..
瓦尔特·惠特曼（Walt Whitman，１８１９～１８９２）是美国历史上最伟大的诗人，他创作的《草叶集》代表着美国浪漫主义文学的高峰，是世界文学宝库中的精品。《草叶集》反映了美国在内战前后从农业经济发展到一个工业大国的进程，用一个新的乐观的声音歌颂一个新民族的崛起。惠特曼不为附炎宗教与现行制度而创作，也不屑于附庸上流社会品茗赏画的琐碎风雅。他歌颂的对象都是处于社会下层的体力劳动者，如车夫、矿工和农人等，并对美国的前途充满了信心，是一位真正的民族诗人。在风格上，惠特曼彻底摈弃了古板的格律，用自由体的形式抒发自由的思想。在写意上，他受当时刚发明的摄影技术的影响，除了追求写真外，一行诗句捕捉一刹即遁的时刻，静态中表现出动感。更具开创性的是，他打破了一千多年以来的宗教禁忌，石破天惊地高声讴歌“同志之爱”（Comradeship），并且乐观地预言同志之爱的新时代将到来，而这种情爱将推动社会的前进。一个多世纪过去了，惠特曼诗歌中所表现的理想与进取精神仍是美国以至各国同性恋者追求自由和解放的力量源泉。然而，惠特曼的自我解放却走过了一条曲折的心路。
惠特曼十一岁时辍学，以后也没有过稳定的职业，一直过着波希米亚人式的生活，与码头工与车夫等下层人民打成一片。在他初期的创作中，他强烈的欲望处于压抑，心灵还处于迷茫。在《轮渡布鲁克林》里，他写道：
在登岸和离岸时，我听到年轻人用清亮的嗓音
愉快地喊出我的名字，
我站着时他们搂住我的脖颈，
我坐下时他们的身体无意识地贴着我，
在街头，在渡船上，在公共集会上，
我多少次看到这些令我钟爱的人，却无言吐露。
１８４８年惠特曼应邀去新奥尔良法语区做当地报纸的编辑，醉心于那里的拉丁激情，但三个月后突然离去。传说他与当地的一位贵妇人有染，差点闹出丑闻，所以不得不在事发之前匆匆离开，他那时所创作的一些表达爱慕异性的诗歌也似乎证明了这一点，直到后人于１９２５年发现这些手稿，才真相大白。为了出版便利，诗人把手稿上原有的男性称谓改成了女性，例如《我穿过闹市》的原文应该是：
以前我穿过闹市，总留意街头的摆设、建筑与风俗，
现在我穿过整座城市，只想着那天偶遇后一直令我牵肠的人。
日以继日，夜已继夜，我们时刻相守，遗忘了尘间的一切，
我眼里只有他热烈的拥抱。
一次次迷茫，一次次欢爱，一次次分离，
他紧握着我的手，不想让我走，
我看到他紧贴着我，紧闭的双唇在颤抖。
看得出诗人虽然初尝禁果，但世俗的禁忌使他难以接受和回报对方的爱，内心的恐惧使他不得不逃离快乐。
１８５５年，《草叶集》（Leaves of Grass）第一版问世，代表着诗人思想的转变。草叶既不开花，也不结果，即使任人践踏，任野火燃烧，仍遍布于大地，表现出无限的生命，这不正是同性恋的写照吗？《草叶集》高歌性爱的力量，并且经常流露出对男性身体的赞美，在当时相当先锋前卫，以至于没有一位出版商敢接手，最后诗人只能自己筹资出版。尽管如此，他还是不得不进行删节与改动，如通过把男性称呼改成女性来掩盖同性恋色彩。“掩盖，刻意的掩盖。有些段落不得不显得晦涩。”诗人对来访的英国同性恋运动先锋、“布鲁斯布里集团”成员爱德华·卡宾特（Edward Carpenter）说。①然而，诗人对生命的热爱是任何环境压力都掩盖不住的，而这种激情在诗集一开场就跃然而出：
我要歌唱女人，也要歌唱男人。
生活充满了激情，心跳与力量，
快乐吧，神圣的自然已经赋予我们自由，
我要歌唱现代人。
诗集中有不少作品是诗人写给自己的，所以这个“现代人”正是以惠特曼为代表的蔑视现成制度与秩序，追求灵魂自主的进步趋势。
草叶手牵手，
人不分老幼！
在密西西比大河上，在大河的支流与小溪上，
船夫与技工们！粗旷的人们！
成双结对的人们！你们这些在街上行走的人们！
我要加入你们的行列直到有一天看到你们手牵着手共行。
１８５８年与１８５９之间，惠特曼与一位叫Ｍ的男士相恋。②这场恋爱使他彻底完成了自我接受。遗憾的是，Ｍ没能很好地回报惠特曼的爱情。诗人心力交瘁，几乎绝望得要自杀。“我热烈的爱情没有得到任何回报，就让我把它诉注于纸上。”１８６０年《草叶集》再版时，诗人不顾出版商和朋友们的竭力反对，坚持收入了这期间创作的《芦笛集》（Calamus），开始大胆地歌颂同性恋。
我要让这团烈火熊熊燃起，燃遍我的身心，
我要让埋藏在烟雾下的激情迸发喷跃，
我要完全抛去遮掩，
我要预言和高歌同志与爱。
在美国芦笛长于东部的池塘，源名于河神卡拉默斯（Calamus），他因同性情人卡普斯不幸湮死而悲恸欲绝，泪洒处长出茂盛的芦笛，形状如挺起的男性性器。惠特曼以芦笛为题，其中所反映的同性恋情感已暴露无遗。
在无人踏过的草径上，
在碧水外溢的池塘边，
消遁的灵魂又展现了生命，
禁锢我心灵多年的关于享乐、利欲和循规蹈距的教条
都已消失无影。
虽然没人会首肯，但我的灵魂清楚地感到，
我歌唱的人沉浸在同志的欢爱中。
远离尘世的喧嚣，
我们的言语吐露着芬芳，
在这个无人来到的角落里我自由自在，无所顾忌。
强大的生命伴随着我，向我显示了我所追求的一切，
我决心只高歌同志情谊，
让这首歌延续到我生命的尽头，
把这份充满活力的爱延续给后人。
四十一岁第九个月的这个下午，
我为所有年轻的和曾经年轻的男人而活，
我要说出日夜陪伴着我的秘密，
我要欢庆同志的爱情。
（在无人踏过的草径上）
来吧，我要向你袒露我宽阔的胸脯，
我要冲破这片窒息与压抑；……
我要植下同志之爱，让它丰厚得如遍布美国河岸、
湖边和原野的树丛，
我要用同志之爱
使各个城市如臂膀搂住脖颈，永不分离。
有人说我想摧毁制度，
但我既不赞同也不反对制度，
（我究竟与制度有多少共识？究竟与它的毁灭有多少共识？）
我要在曼哈顿，在每个城市，不管是内陆还是海边，
在田野上，在丛林中，在水平线上每一寸土地里，
不要大厦不要法规不要商贾不要任何争论，
建立起亲密的同志之爱的制度。
１８６１年，美国南北战争爆发，惠特曼由于超龄而被分配当护士。充沛的精力，强烈的个性魅力和对病员的悉心照顾使他获得了很多士兵的爱戴，连医生都说有惠特曼在场经常能象耶稣基督一般奇迹地使病人转危为安，而诗人则相信同情、友谊与爱比任何药物更能医治伤痛。“我从里到外都是神圣，被我触过和触过我的人也会变得神圣。”他也曾爱上过其中的一些士兵，甚至提出要与他们共同组建家庭，但战争结束后都各归其路了。尽管如此，诗人与许多士兵保持联系，每封信总以“亲爱的孩子与同志”开头。
这场经历使惠特曼进一步认识到同志之爱的力量与重要性，使他对同性恋的歌颂超越了个人情怀。他认为对同志之爱的承认不仅是社会进步的标志，同时这种爱本身就是推动社会发展的进步力量。诗人思想的升华体现在他所作的《展望民主》中，并为他创作《自我之歌》作好了精神铺垫。
内战结束后，惠特曼结识了一位名叫彼得·道耶尔（Peter Doyle）的十九岁的马车夫，开始了他一生中最充实的爱情旅程。那是１８６６年的一个冬夜，诗人坐上了彼得驾驶的马车。“当时车上没用其他的人，我见他只在肩上披了条毯子，冷得瑟瑟发抖，于是想过去安慰他一下。当我把手放在他的膝盖上时，我们四目相视就熟知了对方的一切。他一直坐到终点，然后又和我一起回来。从那时起我们就成了最紧密的朋友。”这是彼得在１８９５年接受采访时这样回忆他与惠特曼的初次相见。
惠特曼与彼得在后来的几年中相守。惠特曼每天等着彼得下班，两人总是在晚上驾车出游，同出同归。有时他们在月光下漫步，一起躺卧在星辰下。彼得不识字，于是惠特曼就教他语文、算术与地理。虽然后来两人各随家人搬迁，劳燕分飞，但保持定期的会面。“彼得是个很非同一般的人。他一点不懂书本，却了解生活中的一切。他是一个时刻洋溢着活力的如神灵一般大方的劳动者。”惠特曼说。充实的爱情生活使诗人歌颂同性恋达到了极其开朗的境界，并写出后来增录于《草叶集》中的代表他创作最高峰的《自我之歌》（Song of Myself）。
我相信你，我的灵魂，你是我的另一半，我不会贬损你，
也决不会让别人贬损你。
我们懒懒地躺在草地上，我解开了你上衣的第一粒纽扣，
不想有言语，不想有音乐或节奏，不想有任何习俗或训导，
不想有任何其它的东西，
让我沉醉在这片寂静中，沉醉在你铜管乐一般浑厚的嗓音中。
记得另一个透明的夏晨，我俩躺在一起，
你的头卧在我的胯间，轻轻地翻转，
你解开了我胸前的衬衣，你的舌头伸入了我裸露的胸脯，
触到了我的胡子，又摸到了我的双足。
我立刻感受到超越了琐碎尘世后所带来的宁静与理识，
我知道上帝之手就是我的未来，
我知道上帝之灵就是我的弟兄，
所有的男人都是我的兄弟，所有的女人都是我的姐妹，
爱是创世的依靠，
爱犹如原野上坚挺与疲软的草叶一般无穷，
爱在蚂蚁集居的洞穴里，
爱在长满青苔的篱笆上，在乱石堆里，
在毛蒌、接骨木与商陆草里。
惠特曼与彼得的情谊一直维持到诗人去世，但即时在弥留之际，惠特曼仍满怀着对生命的热爱。
虚弱缓慢的血液里烈火仍在燃烧，
对同志与爱情的信仰仍然常青。
一个世纪过去了，惠特曼的诗歌已被广泛传颂，而他向往的同志之爱的理想世界还没有到来，但诗人向世界所作的宣言永远激励着广大的同志，正如英国同性恋运动先驱即后来成为惠特曼学生的卡宾特在１８７２年的一封信中所言：
“道路虽然还很漫长，但我一想到那美好的未来，迷茫也虽之消失。亲爱的朋友，你的努力已经使全球男子牵手共行变得日益可能。为了这个梦想，你献出了生命，你的后人也会不惜一切赴汤蹈火，因为这场奋斗带来的精神报酬超越了任何折磨与苦痛。”
注：
①“布鲁斯布里集团”为本世纪初剑桥大学的知识分子所组织，成员多为同性恋者，包括作家Ｅ．Ｍ．福斯特，亨利·詹姆斯，弗吉尼亚·沃尔夫，历史学者列顿·斯特拉奇与经济学家凯恩斯等。见本刊第六期《凯恩斯探秘》。
②后人发现惠特曼的手纪里对所有相爱的人都只以名字的开头字母称呼，并在出版前把所有的男性称呼改为女性。要真实领会惠特曼的原意，阅读他的诗歌时应该把对女性的赞颂改为男性。
我自己的歌
一
我赞美我自己，歌唱我自己，
我承担的你也将承担，
因为属于我的每一个原子也同样属于你。
我闲步，还邀请了我的灵魂，
我俯身悠然观察着一片夏日的草叶。
我的舌，我血液的每个原子，是在这片土壤、这个空气里
形成的，
是这里的父母生下的，父母的父母也是在这里生下的，他
们的父母也一样，
我，现在三十七岁，一生下身体就十分健康，
希望永远如此，直到死去。
信条和学派暂时不论，
且后退一步，明了它们当前的情况已足，但也决不是忘记，
