you? what fluid, vast identity,

Holding the universe with all its parts as one—as sailing in a ship?

 

}[IV] Last of Ebb, and Daylight Waning

 

Last of ebb, and daylight waning,

Scented sea-cool landward making, smells of sedge and salt incoming,

With many a half-caught voice sent up from the eddies,

Many a muffled confession—many a sob and whisper’d word,

As of speakers far or hid.

 

How they sweep down and out! how they mutter!

Poets unnamed—artists greatest of any, with cherish’d lost designs,

Love’s unresponse—a chorus of age’s complaints—hope’s last words,

Some suicide’s despairing cry, Away to the boundless waste, and

never again return.

 

On to oblivion then!

On, on, and do your part, ye burying, ebbing tide!

On for your time, ye furious debouche!

 

}[V] And Yet Not You Alone

 

And yet not you alone, twilight and burying ebb,

Nor you, ye lost designs alone—nor failures, aspirations;

I know, divine deceitful ones, your glamour’s seeming;

Duly by you, from you, the tide and light again—duly the hinges turning,

Duly the needed discord-parts offsetting, blending,

Weaving from you, from Sleep, Night, Death itself,

The rhythmus of Birth eternal.

 

}[VI] Proudly the Flood Comes In

 

Proudly the flood comes in, shouting, foaming, advancing,

Long it holds at the high, with bosom broad outswelling,

All throbs, dilates—the farms, woods, streets of cities—workmen at work,

Mainsails, topsails, jibs, appear in the offing—steamers’ pennants

of smoke—and under the forenoon sun,

Freighted with human lives, gaily the outward bound, gaily the

inward bound,

Flaunting from many a spar the flag I love.

 

}[VII] By That Long Scan of Waves

 

By that long scan of waves, myself call’d back, resumed upon myself,

In every crest some undulating light or shade—some retrospect,

Joys, travels, studies, silent panoramas—scenes ephemeral,

The long past war, the battles, hospital sights, the wounded and the dead,

Myself through every by-gone phase—my idle youth—old age at hand,

My three-score years of life summ’d up, and more, and past,

By any grand ideal tried, intentionless, the whole a nothing,

And haply yet some drop within God’s scheme’s ensemble—some

wave, or part of wave,

Like one of yours, ye multitudinous ocean.

 

}[VIII] Then Last Of All

 

Then last of all, caught from these shores, this hill,

Of you O tides, the mystic human meaning:

Only by law of you, your swell and ebb, enclosing me the same,

The brain that shapes, the voice that chants this song.

 

} Election Day, November, 1884

 

If I should need to name, O Western World, your powerfulest scene and show,

‘Twould not be you, Niagara—nor you, ye limitless prairies—nor

your huge rifts of canyons, Colorado,

Nor you, Yosemite—nor Yellowstone, with all its spasmic

geyser-loops ascending to the skies, appearing and disappearing,

Nor Oregon’s white cones—nor Huron’s belt of mighty lakes—nor

Mississippi’s stream:

—This seething hemisphere’s humanity, as now, I’d name—the still

small voice vibrating—America’s choosing day,

(The heart of it not in the chosen—the act itself the main, the

quadriennial choosing,)

The stretch of North and South arous’d—seaboard and inland—

Texas to Maine—the Prairie States—Vermont, Virginia, California,

The final ballot-shower from East to West—the paradox and conflict,

The countless snow-flakes falling—(a swordless conflict,

Yet more than all Rome’s wars of old, or modern Napoleon’s:) the

peaceful choice of all,

Or good or ill humanity—welcoming the darker odds, the dross:

—Foams and ferments the wine? it serves to purify—while the heart

pants, life glows:

These stormy gusts and winds waft precious ships,

Swell’d Washington’s, Jefferson’s, Lincoln’s sails.

 

} With Husky-Haughty Lips, O Sea!

 

With husky-haughty lips, O sea!

Where day and night I wend thy surf-beat shore,

Imaging to my sense thy varied strange suggestions,

(I see and plainly list thy talk and conference here,)

Thy troops of white-maned racers racing to the goal,

Thy ample, smiling face, dash’d with the sparkling dimples of the sun,

Thy brooding scowl and murk—thy unloos’d hurricanes,

Thy unsubduedness, caprices, wilfulness;

Great as thou art above the rest, thy many tears—a lack from all

eternity in thy content,

(Naught but the greatest struggles, wrongs, defeats, could make thee

greatest—no less could make thee,)

Thy lonely state—something thou ever seek’st and seek’st, yet

never gain’st,

Surely some right withheld—some voice, in huge monotonous rage, of

freedom-lover pent,

Some vast heart, like a planet’s, chain’d and chafing in those breakers,

By lengthen’d swell, and spasm, and panting breath,

And rhythmic rasping of thy sands and waves,

And serpent hiss, and savage peals of laughter,

And undertones of distant lion roar,

(Sounding, appealing to the sky’s deaf ear—but now, rapport for once,

A phantom in the night thy confidant for once,)

The first and last confession of the globe,

Outsurging, muttering from thy soul’s abysms,

The tale of cosmic elemental passion,

Thou tellest to a kindred soul.

 

} Death of General Grant

 

As one by one withdraw the lofty actors,

From that great play on history’s stage eterne,

That lurid, partial act of war and peace—of old and new contending,

Fought out through wrath, fears, dark dismays, and many a long suspense;

All past—and since, in countless graves receding, mellowing,

Victor’s and vanquish’d—Lincoln’s and Lee’s—now thou with them,

Man of the mighty days—and equal to the days!

Thou from the prairies!—tangled and many-vein’d and hard has been thy part,

To admiration has it been enacted!

 

} Red Jacket (From Aloft)

 

Upon this scene, this show,

Yielded to-day by fashion, learning, wealth,

(Nor in caprice alone—some grains of deepest meaning,)

Haply, aloft, (who knows?) from distant sky-clouds’ blended shapes,

As some old tree, or rock or cliff, thrill’d with its soul,

Product of Nature’s sun, stars, earth direct—a towering human form,

In hunting-shirt of film, arm’d with the rifle, a half-ironical

smile curving its phantom lips,

Like one of Ossian’s ghosts looks down.

 

} Washington’s Monument February, 1885

 

Ah, not this marble, dead and cold:

Far from its base and shaft expanding—the round zones circling,

comprehending,

Thou, Washington, art all the world’s, the continents’ entire—not

yours alone, America,

Europe’s as well, in every part,