Leaves of Grass: First and Death-Bed Editions

by Walt Whitman

  PRAYER OF COLUMBUS86

  A batter‘d, wreck’d old man,

  Thrown on this savage shore, far, far from home,

  Pent by the sea and dark rebellious brows, twelve dreary months,

  Sore, stiff with many toils, sicken’d and nigh to death,

  I take my way along the island’s edge,

  Venting a heavy heart.

  I am too full of woe!

  Haply I may not live another day;

  I cannot rest O God, I cannot eat or drink or sleep,

  Till I put forth myself, my prayer, once more to Thee,

  Breathe, bathe myself once more in Thee, commune with Thee,

  Report myself once more to Thee.

  Thou knowest my years entire, my life,

  My long and crowded life of active work, not adoration merely;

  Thou knowest the prayers and vigils of my youth,

  Thou knowest my manhood’s solemn and visionary meditations,

  Thou knowest how before I commenced I devoted all to come to

  Thee,

  Thou knowest I have in age ratified all those vows and strictly

  kept them,

  Thou knowest I have not once lost nor faith nor ecstasy in Thee,

  In shackles, prison‘d, in disgrace, repining not,

  Accepting all from Thee, as duly come from Thee.

  All my emprises have been fill’d with Thee,

  My speculations, plans, begun and carried on in thoughts of Thee,

  Sailing the deep or journeying the land for Thee;

  Intentions, purports, aspirations mine, leaving results to Thee.

  O I am sure they really came from Thee,

  The urge, the ardor, the unconquerable will,

  The potent, felt, interior command, stronger than words,

  A message from the Heavens whispering to me even in sleep,

  These sped me on.

  By me and these the work so far accomplish‘d,

  By me earth’s elder cloy’d and stifled lands uncloy’d, unloos‘d,

  By me the hemispheres rounded and tied, the unknown to the

  known.

  The end I know not, it is all in Thee,

  Or small or great I know not—haply what broad fields, what

  lands,

  Haply the brutish measureless human undergrowth I know,

  Transplanted there may rise to stature, knowledge worthy Thee,

  Haply the swords I know may there indeed be turn’d to reaping-

  tools,

  Haply the lifeless cross I know, Europe’s dead cross, may bud and

  blossom there.

  One effort more, my altar this bleak sand;

  That Thou O God my life hast lighted,

  With ray of light, steady, ineffable, vouchsafed of Thee,

  Light rare untellable, lighting the very light,

  Beyond all signs, descriptions, languages;

  For that O God, be it my latest word, here on my knees,

  Old, poor, and paralyzed, I thank Thee.

  My terminus near,

  The clouds already closing in upon me,

  The voyage balk‘d, the course disputed, lost,

  I yield my ships to Thee.

  My hands, my limbs grow nerveless,

  My brain feels rack‘d, bewilder’d,

  Let the old timbers part, I will not part,

  I will cling fast to Thee, O God, though the waves buffet me,

  Thee, Thee at least I know.

  Is it the prophet’s thought I speak, or am I raving?

  What do I know of life? what of myself?

  I know not even my own work past or present,

  Dim ever-shifting guesses of it spread before me,

  Of newer better worlds, their mighty parturition,

  Mocking, perplexing me.

  And these things I see suddenly, what mean they?

  As if some miracle, some hand divine unseal’d my eyes,

  Shadowy vast shapes smile through the air and sky,

  And on the distant waves sail countless ships,

  And anthems in new tongues I hear saluting me.

  THE SLEEPERS87

  —1—

  I wander all night in my vision,

  Stepping with light feet, swiftly and noiselessly stepping and

  stopping,

  Bending with open eyes over the shut eyes of sleepers,

  Wandering and confused, lost to myself, ill-assorted, contradictory,

  Pausing, gazing, bending, and stopping.

  How solemn they look there, stretch’d and still,

  How quiet they breathe, the little children in their cradles.

  The wretched features of ennuyés, the white features of

  corpses, the livid faces of drunkards, the sick-gray faces of

  onanists,

  The gash’d bodies on battle-fields, the insane in their strong-

  door’d rooms, the sacred idiots, the new-born emerging from

  gates, and the dying emerging from gates,

  The night pervades them and infolds them.

  The married couple sleep calmly in their bed, he with his palm

  on the hip of the wife, and she with her palm on the hip of

  the husband,

  The sisters sleep lovingly side by side in their bed,

  The men sleep lovingly side by side in theirs,

  And the mother sleeps with her little child carefully wrapt.

  The blind sleep, and the deaf and dumb sleep,

  The prisoner sleeps well in the prison, the runaway son sleeps,

  The murderer that is to be hung next day, how does he sleep?

  And the murder’d person, how does he sleep?