不论我从善从恶，我允许随意发表意见，
顺乎自然，保持原始的活力。
二
屋里、室内充满了芳香，书架上也挤满了芳香，
我自己呼吸了香味，认识了它也喜欢它，
其精华也会使我陶醉，但我不容许这样。
大气层不是一种芳香，没有香料的味道，它是无气味的，
它永远供我口用，我热爱它，
我要去林畔的河岸那里，脱去伪装，赤条条地，
我狂热地要它和我接触。
我自己呼吸的云雾，
回声，细浪，窃窃私语，爱根，丝线，枝橙和藤蔓，
我的呼和吸，我心脏的跳动，通过我肺部畅流的血液和空
气，
嗅到绿叶和枯叶、海岸和黑色的海边岩石和谷仓里的干草，
我喉咙里迸出辞句的声音飘散在风的旋涡里，
几次轻吻，几次拥抱，伸出两臂想搂住什么，
树枝的柔条摆动时光和影在树上的游戏，
独居，在闹市或沿着田地和山坡一带的乐趣，
健康之感，正午时的颤音，我从床上起来迎接太阳时唱的
歌。
你认为一千亩就很多了吗？你认为地球就很大了吗？
为了学会读书你练习了很久吗？
因为你想努力懂得诗歌的含意就感到十分自豪吗？
今天和今晚请和我在一起，你将明了所有诗歌的来源，
你将占有大地和太阳的好处（另外还有千百万个太阳），
你将不会再第二手、第三手起接受事物，也不会借死人的
眼睛观察，或从书本中的幽灵那里汲取营养，
你也不会借我的眼睛观察，不会通过我而接受事物，
你将听取各个方面，由你自己过滤一切。
三
我曾听见过健谈者在谈话，谈论着始与终，
但是我并不谈论始与终。
过去从来未曾有过什么开始，是现在所没有的，
也无所谓青年或老年，是现在所没有的，
也决不会有十全十美，不同于现在，
也不会有天堂或地狱，不同干现在。
努力推动、推动又推动，
永远顺着世界的繁殖力而向前推动。
从昏暗中出现的对立的对等物在前进，永远是物质与增殖，
永远是性的活动，
永远是同一性的牢结，永远有区别，永远是生命的繁殖。
多说是无益的，有学问无学问的人都这样感觉。
肯定就十分肯定，垂直就绝对笔直，扣得紧，梁木之间要
对携，
像骏马一样健壮，多情、傲慢，带有电力，
我与这一神秘事实就在此地站立。
我的灵魂是清澈而香甜的，不属于我灵魂的一切也是清澈
而香甜的。
缺一即缺二，看不见的由看得见的证实，
看得见成为看不见时，也会照样得到证实。
指出最好的并和最坏的分开，是这一代给下一代带来的烦
恼，
认识到事物的完全吻合和平衡，他们在谈论时我却保持沉
默，我走去洗个澡并欣赏我自己。
我欢迎我的每个器官和特性，也欢迎任何热情而洁净的人
——他的器官和特性，
没有一寸或一寸中的一分一厘是邪恶的，也不应该有什么
东西不及其余的那样熟悉。
我很满足——我能看见，跳舞，笑，歌唱；
彻夜在我身旁睡着的，拥抱我、热爱我的同床者，天微明
就悄悄地走了，
给我留下了几个盖着白毛巾的篮子，以它们的丰盛使屋子
也显得宽敞了，
难道我应该迟迟不接受、不觉悟而是冲着我的眼睛发火，
要它们回过头来不许它们在大路上东张西望，
并立即要求为我计算，一分钱不差地指出，
一件东西的确切价值和两件东西的确切价值，哪个处于前
列？
四
过路的和问话的人们包围了我，
我遇见些什么人，我早年生活对我的影响，我住在什么地
区，什么城市或国家，
最近的几个重要日期，发现，发明，会社，新老作家，
我的伙食，服装，交流，容貌，向谁表示敬意，义务，
我所爱的某一男子或女子是否确实对我冷淡或只是我的想
象，
家人或我自己患病，助长了歪风，失去或缺少银钱，灰心
丧志或得意忘形，
交锋，弟兄之间进行战争的恐怖，消息可疑而引起的不安，
时或发生而又无规律可循的事件，
这些都不分昼夜地临到我头上，又离我而去，
但这些都并非那个“我”自己。
虽然受到拉扯，我仍作为我而站立，
感到有趣，自满，怜悯，无所事事，单一，
俯视．直立，或屈臂搭在一无形而可靠的臂托上，
头转向一旁望着，好奇，不知下一桩事会是什么，
同时置身于局内与局外，观望着，猜测着。
回首当年我和语言学家和雄辩家是如何流着汗在浓雾里度
过时光的，
我既不嘲笑也不争辩，我在一旁观看而等候着。
五
我相信你，我的灵魂，那另一个我决不可向你低头，
你也决不可向他低头。
请随我在草上悠闲地漫步，拔松你喉头的堵塞吧，
我要的不是词句、音乐或韵脚，不是惯例或演讲，甚至连
最好的也不要，
我喜欢的只是暂时的安静，你那有节制的声音的低吟。
我记得我们是如何一度在这样一个明亮的夏天的早晨睡在
一起的，
你是怎样把头横在我臀部，轻柔地翻转在我身上的，
又从我胸口解开衬衣，用你的舌头直探我赤裸的心脏，
直到你摸到我的胡须，直到你抱住了我的双脚。
超越人间一切雄辩的安宁和认识立即在我四周升起并扩
散，
我知道上帝的手就是我自己的许诺，
我知道上帝的精神就是我自己的兄弟，
所有世间的男子也都是我的兄弟，所有的女子都是我的姊
妹和情侣，
造化用来加固龙骨的木料就是爱，
田野里直立或低头的叶子是无穷无尽的，
叶下的洞孔里是褐色的蚂蚁，
还有曲栏上苦踪的斑痕，乱石堆，接骨木，毛蕊花和商陆。
一七
这些其实是各个时代、各个地区、所有人们的思想，并非
我的独创，
若只是我的思想而并非又是你的，那就毫无意义，或等于
毫无意义，
若既不是谜语又不是谜底，它们也将毫无意义，
若它们不是既近且远，也就毫无意义。
这就是在有土地有水的地方生长出来的青草，
这是沐浴着全球的共同空气。
二一
我是肉体的诗人也是灵魂的诗人，
我占有天堂的愉快也占有地狱的苦痛，
前者我把它嫁接在自己身上使它增殖，后者我把它翻译成
一种新的语言。
我既是男子的诗人也是妇女的诗人，
我是说作为妇女和作为男子同样伟大，
我是说再没有比人们的母亲更加伟大的。
我歌颂“扩张”或“骄傲”，
我们已经低头求免得够了，
我是在说明体积只不过是发展的结果。
你已经远远超越了其余的人吗？你是总统吗？
这是微不足道的，人人会越过此点而继续前进。
我是那和温柔而渐渐昏暗的黑夜一同行走的人，
我向着那被黑夜掌握了一半的大地和海洋呼唤。
请紧紧靠拢，袒露着胸脯的夜啊——紧紧靠拢吧，富于想
力和营养的黑夜！
南风的夜——有着巨大疏星的夜！
寂静而打着瞌睡的夜———疯狂而赤身裸体的夏夜啊。
微笑吧！啊，妖娆的、气息清凉的大地！
生长着沉睡而饱含液汁的树木的大地！
夕阳已西落的大地——山巅被雾气覆盖着的大地！
满月的晶体微带蓝色的大地！
河里的潮水掩映着光照和黑暗的大地！
为了我而更加明澈的灰色云彩笼罩着的大地！
远远的高山连着平原的大地——长满苹果花的大地！
微笑吧，你的情人来了。
浪子，你给了我爱情——因此我也给你爱情！
啊，难以言传的、炽热的爱情。
你这大海啊！我也把自己交托给了你——我猜透了你的心意，
我在海滩边看到了你那曲着的、发出着邀请的手指，
我相信你没有抚摸到我是不肯回去的，
我们必须在一起周旋一回，我脱下衣服，急急远离陆地，
请用软垫托着我，请在昏昏欲睡的波浪里摇撼我，
用多情的海水泼在我身上吧，我能报答你，
有着漫无边际的巨浪的大海，
呼吸宽广而紧张吐纳的大海，
大海是生命的盐水，又是不待挖掘就随时可用的坟墓，
风暴的吹鼓手和舀取着，任性而又轻盈的大海，
我是你的组成部分，我也一样，既是一个方面又是所有方面。
我分享你潮汐的诱落，赞扬仇恨与和解，
赞扬情谊和那些睡在彼此怀抱里的人们。
我是那个同情心的见证人，
（我应否把房屋内的东西列一清单却偏去了维持这一切的
房屋呢？）
我不仅是“善”的诗人，也不拒绝作“恶”的诗人。
关于美德与罪恶的这种脱口而出的空谈是怎么回事呢？
邪恶推动着我，改正邪恶也推动着我，我是不偏不倚的，
我的步法表明我既不挑剔也不否定什么，
我湿润着所有已经成长起来的根芽。
你是怕长期怀孕时得了淋巴结核症吗？
你是否在猜测神圣的法则还需要重新研究而修订？
我发现一边是某种平衡，和它对立的一边也是某种平衡，
软性的教义和稳定的教义都必然有益，
当前的思想和行动能够使我们奋起并及早起步。
经过了过去的亿万时刻而来到我跟前的此时此刻，
没有比它、比当前更完美的了。
过去行得正或今天行得正并不是什么奇迹，
永远永远使人惊奇的是天下竟会有小人或不信仰宗教者。
二五
耀眼而强烈的朝阳，它会多么快就把我处死，
如果我不能在此时永远从我心上也托出一个朝阳。
我们也要像太阳似地耀眼而非凡强烈地上升，
啊，我的灵魂，我们在破晓的宁静和清凉中找到了我们自
己的归宿。
我的声音追踪着我国力所不及的地方，
我的舌头一卷就接纳了大千世界和容积巨大的世界。
语言是我视觉的孪生兄弟，它自己无法估量它自己，
它永远向我挑衅，用讥讽的口吻说道：
“华尔特，你含有足够的东西，为什么不把它释放出来呢？”
好了，我不会接受你的逗弄，你把语言的表达能力看得太重，
啊，语言，难道你不知道你下面的花苞是怎样紧闭着的吗？
在昏暗中等候着，受着严霜的保护，
污垢在随着我预言家的尖叫声而退避，
我最后还是能够摆稳事物的内在原因，
我的认识是我的活跃部分，它和一切事物的含义不断保持联系，
幸福，（请听见我说话的男女今天就开始去寻找。）
我决不告诉你什么是我最大的优点，我决不泄漏我究竟是
什么样的人，
请包罗万象，但切勿试图包罗我，
只要我看你一眼就能挤进你最圆滑最精采的一切。
文字和言谈不足以证明我，
我脸上摆着充足的证据和其他一切，
我的嘴唇一闭拢就使怀疑论者全然无可奈何。
五一
过去和现在凋谢了——我曾经使它们饱满，又曾经使它们
空虚，
还要接下去装满那在身后还将继续下去的生命。
站在那边的听者！你有什么秘密告诉我？
在我熄灭黄昏的斜照时请端详我的脸，
（说老实话吧，没有任何别人会听见你，我也只能再多待一
分钟。）
我自相矛盾吗？
那好吧，我是自相矛盾的，
（我辽阔博大，我包罗万象。）
我对近物思想集中，我在门前石板上等候。
谁已经做完他一天的工作？谁能最快把晚饭吃完？
谁愿意和我一起散步？
你愿在我走之前说话吗？你会不会已经太晚？
五二
那苍鹰从我身旁掠过而且责备我，他怪我饶舌，又怪我迟
迟留着不走。
我也一样一点都不驯顺，我也一样不可翻译，
我在世界的屋脊上发出了粗野的喊叫声。
白天最后的日光为我停留，
它把我的影子抛在其它影子的后面而且和其它的一样，抛
我在多黑影的旷野，
它劝诱我走向烟雾和黄昏。
我像空气一样走了，我对着那正在逃跑的太阳摇晃着我的
绺绺白发，
我把我的肉体融化在旋涡中，让它漂浮在花边状的裂缝中。
我把自己交付给秽土，让它在我心爱的草丛中成长，
如果你又需要我，请在你的靴子底下寻找我。
