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Complete Works. Walt WhitmanЧитать онлайн книгу.

Complete Works - Walt Whitman


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shouting to them as they loiter to browse by the roadside,

       The city wharf, Boston, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Charleston, New

       Orleans, San Francisco,

       The departing ships when the sailors heave at the capstan;

       Evening — me in my room — the setting sun,

       The setting summer sun shining in my open window, showing the

       swarm of flies, suspended, balancing in the air in the centre

       of the room, darting athwart, up and down, casting swift

       shadows in specks on the opposite wall where the shine is;

       The athletic American matron speaking in public to crowds of listeners,

       Males, females, immigrants, combinations, the copiousness, the

       individuality of the States, each for itself — the moneymakers,

       Factories, machinery, the mechanical forces, the windlass, lever,

       pulley, all certainties,

       The certainty of space, increase, freedom, futurity,

       In space the sporades, the scatter’d islands, the stars — on the firm

       earth, the lands, my lands,

       O lands! all so dear to me — what you are, (whatever it is,) I putting it

       at random in these songs, become a part of that, whatever it is,

       Southward there, I screaming, with wings slow flapping, with the

       myriads of gulls wintering along the coasts of Florida,

       Otherways there atwixt the banks of the Arkansaw, the Rio Grande,

       the Nueces, the Brazos, the Tombigbee, the Red River, the

       Saskatchawan or the Osage, I with the spring waters laughing

       and skipping and running,

       Northward, on the sands, on some shallow bay of Paumanok, I with

       parties of snowy herons wading in the wet to seek worms and

       aquatic plants,

       Retreating, triumphantly twittering, the king-bird, from piercing

       the crow with its bill, for amusement — and I triumphantly twittering,

       The migrating flock of wild geese alighting in autumn to refresh

       themselves, the body of the flock feed, the sentinels outside

       move around with erect heads watching, and are from time to time

       reliev’d by other sentinels — and I feeding and taking turns

       with the rest,

       In Kanadian forests the moose, large as an ox, corner’d by hunters,

       rising desperately on his hind-feet, and plunging with his

       fore-feet, the hoofs as sharp as knives — and I, plunging at the

       hunters, corner’d and desperate,

       In the Mannahatta, streets, piers, shipping, store-houses, and the

       countless workmen working in the shops,

       And I too of the Mannahatta, singing thereof — and no less in myself

       than the whole of the Mannahatta in itself,

       Singing the song of These, my ever-united lands — my body no more

       inevitably united, part to part, and made out of a thousand

       diverse contributions one identity, any more than my lands

       are inevitably united and made ONE IDENTITY;

       Nativities, climates, the grass of the great pastoral Plains,

       Cities, labors, death, animals, products, war, good and evil — these me,

       These affording, in all their particulars, the old feuillage to me

       and to America, how can I do less than pass the clew of the union

       of them, to afford the like to you?

       Whoever you are! how can I but offer you divine leaves, that you

       also be eligible as I am?

       How can I but as here chanting, invite you for yourself to collect

       bouquets of the incomparable feuillage of these States?

      BOOK XI

       Table of Contents

       Table of Contents

      O to make the most jubilant song!

       Full of music — full of manhood, womanhood, infancy!

       Full of common employments — full of grain and trees.

      O for the voices of animals — O for the swiftness and balance of fishes!

       O for the dropping of raindrops in a song!

       O for the sunshine and motion of waves in a song!

      O the joy of my spirit — it is uncaged — it darts like lightning!

       It is not enough to have this globe or a certain time,

       I will have thousands of globes and all time.

      O the engineer’s joys! to go with a locomotive!

       To hear the hiss of steam, the merry shriek, the steam-whistle, the

       laughing locomotive!

       To push with resistless way and speed off in the distance.

      O the gleesome saunter over fields and hillsides!

       The leaves and flowers of the commonest weeds, the moist fresh

       stillness of the woods,

       The exquisite smell of the earth at daybreak, and all through the forenoon.

      O the horseman’s and horsewoman’s joys!

       The saddle, the gallop, the pressure upon the seat, the cool

       gurgling by the ears and hair.

      O the fireman’s joys!

       I hear the alarm at dead of night,

       I hear bells, shouts! I pass the crowd, I run!

       The sight of the flames maddens me with pleasure.

      O the joy of the strong-brawn’d fighter, towering in the arena in

       perfect condition, conscious of power, thirsting to meet his opponent.

      O the joy of that vast elemental sympathy which only the human soul is

       capable of generating and emitting in steady and limitless floods.

      O the mother’s joys!

       The watching, the endurance, the precious love, the anguish, the

       patiently yielded life.

      O the of increase, growth, recuperation,

       The joy of soothing and pacifying, the joy of concord and harmony.

      O to go back to the place where I was born,

       To hear the birds sing once more,

       To ramble about the house and barn and over the fields once more,

       And through the orchard and along the old lanes once more.

      O to have been brought up on bays, lagoons, creeks, or along the coast,

       To continue and be employ’d there all my life,

      


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