  The female that loves unrequited sleeps,

  And the male that loves unrequited sleeps,

  The head of the money-maker that plotted all day sleeps,

  And the enraged and treacherous dispositions, all, all sleep.

  I stand in the dark with drooping eyes by the worst-suffering and

  the most restless,

  I pass my hands soothingly to and fro a few inches from them,

  The restless sink in their beds, they fitfully sleep.

  Now I pierce the darkness, new beings appear,

  The earth recedes from me into the night,

  I saw that it was beautiful, and I see that what is not the earth is

  beautiful.

  I go from bedside to bedside, I sleep close with the other sleepers

  each in turn,

  I dream in my dream all the dreams of the other dreamers,

  And I become the other dreamers.

  I am a dance—play up there! the fit is whirling me fast!

  I am the ever-laughing—it is new moon and twilight,

  I see the hiding of douceurs, I see nimble ghosts whichever way I

  look,

  Cache and cache again deep in the ground and sea, and where it

  is neither ground nor sea.

  Well do they do their jobs those journeymen divine,

  Only from me can they hide nothing, and would not if they could,

  I reckon I am their boss and they make me a pet besides,

  And surround me and lead me and run ahead when I walk,

  To lift their cunning covers to signify me with stretch’d arms, and

  resume the way;

  Onward we move, a gay gang of blackguards! with mirth-shouting

  music and wild-flapping pennants of joy!

  I am the actor, the actress, the voter, the politician,

  The emigrant and the exile, the criminal that stood in the box,

  He who has been famous and he who shall be famous after to-day,

  The stammerer, the well-form’d person, the wasted or feeble

  person.

  I am she who adorn’d herself and folded her hair expectantly,

  My truant lover has come, and it is dark.

  Double yourself and receive me darkness,

&
nbsp; Receive me and my lover too, he will not let me go without him.

  I roll myself upon you as upon a bed, I resign myself to the dusk.

  He whom I call answers me and takes the place of my lover,

  He rises with me silently from the bed.

  Darkness, you are gentler than my lover, his flesh was sweaty and

  panting,

  I feel the hot moisture yet that he left me.

  My hands are spread forth, I pass them in all directions,

  I would sound up the shadowy shore to which you are

  journeying.

  Be careful darkness! already what was it touch’d me?

  I thought my lover had gone, else darkness and he are one,

  I hear the heart-beat, I follow, I fade away.

  —2—

  I descend my western course, my sinews are flaccid,

  Perfume and youth course through me and I am their wake.

  It is my face yellow and wrinkled instead of the old woman‘s,

  I sit low in a straw-bottom chair and carefully darn my grandson’s

  stockings.

  It is I too, the sleepless widow looking out on the winter

  midnight,

  I see the sparkles of starshine on the icy and pallid earth.

  A shroud I see and I am the shroud, I wrap a body and lie in the

  coffin,

  It is dark here under ground, it is not evil or pain here, it is blank

  here, for reasons.

  (It seems to me that every thing in the light and air ought to be

  happy,

  Whoever is not in his coffin and the dark grave let him know he

  has enough.)

  -3-

  I see a beautiful gigantic swimmer swimming naked through the

  eddies of the sea,

  His brown hair lies close and even to his head, he strikes out with

  courageous arms, he urges himself with his legs,

  I see his white body, I see his undaunted eyes,

  I hate the swift-running eddies that would dash him head-

  foremost on the rocks.

  What are you doing you ruffianly red-trickled waves?

  Will you kill the courageous giant? will you kill him in the prime

  of his middle age?

  Steady and long he struggles,

  He is baffled, bang‘d, bruis’d, he holds out while his strength

  holds out,

  The slapping eddies are spotted with his blood, they bear him

  away, they roll him, swing him, turn him,

  His beautiful body is borne in the circling eddies, it is continually

  bruis’d on rocks,

  Swiftly and out of sight is borne the brave corpse.

  -4-

  I turn but do not extricate myself,

  Confused, a past-reading, another, but with darkness yet.

  The beach is cut by the razory ice-wind, the wreck-guns sound,

  The tempest lulls, the moon comes floundering through the

  drifts.

  I look where the ship helplessly heads end on, I hear the burst as

  she strikes, I hear the howls of dismay, they grow fainter and

  fainter.

  I cannot aid with my wringing fingers,

  I can but rush to the surf and let it drench me and freeze upon me.

  I search with the crowd, not one of the company is wash’d to us

  alive,

  In the morning I help pick up the dead and lay them in rows in

  a barn.