你会不十分清楚我是谁，我的含义是什么，
但是我对你说来，仍将有益于你的健康，
还将滤净并充实你的血液。
如果你一时找不到我，请不要灰心丧气，
一处找不到再到别处去找，
我总在某个地方等候着你。
从滚滚的人海中
从滚滚的人海中，一滴水温柔地向我低语：
“我爱你，我不久就要死去；
我曾经旅行了迢遥的长途，只是为的来看你，和你亲近，
因为除非见到了你，我不能死去，
因为我怕以后会失去了你。”
现在我们已经相会了，我们看见了，我们很平安，
我爱，和平地归回到海洋里去吧，
我爱，我也是海洋的一部分，我们并非隔得很远，
看哪，伟大的宇宙，万物的联系，何等的完美！
只是为着我，为着你，这不可抗拒的海，
分隔了我们，
只是在一小时，使我们分离，但不能使我们永久地分离，
别焦急，－－等一会－－你知道我向空气，海洋和大地敬礼，
每天在日落的时候，为着你，我亲爱的缘故。
一小时的狂热和喜悦
来一小时的狂热和喜悦吧！猛烈些，不要限制我呀！
（那在大雷雨中把我解放的是什么呢？
我在狂风闪电中的叫喊意味着什么呢？）
我比谁都更深地沉醉在神秘的亢奋中吧！
这些野性的温柔的疼痛啊！（我把它们遗赠给你们，我的孩子们，
我以某些理由把它们告诉给你们，新郎和新娘啊！）
我完全委身于你无论什么人，你也不顾一切地委身于我！
回到天堂去啊，腼腆而娇柔的人哟！
把你拉到我身边来，给你头一次印上一个坚实的男人的吻。
啊，那困惑，那打了三道的结，那幽暗的深潭，全都解开了，照亮了！
啊，向那个有足够空隙和空气的地方最后挺进！
摆脱从前的束缚和习俗，我摆脱我的，你摆脱你的！
采取一种新的从设想到过的对世上一切都漠不关心的态度！
把口箝从人的嘴上摘掉！
要今天或任何一天都感觉到象现在这样我已经够了。
啊，有的东西还不曾证实，有的东西还恍惚如梦！
要绝对避免别人的支撑和掌握！
要自由地驰骋！自由地爱！无所顾忌地狠狠地猛冲！
让毁灭来吧，给它以嘲弄，发出邀请！
向那个给我指出了的爱之乐园上升、跳跃！
带着我的酒醉的灵魂向那里飞腾！
如果必要的话，就让给毁掉吧！
飨给生命的余年以一个小时的满足和自由啊！
给以短短一个小时的癫狂和豪兴！
爱默生致惠特曼
1855年7月21日
于马萨诸塞州康科特市
亲爱的先生：
『草叶集』这份珍异礼物的 价值， 我岂能视而不见。 我觉得诗集睿智横溢，乃是 美国有史以来最杰出的作 品。 拜读之际，喜不自胜， 正如大才子都使人喜悦一 样。它满足了我对大自然时 常抱有的要求（大自然显得 贫瘠而吝啬），仿佛过分矫 揉造作或是生性疏懒正在使 我们西方的才子们变得既肥 胖又平庸似的。我喜欢你自 由而勇敢的思想。我喜欢极 了。 我发现有些无与伦比的
事情，觉得无与伦比的好 （本来理应如此）。我还发 现一些大胆的处理手法，真 令人心花怒放。这只有远见 卓识才能激发出来。
在你的伟大事业伊始之际， 我谨向你致以祝贺。你如此 一鸣惊人，必将会鹏程万 里。我以手揉眼，想看清楚 这道阳光究竟是真是幻；不 过， 手捧大作， 实有其物， 何容置疑，诗集有个最大的 优点，那就是，既给人勇 气， 又加强人勇气。
昨天晚上在报上见到此书的 广告，才相信你的名字是真 姓实名，可以给你写信。
我盼望和你这位良师益友能 有一面之缘，很想撇下工作 到纽约来拜访你。
R.W. 爱默生
（致）华特.惠特曼先生Concord 21 July
Mass 1855
Dear Sir:
I am not blind to the worth of the wonderful gift of "Leaves of Grass." I find it the most extraordinary piece of wit & wisdom that America has yet contributed. I am very happy in reading it, as great power makes us happy. It meets the demand I am always making of what seems the sterile and stingy Nature, as if too much handiwork or too much lymph in the temperament were making our Western wits fat and mean. I give you joy of your free & brave thought. I have great joy in it. I find the courage of treatment, which so delights us, & which large perception only can inspire.
I greet you at the beginning of a great career, which must yet have had a long foreground somewhere, for such a start. I rubbed my eyes a little to see if this sunbeam were no illusion; but the solid sense of the book is a sober certainty. It has the best merits, namely, of fortifying & encouraging.
I did not know until I, last night, saw the book advertised in a newspaper, that I could trust the name as real & available for a post-office.
I wish to see my benefactor, & have felt much like striking my tasks, & visiting New York to pay you my respects.
R.W.Emerson
(To)Mr. Walter Whitman
我坐着观望着
我坐着,观望世界上所有的忧患,所有的压迫
和耻辱。
我听到年青人为自己做过的事情悔恨不安而
痉挛地抽泣,
我看见穷苦人民中被儿女虐待.无依无靠的母
亲、消瘦、绝望、奄奄一息，
我看见被丈夫折磨的妻子，我看见诱奸妇女的
歹徒，
我注意到力图隐蔽的妒忌和单恋的痛苦，我看
见世上的这些情景，
我看见战争、瘟疫、暴政的恶果，我看见烈士
与囚徒，
我注视着海上的饥馑，我注视着水手们抓阄决
定谁去牺牲来维持众人的生命，
我注视着傲慢的人将轻视与诬蔑加在劳动者、
穷人和黑人等等的身上。
所有这些---所有这些无休止的卑劣行径和苦
难，我独坐着观望，
看着，听着，一声不响。
Song Of Myself 1-10
WALT WHITMAN
(1819-1892)
Walter Whitman was an American poet and a son of Long Island.
His collection of poems, "Leaves Of Grass," is considered one of
the world's major literary works.
Whitman was a true patriot. His poems sing of the praises of the
United States of America and the cause of democracy. The poet's
ove of his country grew from his faith that Americans might
chief reason for the being of the United States of America is to bring about the
common good will of all mankind, the solidarity of the world."
Whitman began working on "Leaves of Grass" in 1848. This collection of poetry was
so unusual that no publisher would publish it. In 1855, he published it himself. The
edition contained only 12 poems. In the preface, Whitman said: "The United States
themselves are essentially the greatest poem." Between 1855 and his death,
Whitman published several revised and enlarged editions of his book. He believed
that "Leaves of Grass" had grown with his own emotional and intellectual
development.
" Song of Myself, " is considered Whitman's greatest. It is a lyric poem told through
the joyful experiences of the narrator. Sometimes the narrator,"I," is the poet
himself. In other passages, "I" speaks for the human race, the universe, or a specific
character being dramatized. Like all Whitman's major poems, "Song of Myself "
contains symbols. For example, in the poem he describes grass as a symbol of life
