The Walt Whitman MEGAPACK

by Walt Whitman

  My call is the call of battle, I nourish active rebellion,

  He going with me must go well arm’d,

  He going with me goes often with spare diet, poverty, angry enemies, desertions.

  15

  Allons! the road is before us!

  It is safe—I have tried it—my own feet have tried it well—be not detain’d!

  Let the paper remain on the desk unwritten, and the book on the shelf unopen’d!

  Let the tools remain in the workshop! let the money remain unearn’d!

  Let the school stand! mind not the cry of the teacher!

  Let the preacher preach in his pulpit! let the lawyer plead in the court, and the judge expound the law.

  Camerado, I give you my hand!

  I give you my love more precious than money,

  I give you myself before preaching or law;

  Will you give me yourself? will you come travel with me?

  Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?

  BOOK VIII

  Crossing Brooklyn Ferry

  1

  Flood-tide below me! I see you face to face!

  Clouds of the west—sun there half an hour high—I see you also face to face.

  Crowds of men and women attired in the usual costumes, how curious you are to me!

  On the ferry-boats the hundreds and hundreds that cross, returning home, are more curious to me than you suppose,

  And you that shall cross from shore to shore years hence are more to me, and more in my meditations, than you might suppose.

  2

  The impalpable sustenance of me from all things at all hours of the day,

  The simple, compact, well-join’d scheme, myself disintegrated, every one disintegrated yet part of the scheme,

  The similitudes of the past and those of the future,

  The glories strung like beads on my smallest sights and hearings, on the walk in the street and the passage over the river,

  The current rushing so swiftly and swimming with me far away,

  The others that are to follow me, the ties between me and them,

  The certainty of others, the life, love, sight, hearing of others.

  Others will enter the gates of the ferry and cross from shore to shore,

  Others will watch the run of the flood-tide,

  Others will see the shipping of Manhattan north and west, and the heights of Brooklyn to the south and east,

  Others will see the islands large and small;

  Fifty years hence, others will see them as they cross, the sun half an hour high,

  A hundred years hence, or ever so many hundred years hence, others will see them,

  Will enjoy the sunset, the pouring-in of the flood-tide, the falling-back to the sea of the ebb-tide.

  3

  It avails not, time nor place—distance avails not,

  I am with you, you men and women of a generation, or ever so many generations hence,

  Just as you feel when you look on the river and sky, so I felt,

  Just as any of you is one of a living crowd, I was one of a crowd,

  Just as you are refresh’d by the gladness of the river and the bright flow, I was refresh’d,

  Just as you stand and lean on the rail, yet hurry with the swift current, I stood yet was hurried,

  Just as you look on the numberless masts of ships and the thick-stemm’d pipes of steamboats, I look’d.

  I too many and many a time cross’d the river of old,

  Watched the Twelfth-month sea-gulls, saw them high in the air floating with motionless wings, oscillating their bodies,

  Saw how the glistening yellow lit up parts of their bodies and left the rest in strong shadow,

  Saw the slow-wheeling circles and the gradual edging toward the south,

  Saw the reflection of the summer sky in the water,

  Had my eyes dazzled by the shimmering track of beams,

  Look’d at the fine centrifugal spokes of light round the shape of my head in the sunlit water,

  Look’d on the haze on the hills southward and south-westward,

  Look’d on the vapor as it flew in fleeces tinged with violet,

  Look’d toward the lower bay to notice the vessels arriving,

  Saw their approach, saw aboard those that were near me,

  Saw the white sails of schooners and sloops, saw the ships at anchor,

  The sailors at work in the rigging or out astride the spars,

  The round masts, the swinging motion of the hulls, the slender serpentine pennants,

  The large and small steamers in motion, the pilots in their pilothouses,

  The white wake left by the passage, the quick tremulous whirl of the wheels,

  The flags of all nations, the falling of them at sunset,

  The scallop-edged waves in the twilight, the ladled cups, the frolic-some crests and glistening,

  The stretch afar growing dimmer and dimmer, the gray walls of the granite storehouses by the docks,

  On the river the shadowy group, the big steam-tug closely flank’d on each side by the barges, the hay-boat, the belated lighter,

  On the neighboring shore the fires from the foundry chimneys burning high and glaringly into the night,

  Casting their flicker of black contrasted with wild red and yellow light over the tops of houses, and down into the clefts of streets.

  4

  These and all else were to me the same as they are to you,

  I loved well those cities, loved well the stately and rapid river,

  The men and women I saw were all near to me,

  Others the same—others who look back on me because I look’d forward to them,

  (The time will come, though I stop here to-day and to-night.)

  5

  What is it then between us?

  What is the count of the scores or hundreds of years between us?

