WALT WHITMAN Ultimate Collection: 500+ Works in Poetry & Prose. Walt Whitman
Those are really men! . . . . the bosses and tufts of the great round globe.
Features of my equals, would you trick me with your creased and cadaverous march?
Well then you cannot trick me.
I see your rounded never-erased flow,
I see neath the rims of your haggard and mean disguises.
Splay and twist as you like . . . . poke with the tangling fores of fishes or rats,
You’ll be unmuzzled . . . . you certainly will.
I saw the face of the most smeared and slobbering idiot they had at the asylum,
And I knew for my consolation what they knew not;
I knew of the agents that emptied and broke my brother,
The same wait to clear the rubbish from the fallen tenement;
And I shall look again in a score or two of ages,
And I shall meet the real landlord perfect and unharmed, every inch as good as myself.
The Lord advances and yet advances:
Always the shadow in front . . . . always the reached hand bringing up the laggards.
Out of this face emerge banners and horses . . . . O superb! . . . . I see what is coming,
I see the high pioneercaps . . . . I see the staves of runners clearing the way,
I hear victorious drums.
This face is a lifeboat;
This is the face commanding and bearded . . . . it asks no odds of the rest;
This face is flavored fruit ready for eating;
This face of a healthy honest boy is the programme of all good.
These faces bear testimony slumbering or awake,
They show their descent from the Master himself.
Off the word I have spoken I except not one . . . . red white or black, all are deific,
In each house is the ovum . . . . it comes forth after a thousand years.
Spots or cracks at the windows do not disturb me,
Tall and sufficient stand behind and make signs to me;
I read the promise and patiently wait.
This is a fullgrown lily’s face,
She speaks to the limber-hip’d man near the garden pickets,
Come here, she blushingly cries . . . . Come nigh to me limber-hip’d man and give me your finger and thumb,
Stand at my side till I lean as high as I can upon you,
Fill me with albescent honey . . . . bend down to me,
Rub to me with your chafing beard . . rub to my breast and shoulders.
The old face of the mother of many children:
Whist! I am fully content.
Lulled and late is the smoke of the Sabbath morning,
It hangs low over the rows of trees by the fences,
It hangs thin by the sassafras, the wildcherry and the catbrier under them.
I saw the rich ladies in full dress at the soiree,
I heard what the run of poets were saying so long,
Heard who sprang in crimson youth from the white froth and the water-blue.
Behold a woman!
She looks out from her quaker cap . . . . her face is clearer and more beautiful than the sky.
She sits in an armchair under the shaded porch of the farmhouse,
The sun just shines on her old white head.
Her ample gown is of creamhued linen,
Her grandsons raised the flax, and her granddaughters spun it with the distaff and the wheel.
The melodious character of the earth!
The finish beyond which philosophy cannot go and does not wish to go!
The justified mother of men!
Song of the Answerer (1855)
A young man came to me with a message from his brother,
How should the young man know the whether and when of his brother?
Tell him to send me the signs.
And I stood before the young man face to face, and took his right hand in my left hand and his left hand in my right hand,
And I answered for his brother and for men . . . . and I answered for the poet, and sent 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 and animals,
The profound earth and its attributes, and the unquiet ocean,
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 any body.
He puts things in their attitudes,
He puts today out of himself with plasticity and love,
He places his own city, times, reminiscences, parents,
brothers and sisters, associations employment and politics, so that the rest never shame them afterward, nor assume to command them.
He is the answerer,
What can be answered he answers, and what cannot be answered he shows how it cannot be answered.
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 passkey 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 sugarfield;
And both understand him and know that his speech is right.