"the babe of vegetation," "the handkerchief of the Lord."
Whitman wrote "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd" on the death of
Abraham Lincoln. Lincoln died in April, springtime-a time of rebirth in nature.
Whitman says that each spring the blooming lilac will remind him not only of the
death of Lincoln, but also of the eternal return to life.
"O Captain! My Captain!," another poem on Lincoln's death, is Whitman's most
popular poem, but differs from his others in rhyme and rhythm.
Whitman wrote in a form similar to "thought-rhythm." This form is found in Old
Testament poetry. It is also found in sacred books of India, such as the
Bhagavad-Gita, which Whitman knew in translation. The rhythm of his lines
suggests the rise and fall of the sea he loved so much. This structure is better suited
to expressing emotion than to logical discussion. In general, Whitman's poetry is
idealistic and romantic.
1
I celebrate myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.
My tongue, every atom of my blood, formed from this soil, this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents
the same,
I, now thirty seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.
Creeds and schools in abeyance,
Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
Nature without check with original energy.
2
Houses and rooms are full or perfumes the shelves are crowded with
perfumes,
I breathe the fragrance myself, and know it and like it,
The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it.
The atmosphere is not a perfume it has no taste of the distillation,
it is odorless,
It is for my mouth forever....I am in love with it,
I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and
naked,
I am mad for it to be in contact with me.
The smoke of my own breath,
Echoes, ripples, buzz'd whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and
vine,
My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing
of blood and air through my lungs,
The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore and dark-
color'd sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn,
The sound of the belch'd words of my voice loos'd to the eddies of
the wind,
A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms,
The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag,
The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields
and hillsides,
The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising from
bed and meeting the sun.
Have you reckon'd a thousand acres much? have you reckon'd the
earth much?
Have you practis'd so long to learn to read?
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?
Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin
of all poems,
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions
of suns left,)
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look
through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in
books,
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self.
3
I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the beginning
and the end,
But I do not talk of the beginning or the end.
There was never any more inception than there is now,
Nor any more youth or age than there is now,
And will never be any more perfection than there is now, Nor any more heaven or
hell than there is now.
Urge and urge and urge,
Always the procreant urge of the world.
Out of the dimness opposite equals advance, always substance and
increase, always sex,
Always a knit of identity, always distinction, always a breed of life.
To elaborate is no avail, learn'd and unlearn'd feel that it is so.
Sure as the most certain sure, plumb in the uprights, well
entretied,braced in the beams,
Stout as a horse, affectionate, haughty, electrical,
I and this mystery here we stand.
Clear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not my
soul.
Lack one lacks both, and the unseen is proved by the seen,
Till that becomes unseen and receives proof in its turn.
Showing the best and dividing it from the worst age vexes age,
Knowing the perfect fitness and equanimity of things, while they
discuss I am silent, and go bathe and admire myself.
Welcome is every organ and attribute of me, and of any man hearty
and clean,
Not an inch nor a particle of an inch is vile, and none shall be less
familiar than the rest.