  Whatever it is, it avails not—distance avails not, and place avails not,

  I too lived, Brooklyn of ample hills was mine,

  I too walk’d the streets of Manhattan island, and bathed in the waters around it,

  I too felt the curious abrupt questionings stir within me,

  In the day among crowds of people sometimes they came upon me,

  In my walks home late at night or as I lay in my bed they came upon me,

  I too had been struck from the float forever held in solution,

  I too had receiv’d identity by my body,

  That I was I knew was of my body, and what I should be I knew I should be of my body.

  6

  It is not upon you alone the dark patches fall,

  The dark threw its patches down upon me also,

  The best I had done seem’d to me blank and suspicious,

  My great thoughts as I supposed them, were they not in reality meagre?

  Nor is it you alone who know what it is to be evil,

  I am he who knew what it was to be evil,

  I too knitted the old knot of contrariety,

  Blabb’d, blush’d, resented, lied, stole, grudg’d,

  Had guile, anger, lust, hot wishes I dared not speak,

  Was wayward, vain, greedy, shallow, sly, cowardly, malignant,

  The wolf, the snake, the hog, not wanting in me.

  The cheating look, the frivolous word, the adulterous wish, not wanting,

  Refusals, hates, postponements, meanness, laziness, none of these wanting,

  Was one with the rest, the days and haps of the rest,

  Was call’d by my nighest name by clear loud voices of young men as they saw me approaching or passing,

  Felt their arms on my neck as I stood, or the negligent leaning of their flesh against me as I sat,

  Saw many I loved in the street or ferry-boat or public assembly, yet never told them a word,

  Lived the same life with the rest, the same old laughing, gnawing, sleeping,

  Play’d the part that still looks back on the actor or actress
,

  The same old role, the role that is what we make it, as great as we like,

  Or as small as we like, or both great and small.

  7

  Closer yet I approach you,

  What thought you have of me now, I had as much of you—I laid in my stores in advance,

  I consider’d long and seriously of you before you were born.

  Who was to know what should come home to me?

  Who knows but I am enjoying this?

  Who knows, for all the distance, but I am as good as looking at you now, for all you cannot see me?

  8

  Ah, what can ever be more stately and admirable to me than mast-hemm’d Manhattan?

  River and sunset and scallop-edg’d waves of flood-tide?

  The sea-gulls oscillating their bodies, the hay-boat in the twilight, and the belated lighter?

  What gods can exceed these that clasp me by the hand, and with voices I love call me promptly and loudly by my nighest name as approach?

  What is more subtle than this which ties me to the woman or man that looks in my face?

  Which fuses me into you now, and pours my meaning into you?

  We understand then do we not?

  What I promis’d without mentioning it, have you not accepted?

  What the study could not teach—what the preaching could not accomplish is accomplish’d, is it not?

  9

  Flow on, river! flow with the flood-tide, and ebb with the ebb-tide!

  Frolic on, crested and scallop-edg’d waves!

  Gorgeous clouds of the sunset! drench with your splendor me, or the men and women generations after me!

  Cross from shore to shore, countless crowds of passengers!

  Stand up, tall masts of Mannahatta! stand up, beautiful hills of Brooklyn!

  Throb, baffled and curious brain! throw out questions and answers!

  Suspend here and everywhere, eternal float of solution!

  Gaze, loving and thirsting eyes, in the house or street or public assembly!

  Sound out, voices of young men! loudly and musically call me by my nighest name!

  Live, old life! play the part that looks back on the actor or actress!

  Play the old role, the role that is great or small according as one makes it!

  Consider, you who peruse me, whether I may not in unknown ways be looking upon you;

  Be firm, rail over the river, to support those who lean idly, yet haste with the hasting current;

  Fly on, sea-birds! fly sideways, or wheel in large circles high in the air;

  Receive the summer sky, you water, and faithfully hold it till all downcast eyes have time to take it from you!

  Diverge, fine spokes of light, from the shape of my head, or any one’s head, in the sunlit water!

  Come on, ships from the lower bay! pass up or down, white-sail’d schooners, sloops, lighters!

  Flaunt away, flags of all nations! be duly lower’d at sunset!

  Burn high your fires, foundry chimneys! cast black shadows at nightfall! cast red and yellow light over the tops of the houses!

  Appearances, now or henceforth, indicate what you are,

  You necessary film, continue to envelop the soul,

  About my body for me, and your body for you, be hung our divinest aromas,

  Thrive, cities—bring your freight, bring your shows, ample and sufficient rivers,

  Expand, being than which none else is perhaps more spiritual,

  Keep your places, objects than which none else is more lasting.

  You have waited, you always wait, you dumb, beautiful ministers,

  We receive you with free sense at last, and are insatiate henceforward,

  Not you any more shall be able to foil us, or withhold yourselves from us,

  We use you, and do not cast you aside—we plant you permanently within us,

  We fathom you not—we love you—there is perfection in you also,

  You furnish your parts toward eternity,

  Great or small, you furnish your parts toward the soul.

  BOOK IX

  Song of the Answerer

  1

  Now list to my morning’s romanza, I tell the signs of the Answerer,

  To the cities and farms I sing as they spread in the sunshine before me.