  —5—

  Now of the older war-days, the defeat at Brooklyn,

  Washington stands inside the lines, he stands on the intrench’d

  hills amid a crowd of officers,

  His face is cold and damp, he cannot repress the weeping

  drops,

  He lifts the glass perpetually to his eyes, the color is blanch’d

  from his cheeks,

  He sees the slaughter of the southern braves confided to him by

  their parents.

  The same at last and at last when peace is declared,

  He stands in the room of the old tavern, the well-belov’d soldiers

  all pass through,

  The officers speechless and slow draw near in their turns,

  The chief encircles their necks with his arm and kisses them on

  the cheek,

  He kisses lightly the wet cheeks one after another, he shakes

  hands and bids good-by to the army.

  -6-

  Now what my mother told me one day as we sat at dinner

  together,

  Of when she was a nearly grown girl living home with her parents

  on the old homestead.

  A red squaw came one breakfast-time to the old homestead,

  On her back she carried a bundle of rushes for rush-bottoming

  chairs,

  Her hair, straight, shiny, coarse, black, profuse, half-envelop’d her

  face,

  Her step was free and elastic, and her voice sounded exquisitely as

  she spoke.

  My mother look’d in delight and amazement at the

  stranger,

  She look’d at the freshness of her tall-borne face and full and

  pliant limbs,

  The more she look’d upon her she loved her,

  Never before had she seen such wonderful beauty and purity,

  She made her sit on a bench by the jamb of the fireplace, she

  cook’d food for her,

  She had no work to give her, but she gave her remembrance and

  fondness.

  The red squaw staid all the forenoon, and toward the middle of

  the afternoon she went away,

  O my mother was loth to have her go away,

  All the week she thought of her, she watch’d for her many a

  month,

  She remember’d her many a winter and many a summer,

  But the red squaw never came nor was heard of there

  again.

  —7—

  A show of the summer softness—a contact of something

  unseen—an amour of the light and air,

  I am jealous and overwhelm’d with friendliness,

  And will go gallivant with the light and air myself.

  O love and summer, you are in the dreams and in me,

  Autumn and winter are in the dreams, the farmer goes with his

  thrift,

  The droves and crops increase, the barns are well-fill’d.

  Elements merge in the night, ships make tacks in the dreams,

  The sailor sails, the exile returns home,

  The fugitive returns unharm‘d, the immigrant is back beyond

  months and years,

  The poor Irishman lives in the simple house of his childhood

  with the well-known neighbors and faces,

  They warmly welcome him, he is barefoot again, he forgets he is

  well off,

  The Dutchman voyages home, and the Scotchman and

  Welshman voyage home, and the native of the Mediterranean

  voyages home,

  To every port of England, France, Spain, enter well-fill’d ships,

  The Swiss foots it toward his hills, the Prussian goes his way, the

  Hungarian his way, and the Pole his way,

  The Swede returns, and the Dane and Norwegian return.

  The homeward bound and the outward bound,

  The beautiful lost swimmer, the ennuyé, the onanist, the female

  that loves unrequited, the money-maker,

  The actor and actress, those through with their parts and those

  waiting to commence,

  The affectionate boy, the husband and wife, the voter, the

  nominee that is chosen and the nominee that has fail‘d,

  The great already known and the great any time after to-day,

  The stammerer, the sick, the perfect-form’d, the ho
mely,

  The criminal that stood in the box, the judge that sat and

  sentenced him, the fluent lawyers, the jury, the audience,

  The laugher and weeper, the dancer, the midnight widow, the red

  squaw,

  The consumptive, the erysipalite, the idiot, he that is wrong‘d,

  The antipodes, and every one between this and them in the

  dark,

  I swear they are averaged now—one is no better than the other,

  The night and sleep have liken’d them and restored them.

  I swear they are all beautiful,

  Every one that sleeps is beautiful, every thing in the dim light is

  beautiful,

  The wildest and bloodiest is over, and all is peace.

  Peace is always beautiful,

  The myth of heaven indicates peace and night.

  The myth of heaven indicates the soul,

  The soul is always beautiful, it appears more or it appears less, it

  comes or it lags behind,

  It comes from its embower’d garden and looks pleasantly on itself

  and encloses the world,

  Perfect and clean the genitals previously jetting, and perfect and

  clean the womb cohering,

  The head well-grown proportion’d and plumb, and the bowels

  and joints proportion’d and plumb.

  The soul is always beautiful,

  The universe is duly in order, every thing is in its place,

  What has arrived is in its place and what waits shall be in its

  place,

  The twisted skull waits, the watery or rotten blood waits,

  The child of the glutton or venerealee waits long, and the child

  of the drunkard waits long, and the drunkard himself waits

  long,

  The sleepers that lived and died wait, the far advanced are to go

  on in their turns, and the far behind are to come on in their

  turns,

  The diverse shall be no less diverse, but they shall flow and