I am satisfied--I see, dance, laugh, sing;
As the hugging and loving bed-fellow sleeps at my side through the
night, and withdraws at the peep of the day with stealthy
tread, Leaving me baskets covered with white towels swelling the house
with their plenty,
Shall I postpone my acceptation and realization and scream at my
eyes,
That they turn from gazing after and down the road,
And forthwith cipher and show me to a cent,
Exactly the value of one and exactly the value of two, and which is
ahead?
4
Trippers and askers surround me,
People I meet, the effect upon me of my early life or the ward
and city I live in, or the nation,
The latest dates, discoveries, inventions, societies, authors old and
new
My dinner, dress, associates, looks, compliments, dues,
The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman I love,
The sickness of one of my folks or of myself, or ill-doing or loss or
lack of money, or depressions or exaltations,
Battles, the horrors of fratricidal war, the fever of doubtful news,
the fitful events;
These come to me days and night and go from me again,
But they are not the Me myself
Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am,
Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary,
Looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain
rest,
Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next,
Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it.
Backward I see in my own days where I sweated through fog with
linguists and contenders,
I have no mockings or arguments, I witness and wait.
5
I believe in you my soul, the other I am must not abase itself to
you,
And you must not be abased to the other.
Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat,
Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture, not
even the best,
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.
I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning,
How you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turn'd
over upon me,
And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your
tongue to my bare-stript heart,
And reach'd till you felt my beard, and reach'd till you held my
feet.
Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and knowledge
that pass all the argument of the earth,
And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own,
And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own,
And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the
women my sisters and lovers,
And that a kelson of the creation is love
And limitless are leaves stiff or drooping in the fields,
And brown ants in the little wells beneath them,
And mossy scabs of the worm fence, heap'd stones, elder, mullein
and poke-weed.
6
A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands,
How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more
than he.
I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green
stuff woven.
Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt,
Bearing the owner's name someway in the comers, that we may
see and remark, and say Whose?
Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the
vegetation.
Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I
receive them the same.
And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.
Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them,
It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken soon
out of their mothers' laps,
And here you are the mothers' laps.
This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.
I perceive after all so many uttering tongues,
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for
nothing.
I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and
women.
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring
taken soon out of their laps.
What do you think has become of the young and old men?
And what do you think has become of the women and children?
They are alive and well somewhere,
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the
end to arrest it,
And ceas'd the moment life appear'd.
All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.
7
Has any one supposed it lucky to be born?
I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I
know it.
I pass death with the dying and birth with the new-wash'd babe,
and am not contain'd between my hat and boots,
And peruse manifold objects no two alike and every one good,
The earth good and the stars good, and their adjuncts all good.
I am not an earth nor an adjunct of an earth,
I am the mate and companion of people, all just as immortal
and fathomless as myself,
(They do not know how immortal, but I know.)
Every kind for itself and its own, for me mine male and female,
For me those that have been boys and that love women,
For me the man that is proud and feels how it stings to be
slighted,
For me the sweet-heart and the old maid, for me mothers and the
mothers of mothers,
For me lips that have smiled, eyes that have shed tears,
For me children and the begetters of children.
Undrape! you are not guilty to me, nor stale nor discarded,
I see through the broadcloth and gingham whether or no,
And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot shaken away.
The little one sleeps in its cradle,
I lift the gauze and look a long time, and silently brush away flies
with my hand.
The youngster and the red-faced girl turn aside up the bushy
hill,
I peeringly view them from the top.
The suicide sprawls on the bloody floor of the bedroom,
I witness the corpse with its dabbled hair, I note where the pistol
has fallen.
The blab of the pave, tires of carts, sluff of boot-soles, talk of the
promenaders,
The heavy omnibus, the driver with his interrogating thumb, the
clank of the shod horses on the granite floor,
The snow sleighs, clinking, shouted jokes, pelts of snow-balls,
The hurrahs for popular favorites, the fury of rous'd mobs,
The flap of the curtain'd litter, a sick man inside borne to the
hospital,
The meeting of enemies, the sudden oath, the blows and fall,
The excited crowd, the policeman with his star quickly working
his passage to the centre of the crowd,
The impassive stones that receive and return so many echoes,
What groans of over-fed or half-starv'd who fall sunstruck or in fits,
What exclamations of women taken suddenly who hurry home
and give birth to babes,
What living and buried speech is always vibrating here, what howls
restrain'd by decorum,
Arrests of criminals, slights, adulterous offers made, acceptances,
rejections with convex lips,
I mind them or the show or resonance of them--I come and I
depart.
The big doors of the country barn stand open and ready,
The dried grass of the harvest-time loads the slow-drawn wagon,
The clear light plays on the brown gray and green intertinged,
The armfuls are pack'd to the sagging mow.
I am there, I help, I came stretched atop of the load,
I felt its soft jolts, one leg reclined on the other,
I jump from the cross-beams and seize the clover and timothy ,
And roll head over heels and tangle my hair full of wisps.
10
Alone far in the wilds and mountains I hunt,
Wandering amazed at my own lightness and glee,
In the late afternoon choosing a safe spot to pass the night,
Kindling a fire and broiling the fresh-kill'd game,
Falling asleep on tile gather'd leaves with my dog and gun by my
side.
The Yankee clipper is under her sky-sails, she cuts the sparkle and
scud,
My eyes settle the land, I bend at her prow or shout joyously from
the deck.
The boatmen and clam-diggers arose early and stopt for me,
I tuck'd my trowser-ends in my boots and went and had a good
time;
You should have been with us that day round the chowder-kettle.
saw the marriage of the trapper in the open air in the far west,
the bride was a red girl, Her father and his friends sat near cross-legged and
dumbly smok-
ing, they had moccasins to their feet and large thick blan-
kets hanging from their shoulders,
On a bank lounged the trapper, he was drest mostly in skins, his
luxuriant beard and curls protected his neck, he held his
bride by the hand,
She had long eyelashes, her head was bare, her coarse straight
locks descended upon her voluptuous limbs and reach'd to
her feet.
The runaway slave came to my house and stopt outside,
I heard his motions crackling the twigs of the woodpile,
Through the swung half-door of the kitchen I saw him limpsy and
weak,
And went where he sat on a log and led him in and assured him,
And brought water and fill'd a tub for his sweated body and
bruis'd feet,
And gave him a room that enter'd from my own, and gave him
some coarse clean clothes,
And remember perfectly well his revolving eyes and his awk-
wardness,
And remember putting plasters on the galls of his neck and
ankles;
He staid with me a week before he was recuperated and pass'd
north,
I had him sit next to me at table, my fire-lock lean'd in the corner.
--
Song Of Myself 11-52
11
Twenty-eight young men bathe by the shore,
Twenty-eight young men and all so friendly;
Twenty-eight years of womanly life and all so lonesome.
She owns the fine house by the rise of the bank,
She hides handsome and richly drest aft the blinds of the window.
Which of the young men does she like the best?
Ah the homeliest of them is beautiful to her.
Where are you off to, lady? for I see you,
You splash in the water there, yet stay stock still in your room.
Dancing and laughing along the beach came the twenty-ninth
bather,
The rest did not see her, but she saw them and loved them.
The beards of the young men glisten'd with wet, it ran from their
long hair,
Little streams pass'd all over their bodies.
An unseen hand also pass'd over their bodies,
It descended trembling from their temples and ribs.
The young men float on their backs, their white bellies bulge to
the sun, they do not ask who seizes fast to them,
They do not know who puffs and declines with pendant and bend-
ing arch,
They do not think whom they souse with spray.
12
The butcher-boy puts off his killing-clothes, or sharpens his knife
at the stall in the market,
I loiter enjoying his repartee and his shuffle and break-down.
Blacksmiths with grimed and hairy chests environ the anvil,
Each has his main-sledge, they are all out, there is a great heat in
the fire.
From the cinder-strew'd threshold I follow their movements,
The lithe sheer of their waists plays even with their massive arms,
Overhand the hammers swing, overhand so slow, overhand so sure,
They do not hasten, each man hits in his place.
13
The negro holds firmly the reins of his four horses, the block
swags underneath on its tied-over chain,
The negro that drives the long dray of the stone-yard, steady and
tall he stands pois'd on one leg on the string-piece,
His blue shirt exposes his ample neck and breast and loosens over
his hip-band,
His glance is calm and commanding, he tosses the slouch of his
hat away from his forehead,
The sun falls on his crispy hair and mustache, falls on the black
of his polish'd and perfect limbs.
I behold the picturesque giant and love him, and I do not stop
there,
I go with the team also.
In me the caresser of life wherever moving, backward as well as
forward sluing,
To niches aside and junior bending, not a person or object miss-
ing,
Absorbing all to myself and for this song.
Oxen that rattle the yoke and chain or halt in the leafy shade,
what is that you express in your eyes?