  A young man comes to me bearing a message from his brother,

  How shall the young man know the whether and when of his brother?

  Tell him to send me the signs. And I stand before the young man face to face, and take his right hand in my left hand and his left hand in my right hand,

  And I answer for his brother and for men, and I answer for him that answers for all, and send these signs.

  Him all wait for, him all yield up to, his word is decisive and final,

  Him they accept, in him lave, in him perceive themselves as amid light,

  Him they immerse and he immerses them.

  Beautiful women, the haughtiest nations, laws, the landscape, people, animals,

  The profound earth and its attributes and the unquiet ocean, (so tell I my morning’s romanza,)

  All enjoyments and properties and money, and whatever money will buy,

  The best farms, others toiling and planting and he unavoidably reaps,

  The noblest and costliest cities, others grading and building and he domiciles there,

  Nothing for any one but what is for him, near and far are for him, the ships in the offing,

  The perpetual shows and marches on land are for him if they are for anybody.

  He puts things in their attitudes,

  He puts to-day out of himself with plasticity and love,

  He places his own times, reminiscences, parents, brothers and sisters, associations, employment, politics, so that the rest never shame them afterward, nor assume to command them.

  He is the Answerer,

  What can be answer’d he answers, and what cannot be answer’d he shows how it cannot be answer’d.

  A man is a summons and challenge,

  (It is vain to skulk—do you hear that mocking and laughter? do you hear the ironical echoes?)

  Books, friendships, philosophers, priests, action, pleasure, pride, beat up and down seeking to give satisfaction,

  He indicates the satisfaction, and indicates them that beat up and down also.

  Whichever the sex, whatever the season or place, he may go freshly and gently and safely by day or by night,

  He has the pass-key of hearts, to him the response of the prying of hands on the knobs.

  His welcome is universal, the flow of beauty is not more welcome or universal than he is,

  The person he favors by day or sleeps with at night is blessed.

  Every existence has its idiom, every thing has an idiom and tongue,

  He resolves all tongues into his own and bestows it upon men, and any man translates, and any man translates himself also,

  One part does not counteract another part, he is the joiner, he sees how they join.

  He says indifferently and alike How are you friend? to the President at his levee,

  And he says Good-day my brother, to Cudge that hoes in the sugar-field,

  And both understand him and know that his speech is right.

  He walks with perfect ease in the capitol,

  He walks among the Congress, and one Representative says to another, Here is our equal appearing and new.

  Then the mechanics take him for a mechanic,

  And the soldiers suppose him to be a soldier, and the sailors that he has follow’d the sea,

  And the authors take him for an author, and the artists for an artist,

  And the laborers perceive he could labor with them and love them,

  No matter what the work is, that he is the one to follow it or has follow’d it,

  No matter what the nation, that he might find his brothers and sisters there.

  The English believe he comes of their English stock,

  A Jew
to the Jew he seems, a Russ to the Russ, usual and near, removed from none.

  Whoever he looks at in the traveler’s coffee-house claims him,

  The Italian or Frenchman is sure, the German is sure, the Spaniard is sure, and the island Cuban is sure,

  The engineer, the deck-hand on the great lakes, or on the Mississippi or St. Lawrence or Sacramento, or Hudson or Paumanok sound, claims him.

  The gentleman of perfect blood acknowledges his perfect blood,

  The insulter, the prostitute, the angry person, the beggar, see themselves in the ways of him, he strangely transmutes them,

  They are not vile any more, they hardly know themselves they are so grown.

  2

  The indications and tally of time,

  Perfect sanity shows the master among philosophs,

  Time, always without break, indicates itself in parts,

  What always indicates the poet is the crowd of the pleasant company of singers, and their words,

  The words of the singers are the hours or minutes of the light or dark, but the words of the maker of poems are the general light and dark,

  The maker of poems settles justice, reality, immortality,

  His insight and power encircle things and the human race,

  He is the glory and extract thus far of things and of the human race.

  The singers do not beget, only the Poet begets,

  The singers are welcom’d, understood, appear often enough, but rare has the day been, likewise the spot, of the birth of the maker of poems, the Answerer,

  (Not every century nor every five centuries has contain’d such a day, for all its names.)

  The singers of successive hours of centuries may have ostensible names, but the name of each of them is one of the singers,

  The name of each is, eye-singer, ear-singer, head-singer, sweet-singer, night-singer, parlor-singer, love-singer, weird-singer, or something else.

  All this time and at all times wait the words of true poems,

  The words of true poems do not merely please,

  The true poets are not followers of beauty but the august masters of beauty;

  The greatness of sons is the exuding of the greatness of mothers and fathers,

  The words of true poems are the tuft and final applause of science.

  Divine instinct, breadth of vision, the law of reason, health, rudeness of body, withdrawnness,

  Gayety, sun-tan, air-sweetness, such are some of the words of poems.