WALT WHITMAN Ultimate Collection: 500+ Works in Poetry & Prose. Walt Whitman

WALT WHITMAN Ultimate Collection: 500+ Works in Poetry & Prose - Walt Whitman


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Farm Picture

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      Through the ample open door of the peaceful country barn,

       A sunlit pasture field with cattle and horses feeding,

       And haze and vista, and the far horizon fading away.

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      Silent and amazed even when a little boy,

       I remember I heard the preacher every Sunday put God in his statements,

       As contending against some being or influence.

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      On a flat road runs the well-train’d runner,

       He is lean and sinewy with muscular legs,

       He is thinly clothed, he leans forward as he runs,

       With lightly closed fists and arms partially rais’d.

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      Women sit or move to and fro, some old, some young,

       The young are beautiful — but the old are more beautiful than the young.

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      I see the sleeping babe nestling the breast of its mother,

       The sleeping mother and babe — hush’d, I study them long and long.

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      Of obedience, faith, adhesiveness;

       As I stand aloof and look there is to me something profoundly

       affecting in large masses of men following the lead of those who

       do not believe in men.

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      A mask, a perpetual natural disguiser of herself,

       Concealing her face, concealing her form,

       Changes and transformations every hour, every moment,

       Falling upon her even when she sleeps.

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      Of justice — as If could be any thing but the same ample law,

       expounded by natural judges and saviors,

       As if it might be this thing or that thing, according to decisions.

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      Gliding o’er all, through all,

       Through Nature, Time, and Space,

       As a ship on the waters advancing,

       The voyage of the soul — not life alone,

       Death, many deaths I’ll sing.

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      Hast never come to thee an hour,

       A sudden gleam divine, precipitating, bursting all these bubbles,

       fashions, wealth?

       These eager business aims — books, politics, art, amours,

       To utter nothingness?

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      Of Equality — as if it harm’d me, giving others the same chances and

       rights as myself — as if it were not indispensable to my own

       rights that others possess the same.

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      I see in you the estuary that enlarges and spreads itself grandly as

       it pours in the great sea.

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      Locations and times — what is it in me that meets them all, whenever

       and wherever, and makes me at home?

       Forms, colors, densities, odors — what is it in me that corresponds

       with them?

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      A thousand perfect men and women appear,

       Around each gathers a cluster of friends, and gay children and

       youths, with offerings.

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      Why reclining, interrogating? why myself and all drowsing?

       What deepening twilight-scum floating atop of the waters,

       Who are they as bats and night-dogs askant in the capitol?

       What a filthy Presidentiad! (O South, your torrid suns! O North,

       your arctic freezings!)

       Are those really Congressmen? are those the great Judges? is that

       the President?

       Then I will sleep awhile yet, for I see that these States sleep, for

       reasons;

       (With gathering murk, with muttering thunder and lambent shoots we

       all duly awake,

       South, North, East, West, inland and seaboard, we will surely awake.)

      BOOK


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