It seems to me more than all the print I have read in my life.
My tread scares the wood-drake and wood-duck on my distant
and day-long ramble,
They rise together, they slowly circle around.
I believe in those wing'd purposes,
And acknowledge red, yellow, white, playing within me,
And consider green and violet and the tufted crown intentional,
And do not call the tortoise unworthy because she is not some-
thing else,
And the jay in the woods never studied the gamut, yet trills
pretty well to me,
And the look of the bay mare shames silliness out of me.
14
The wild gander leads his flock through the cool night,
Ya-honk he says, and sounds it down to me like an invitation,
The pert may suppose it meaningless, but I listening close,
Find its purpose and place up there toward the wintry sky.
The sharp-hoof'd moose of the north, the cat on the house-sill,
the chickadee, the prairie-dog,
The litter of the grunting sow as they tug at her teats,
The brood of the turkey-hen and she with her half-spread wings,
I see in them and myself the same old law.
The press of my foot to the earth springs a hundred affections,
They scorn the best I can do to relate them.
I am enamour'd of growing out-doors,
Of men that live among cattle or taste of the ocean or woods,
Of the builders and steerers of ships and the wielders of axes and
mauls, and the drivers of horses,
I can eat and sleep with them week in and week out.
What is commonest, cheapest, nearest, easiest, is Me,
Me going in for my chances, spending for vast returns,
Adorning myself to bestow myself on the first that Will take me,
Not asking the sky to come down to my good will,
Scattering it freely forever.
15
The pure contralto sings in the organ loft,
The carpenter dresses his plank, the tongue of his foreplane
whistles its wild ascending lisp,
The married and unmarried children ride home to their Thanks-
giving dinner,
The pilot seizes the king-pin, he heaves down with a strong arm,
The mate stands braced in the whale-boat, lance and harpoon are
ready,
The duck-shooter walks by silent and cautious stretches,
The deacons are ordain'd with cross'd hands at the altar,
The spinning-girl retreats and advances to the hum of the big
wheel,
The farmer stops by the bars as he walks on a First-day loafe
and looks at the oats and rye,
The lunatic is carried at last to the asylum a confirm'd case,
(He will never sleep any more as he did in the cot in his mother's
bedroom;)
The jour printer with gray head and gaunt jaws works at his case,
He turns his quid of tobacco while his eyes blurr with the man-
uscript;
The malform'd limbs are tied to the surgeon's table,
What is removed drops horribly in a pail;
The quadroon girl is sold at the auction-stand, the drunkard nods
by the bar-room stove,
The machinist rolls up his sleeves, the policeman travels his beat,
the gatekeeper marks who pass,
The young fellow drives the express-wagon, (I love him, though
I do not know him;)
The half-breed straps on his light boots to compete in the race,
The western turkey-shooting draws old and young, some lean on
their rifles, some sit on logs,
Out from the crowd steps the marksman, takes his position, levels
his piece;
The groups of newly-come immigrants cover the wharf or levee,
As the woolly-pates hoe in the sugar-field, the overseer views them
from his saddle,
The bugle calls in the ball room, the gentlemen run for their
partners, the dancers bow to each other,
The youth lies awake in the cedar-roof'd garret and harks to the
musical rain,
The Wolverine sets traps on the creek that helps fill the Huron,
The squaw wrapt in her yellow-hemm'd cloth is offering mocc-
asins and bead-bags for sale,
The connoisseur peers along the exhibition-gallery with half-shut
eyes bent sideways,
As the deck-hands make fast the steamboat the plank is thrown
for the shore-going passengers,
The young sister holds out the skein while the elder sister winds
it off in a ball, and stops now and then for the knots,
The one-year wife is recovering and happy having a week ago
borne her first child,
The clean-hair'd Yankee girl works with her sewing-machine or in
the factory or mill,
The paving-man leans on his two-handed rammer, the reporter's
lead flies swiftly over the note-book, the sign-painter is let-
tering with blue and gold,
The canal boy trots on the tow-path, the book-keeper counts at
his desk, the shoemaker waxes his thread,
The conductor beats time for the band and all the performers
follow him,
The child is baptized, the convert is making his first professions,
The regatta is spread on the bay, the race is begun, (how the
white sails sparkle!)
The drover watching his drove sings out to them that would stray,
The pedler sweats with his pack on his back, (the purchaser hig-
gling about the odd cent;)
The bride unrumples her white dress, the minute-hand of the
clock moves slowly,
The opium-eater reclines with rigid head and just-open'd lips,
The prostitute draggles her shawl, her bonnet bobs on her tipsy
and pimpled neck,
The crowd laugh at her blackguard oaths, the men jeer and wink
to each other,
(Miserable! I do not laugh at your oaths nor jeer you;)
The President holding a cabinet council is surrounded by the
great Secretaries,
On the piazza walk three matrons stately and friendly with twined
arms,
The crew of the fish-smack pack repeated-layers of halibut in the
hold,
The Missourian crosses the plains toting his wares and his cattle,
As the fare-collector goes through the train he gives notice by the
jingling of loose change,
The floor-men are laying the floor, the tinners are tinning the
roof, the masons are calling for mortar,
In single file each shouldering his hod pass onward the laborers;
Seasons pursuing each other the indescribable crowd is gather'd,
it is the fourth of Seventh-month, (what salutes of cannon
and small arms!)
Seasons pursuing each other the plougher ploughs, the mower
mows, and the winter-grain falls in the ground;
Off on the lakes the pike-fisher watches and waits by the hole in
the frozen surface,
The stumps stand thick round the clearing, the squatter strikes
deep with his axe,
Flatboatmen make fast towards dusk near the cotton-wood or pe-
can-trees,
Coon seekers go through the regions of the Red river or through
those drain'd by the Tennessee, or through those of the
Arkansas,
Torches shine in the dark that hangs on the Chattahooche or Alta-
mahaw,
Patriarchs sit at supper with sons and grandsons and great-grand-
sons around them,
In walls of adobie, in canvas tents, rest hunters and trappers
after their day's sport,
The city sleeps and the country sleeps,
The living sleep for their time, the dead sleep for their time,
The old husband sleeps by his wife and the young husband sleeps
by his wife;
And these tend inward to me, and I tend outward to them,
And such as it is to be of these more or less I am,
And of these one and all I weave the song of myself.
16
I am of old and young, of the foolish as much as the wise,
Regardless of others, ever regardful of others,
Maternal as well as paternal, a child as well as a man,
Stuff'd with the stuff that is coarse and stuff'd with the stuff that
is fine,
One of the Nation of many nations, the smallest the same and
the largest the same,
A Southerner soon as a Northerner, a planter nonchalant and hos-
pitable down by the Oconee I live,
A Yankee bound my own way ready for trade, my joints the
limberest joints on earth and the sternest joints on earth,
A Kentuckian walking the vale of the Elkhorn in my deer-skin
leggings, a Louisianian or Georgian,
A boatman over lakes or bays or along coasts, a Hoosier, Badger,
Buckeye,
At home on Kanadian snow-shoes or up in the bush, or with
fishermen off Newfoundland,
At home in the fleet of ice-boats, sailing with the rest and tack-
ing,
At home on the hills of Vermont or in the woods of Maine, or
the Texan ranch,
Comrade of Californians, comrade of free North-Westerners, (lov-
ing their big proportions,)
Comrade of raftsmen and coalmen, comrade of all who shake
hands and welcome to drink and meat,
A learner with the simplest, a teacher of the thoughtfullest,
A novice beginning yet experient of myriads of seasons,
Of every hue and caste am I, of every rank and religion,
A farmer, mechanic, artist, gentleman, sailor, quaker,
Prisoner, fancy-man, rowdy, lawyer, physician, priest.
I resist any thing better than my own diversity,
Breathe the air but leave plenty after me,
And am not stuck up, and am in my place,
(The moth and the fish-eggs are in their place,
The bright suns I see and the dark suns I cannot see are in their
place,
The palpable is in its place and the impalpable is in its place.)
17
These are really the thoughts of all men in all ages and lands, they
are not original with me,
If they are not yours as much as mine they are nothing, or next to
nothing,
If they are not the riddle and the untying of the riddle they are
nothing,
If they are not just as close as they are distant they are nothing.
This is the grass that grows wherever the land is and the water is,
This is the common air that bathes the globe.
18
With music strong I come, with my cornets and my drums,
I play not marches for accepted victors only, I play marches for
conquer'd and slain persons.
Have you heard that it was good to gain the day?
I also say it is good to fall, battles are lost in the same spirit in
which they are won.
I beat and pound for the dead,
I blow through my embouchures my loudest and gayest for them.
Vivas to those who have fail'd!
And to those whose war-vessels sank in the sea!
And to those themselves who sank in the sea!
And to all generals that lost engagements, and all overcome
heroes!
