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Complete Works. Walt WhitmanЧитать онлайн книгу.

Complete Works - Walt Whitman


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but this hour,

       Man in the first you see or touch, always in friend, brother,

       nighest neighbor — woman in mother, sister, wife,

       The popular tastes and employments taking precedence in poems or anywhere,

       You workwomen and workmen of these States having your own divine

       and strong life,

       And all else giving place to men and women like you.

       When the psalm sings instead of the singer,

      When the script preaches instead of the preacher,

       When the pulpit descends and goes instead of the carver that carved

       the supporting desk,

       When I can touch the body of books by night or by day, and when they

       touch my body back again,

       When a university course convinces like a slumbering woman and child

       convince,

       When the minted gold in the vault smiles like the night-watchman’s daughter,

       When warrantee deeds loafe in chairs opposite and are my friendly

       companions,

       I intend to reach them my hand, and make as much of them as I do

       of men and women like you.

      BOOK XVI

       Table of Contents

       Table of Contents

      1

       A song of the rolling earth, and of words according,

       Were you thinking that those were the words, those upright lines?

       those curves, angles, dots?

       No, those are not the words, the substantial words are in the ground

       and sea,

       They are in the air, they are in you.

      Were you thinking that those were the words, those delicious sounds

       out of your friends’ mouths?

       No, the real words are more delicious than they.

      Human bodies are words, myriads of words,

       (In the best poems re-appears the body, man’s or woman’s,

       well-shaped, natural, gay,

       Every part able, active, receptive, without shame or the need of shame.)

      Air, soil, water, fire — those are words,

       I myself am a word with them — my qualities interpenetrate with

       theirs — my name is nothing to them,

       Though it were told in the three thousand languages, what would

       air, soil, water, fire, know of my name?

      A healthy presence, a friendly or commanding gesture, are words,

       sayings, meanings,

       The charms that go with the mere looks of some men and women,

       are sayings and meanings also.

      The workmanship of souls is by those inaudible words of the earth,

       The masters know the earth’s words and use them more than audible words.

      Amelioration is one of the earth’s words,

       The earth neither lags nor hastens,

       It has all attributes, growths, effects, latent in itself from the jump,

       It is not half beautiful only, defects and excrescences show just as

       much as perfections show.

      The earth does not withhold, it is generous enough,

       The truths of the earth continually wait, they are not so conceal’d either,

       They are calm, subtle, untransmissible by print,

       They are imbued through all things conveying themselves willingly,

       Conveying a sentiment and invitation, I utter and utter,

       I speak not, yet if you hear me not of what avail am I to you?

       To bear, to better, lacking these of what avail am I?

      (Accouche! accouchez!

       Will you rot your own fruit in yourself there?

       Will you squat and stifle there?)

      The earth does not argue,

       Is not pathetic, has no arrangements,

       Does not scream, haste, persuade, threaten, promise,

       Makes no discriminations, has no conceivable failures,

       Closes nothing, refuses nothing, shuts none out,

       Of all the powers, objects, states, it notifies, shuts none out.

      The earth does not exhibit itself nor refuse to exhibit itself,

       possesses still underneath,

       Underneath the ostensible sounds, the august chorus of heroes, the

       wail of slaves,

       Persuasions of lovers, curses, gasps of the dying, laughter of young

       people, accents of bargainers,

       Underneath these possessing words that never fall.

      To her children the words of the eloquent dumb great mother never fail,

       The true words do not fail, for motion does not fail and reflection

       does not fall,

       Also the day and night do not fall, and the voyage we pursue does not fall.

      Of the interminable sisters,

       Of the ceaseless cotillons of sisters,

       Of the centripetal and centrifugal sisters, the elder and younger sisters,

       The beautiful sister we know dances on with the rest.

      With her ample back towards every beholder,

       With the fascinations of youth and the equal fascinations of age,

       Sits she whom I too love like the rest, sits undisturb’d,

       Holding up in her hand what has the character of a mirror, while her

       eyes glance back from it,

       Glance as she sits, inviting none, denying none,

       Holding a mirror day and night tirelessly before her own face.

      Seen at hand or seen at a distance,

       Duly the twenty-four appear in public every day,

       Duly approach and pass with their companions or a companion,

       Looking from no countenances of their own, but from the countenances

       of those who are with them,

       From the countenances of children or women or the manly countenance,

       From the open countenances of animals or from inanimate things,

       From the landscape or waters or from the exquisite apparition of the sky,

       From our countenances, mine and yours, faithfully returning them,

       Every day in public appearing without fall, but never twice with the

       same companions.

      Embracing man, embracing all, proceed the three hundred


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