And the numberless unknown heroes equal to the greatest heroes
known!
19
This is the meal equally set, this the meat for natural hunger,
It is for the wicked just the same as the righteous, I make appoint-
ments with all,
I will not have a single person slighted or left away,
The kept-woman, sponger, thief, are hereby invited,
The heavy-lipp d slave is invited, the vencrealee is invited;
There shall be no difference between them and the rest.
This is the press of a bashful hand, this the float and odor of hair,
This the touch of my lips to yours, this the murmur of yearning,
This the far-off depth and height reflecting my own face,
This the thoughtful merge of myself, and the outlet again.
Do you guess I have some intricate purpose?
Well I have, for the Fourth-month showers have, and the mica on
the side of a rock has.
Do you take it I would astonish?
Does the daylight astonish? does the early redstart twittering
through the woods?
Do I astonish more than they?
This hour I tell things in confidence,
I might not tell everybody, but I will tell you.
20
Who goes there? hankering, gross, mystical, nude;
How is it I extract strength from the beef I eat?
What is a man anyhow? what am l? what are you?
All I mark as my own you shall offset it with your own,
Else it were time lost listening to me.
I do not snivel that snivel the world over,
That months are vacuums and the ground but wallow and filth.
Whimpering and trucking fold with powders for invalids, con-
formity goes to the fourth-remov'd,
I wear my hat as I please indoors or out.
Why should I pray? why should I venerate and be ceremonious?
Having pried through the strata, analyzed to a hair, counsel'd with
doctors and calculated close, I find no sweeter fat than sticks to my own bones.
In all people I see myself, none more and not one a barley-corn
less,
And the good or bad I say of myself I say of them.
I know I am solid and sound,
To me the converging objects of the universe perpetually flow,
All are written to me, and I must get what the writing means.
I know I am deathless,
I know this orbit of mine cannot be swept by a carpenter's com-
pass,
I know I shall not pass like a child's carlacue cut with a burnt
stick at night.
I know I am august,
I do not trouble my spirit to vindicate itself or be understood,
I see that the elementary laws never apologize,
(I reckon I behave no prouder than the level I plant my house
by, after all.)
I exist as I am, that is enough,
If no other in the world be aware I sit content,
And if each and all be aware I sit content.
One world is aware and by far the largest to me, and that is my-
self,
And whether I come to my own to-day or in ten thousand or ten
million years,
I can cheerfully take it now, or with equal cheerfulness I can wait.
My foothold is tenon'd and mortis'd in granite,
I laugh at what you call dissolution,
And I know the amplitude of time.
21
I am the poet of the Body and I am the poet of the Soul,
The pleasures of heaven are with me and the pains of hell are
with me,
The first I graft and increase upon myself, the latter I translate
into a new tongue.
I am the poet of the woman the same as the man,
And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man,
And I say there is nothing greater than the mother of men.
I chant the chant of dilation or pride,
We have had ducking and deprecating about enough,
I show that size is only development.
Have you outstript the rest? are you the President?
It is a trifle, they will more than arrive there every one, and still
pass on.
I am he that walks with the tender and growing night,
I call to the earth and sea half-held by the night.
Press close bare-bosom'd night--press close magnetic nourishing
night!
Night of south winds--night of the large few stars!
Still nodding night--mad naked summer night.
Smile O voluptuous cool-breath'd earth!
Earth of the slumbering and liquid trees!
Earth of departed sunset--earth of the mountains misty-topt!
Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon just tinged with blue!
Earth of shine and dark mottling the tide of the river!
Earth of the limpid gray of clouds brighter and clearer for my sake!
Far-swooping elbow'd earth--rich apple-blossom'd earth!
Smile, for your lover comes.
Prodigal, you have given me love therefore I to you give love!
O unspeakable passionate love.
22
You sea! I resign myself to you also--I guess what you mean,
I behold from the beach your crooked inviting fingers,
I believe you refuse to go back without feeling of me,
We must have a turn together, I undress, hurry me out of sight
of the land,
Cushion me soft, rock me in billowy drowse,
Dash me with amorous wet, I can repay you.p Sea of stretch'd ground-swells,
Sea breathing broad and convulsive breaths,
Sea of the brine of life and of unshovell'd yet always-ready graves,
Howler and scooper of storms, capricious and dainty sea,
I am integral with you, I too am of one phase and of all phases.
Partaker of influx and efflux I, extoller of hate and conciliation,
Extoller of amies and those that sleep in each others' arms.
I am he attesting sympathy,
(Shall I make my list of things in the house and skip the house
that supports them?)
I am not the poet of goodness only,I do not decline to be the
poet of wickedness also.
What blurt is this about virtue and about vice?
Evil propels me and reform of evil propels me, I stand indifferent,
My gait is no fault-finder's or rejecter's gait,
I moisten the roots of all that has grown.
Did you fear some scrofula out of the unflagging pregnancy?
Did you guess the celestial laws are yet to be worked over and
rectified?
I find one side a balance and the antipodal side a balance,
Soft doctrine as steady help as stable doctrine,
Thoughts and deeds of the present our rouse and early start.
This minute that comes to me over the past decisions,
There is no better than it and now.
What behaved well in the past or behaves well to-day is not such
a wonder,
The wonder is always and always how there can be a mean man
or an infidel.
23
Endless unfolding of words of ages!
And mine a word of the modern, the word En-Masse.
A word of the faith that never balks,
Here or henceforward it is all the same to me, I accept Time ab-
solutely.
It alone is without flaw, it alone rounds and completes all,
That mystic baffling wonder alone completes all.
I accept Reality and dare not question it,
Materialism first and last imbuing.
Hurrah for positive science! long live exact demonstration!
Fetch stonecrop mixt with cedar and branches of lilac,
This is the lexicographer, this the chemist, this made a grammer
of the old cartouches,
These mariners put the ship through dangerous unknown seas,
This is the geologist, this works with the scalpel, and this is a
mathematician.
Gentlemen, to you the first honors always!
Your facts are useful, and yet they are not my dwelling,
I but enter by them to an area of my dwelling.
Less the reminders of properties told my words,
And more the reminders they of life untold, and of freedom and
extrication,
And make short account of neuters and geldings, and favor men
and women fully equipt,
And beat the gong of revolt, and stop with fugitives and them
that plot and conspire.
24
Walt Whitman, a kosmos, of Manhattan the son;
Turbulent, fleshly, sensual, eating, drinking and breeding,
No sentimentalist, no stander above men and women or apart
from them,
No more modest than immodest.
Unscrew the locks from the doors!
Unscrew the doors themselves from their jambs!
Whoever degrades another degrades me,
And whatever is done or said returns at last to me.
Through me the afflatus 1 surging and surging, through me the
current and index.
I speak the pass-word primeval, I give the sign of democracy,
By God! I will accept nothing which all cannot have their coun-
terpart of on the same terms.
Through me many long dumb voices,
Voices of the interminable generations of prisoners and slaves,
Voices of the diseas'd and despairing and of thieves and dwarfs,
Voices of cycles of preparation and accretion,
And of the threads that connect the stars, and of wombs and of
the fatherstuff,
And of the rights of them the others are down upon,
Of the deformed trivial, flat, foolish, despised,
Fog in the air, beetles rolling balls of dung.
Through me forbidden voices,
Voices of sexes and lusts, voices veil'd and I remove the veil,
Voices indecent by me clarified and transfigured.
I do not press my fingers across my mouth,
I keep as delicate around the bowels as around the head and heart,
Copulation is no more rank to me than death is.
I believe in the flesh and the appetites,
Seeing, hearing, feeling, are miracles, and each part and tag of me
is a miracle.
Divine am I inside and out, and I make holy whatever I touch or
am touch'd from,
The scent of these arm-pits aroma finer than prayer,
This head more than churches, bibles, and all the creeds.
If I worship one thing more than another it shall be the spread
of my own body, or any part of it,
Translucent mould of me it shall be you!
Shaded ledges and rests it shall be you!
Firm masculine cotter it shall be you!
Whatever goes to the tilth of me it shall be you!
You my rich blood! your milky stream pale strippings of my life!
Breast that presses against other breasts it shall be you!
My brain it shall be your occult convolutions!
Root of wash'd sweet-flag! timorous pond-snipe! nest of guarded
duplicate eggs! it shall be you!
Mix'd tussled hay of head, beard, brawn, it shall be you!
Trickling sap of maple, fibre of manly wheat, it shall be you!
Suns so generous it shall be you!
Vapors lighting and shading my face it shall be you!
You sweaty brooks and dews it shall be you!
Winds whose soft-tickling genitals rub against me it shall be you!
Broad muscular fields, branches of live oak, loving lounger in my
winding paths, it shall be you!
Hands I have taken, face I have kiss'd, mortal I have ever touch'd,
it shall be you.
I dote on myself, there is that lot of me and all so luscious,
Each moment and whatever happens thrills me with joy,
I cannot tell how my ankles bend, nor whence the cause of my
faintest wish,
Nor the cause of the friendship I emit, nor the cause of the friend-
ship I take again.
That I walk up my stoop, I pause to consider if it really be,
A morning-glory at my window satisfies me more than meta-
physics of books.
To behold the day-break!
The little light fades the immense and diaphanous shadows,
The air tastes good to my palate.
Hefts of the moving world at innocent gambols silently rising,
freshly exuding,
Scooting obliquely high and low.
Something I cannot see puts upward libidinous prongs,
Seas of bright juice suffuse heaven.
The earth by the sky staid with, the daily close of their junction,
The heav'd challenge from the east that moment over my head,
The mocking taunt, See then whether you shall be master!
25
Dazzling and tremendous how quick the sun-rise would kill me,
If I could not now and always send sun-rise out of me.
We also ascend dazzling and tremendous as the sun,
We also found our own O my soul in the calm and cool of the day-
break.
My voice goes after what my eyes cannot reach.
With the twirl of my tongue I encompass worlds and volumes of
worlds.
Speech is the twin of my vision, it is unequal to measure itself,
It provokes me forever, it says sarcastically,
Walt you contain enough, why don't you let it out then?
Come now I will not be tantalized, you conceive too much of
articulation
Do you not know O speech how the buds beneath you are folded?
Waiting in gloom, protected by frost,
The dirt receding before my prophetical screams,
I underlying causes to balance them at last,
My knowledge with live parts, it keeps tally with the meaning
of all things
Happiness, (which whoever hears me let him or her set out in
search of this day.)
My final merit I refuse you, I refuse you, I refuse putting from me what I really
am,
Encompass worlds, but never try to encompass me,
I crowd your sleekest and best by simply looking toward you.
Writing and talk do not prove me,
I carry the plenum of proof and every thing else in my face,
With the hush of my lips, I wholly confound the skeptic.
26
Now I will do nothing but listen,
To accrue what I hear into this song, to let sounds contribute
toward it.
I hear bravuras of birds, bustle of growing wheat, gossip of flames,
clack of sticks cooking my meals.
I hear the sound I love, the sound of the human voice,
I hear all sounds running together, combined, fused or following,
Sounds of the city and sounds out of the city, sounds of the day
and night,
Talkative young ones to those that like them, the loud laugh of
work-people at their meals,
The angry base of disjointed friendship, the faint tones of the sick,
The judge with hands tight to the desk, his pallid lips pronounc-
ing a death-sentence,
The heave'etyo of stevedores unlading ships by the wharves, the
refrain of the anchor-lifters,
The ring of alarm-bells, the cry of fire, the whirr of swift-streak-
ing engines and hose-carts with premonitory tinkles and
color'd lights,
The steam-whistle, the solid roll of the train of approaching cars,
The slow march play'd at the head of the association marching
two and two,
(They go to guard some corpse, the flag-tops are draped with black
muslin.)
I hear the violoncello, ('tis the voung man's heart's complaint,)
I hear the key'd cornet, it glides quickly in through my ears,
It shakes mad-sweet pangs through my belly and breast.
I hear the chorus, it is a grand opera,
Ah this indeed is music--this suits me.
A tenor large and fresh as the creation fills me,
The orbic flex of his mouth is pouring and filling me full.
I hear the train'd soprano (what work with hers is this?)
The orchestra whirls me wider than Uranus flies.
It wrenches such ardors from me I did not know I possessed them,
It sails me, I dab with bare feet, they are lick'd by the indolent waves,
I am cut by bitter and angry hail, I lose my breath,
Steep'd amid honey'd morphine, my windpipe throttled in fakes
of death,
At length let up again to feel the puzzle of puzzles,
And that we call Being.
27
To be in any form, what is that?
(Round and round we go, all of us, and ever come back thither,)
If nothing lay more develop'd the quahaugt in its callous shell
were enough.
Mine is no callous shell,
I have instant conductors all over me whether I pass or stop,
They seize every object and lead it harmlessly through me.
I merely stir, press, feel with my fingers, and am happy,
To touch my person to some one else's is about as much as I can
stand.
28
Is this then a touch? quivering me to a new identity,
Flames and ether making a rush for my veins,
Treacherous tip of me reaching and crowding to help them,
My flesh and blood playing out lightning to strike what is hardly
different from myself,
On all sides prurient provokers stiffening my limbs,
Straining the udder of my heart for its withheld drip,
Behaving licentious toward me, taking no denial,
Depriving me of my best as for a purpose,
Unbuttoning my clothes, holding me by the bare waist,
Deluding my confusion with the calm of the sunlight and pas-
ture-fields,
Immodestly sliding the fellow-senses away,
They bribed to swap off with touch and go and graze at the edges
of me,
No consideration, no regard for my draining Strength or my anger,
Fetching the rest of the herd around to enjoy them a while,
Then all uniting to stand on a headland and worry me.
The sentries desert every other part of me,
They have left me helpless to a red marauder,
They all come to the headland to witness and assist against me.
I am given up by traitors,
I talk wildly, I have lost my wits, I and nobody else am the
greatest traitor,
I went myself first to the headland, my own hands carried me
there.
You villain touch! what are you doing? my breath is tight in its
throat,
Unclench your floodgates, you are too much for me.
29
Blind loving wrestling touch, sheath'd hooded sharp-tooth'd
touch!
Did it make you ache so, leaving me?
Parting track'd by arriving, perpetual payment of perpetual loan,
Rich showering rain, and recompense richer afterward.p Sprouts take and
accumulate, stand by the curb prolific and vital,
Landscapes projected masculine, full-sized and golden.
30
All truths wait in all things,
They neither hasten their own delivers nor resist it,
They do not need the obstetric forceps of the surgeon,
The insignificant is as big to me as any,
(What is less or more than a touch?)
Logic and sermons never convince,
The damp of the night drives deeper into my soul.p (Only what proves itself to every
man and woman is so,
Only what nobody denies is so.)
A minute and a drop of me settle my brain,
I believe the soggy clods shall become lovers and lamps,
And a compend of compends is the meat of a man or woman,
And a summit and flower there is the feeling they have for each
other,
And they are to branch boundlessly out of that lesson until it
becomes omnific,
And until one and all shall delight us, and we them.
31
I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars,
And the pismire is equally perfect, and a grain of sand, and the
egg of the wren,
And the tree-toad is a chef-d'oeuvre for the highest,
And the running blackberry would adorn the parlors of heaven,
And the narrowest hinge in my hand puts to scorn all machinery,
And the cow crunching with depress'd head surpasses any statue,
And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels.
I find I incorporate gneiss, coal, long-threaded moss, fruits, grains,
esculent roots,
And am stucco'd with quadrupeds and birds all over,
And have distanced what is behind me for good reasons,
But call any thing back again when I desire it.
In vain the speeding or shyness,
In vain the platonic rocks send their old heat against my approach,
In vain the mastodon retreats beneath its own powder'd bones,
In vain objects stand leagues off and assume manifold shapes,
In vain the ocean settling in hollows and the great monsters lying
low,
In vain the buzzard houses herself with the sky,
In vain the snake slides through the creepers and logs,
In vain the elk takes to the inner passes of the woods,
In vain the razor-bill'd auk sails far north to Labrador,
I follow quickly, I ascend to the nest in the fissure of the cliff.
32
I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and
self-contain 'd,
I stand and look at them long and long.
They do not sweat and whine about their condition,
They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins,
They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God,
Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania
of owning things,
Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of
years ago,
Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth.
So they show their relations to me and I accept them,
They bring me tokens of myself, they evince them plainly in
their possession.
I wonder where they get those tokens,
Did I pass that way huge times ago and negligently drop them?
Myself moving forward then and now and forever,
Gathering and showing more always and with velocity,
Infinite and omnigenous, and the like of these among them,
Not too exclusive toward the reachers of my remembrancers,
Picking out here one that I love, and now go with him on broth-
erly terms.
A gigantic beauty of a stallion, fresh and responsive to my caresses,
Head high in the forehead, wide between the ears,
Limbs glossy and supple, tail dusting the ground,
Eyes full of sparkling wickedness, ears finely cut, flexibly moving.
His nostrils dilate as my heels embrace him,
His well-built limbs tremble with pleasure as we race around and
return.
I but use you a minute, then I resign you, stallion,
Why do I need your paces when I myself out-gallop them?
Even as I sand or sit passing faster than you.
33
Space and Time! now I see it is true, what I guess'd at,
What I guess'd when I loaf'd on the grass,
What I guess'd while I lay alone in my bed,
And again as I walk'd the beach under the paling stars of the
morning.
My ties and ballasts leave me, my elbows rest in sea-gaps,
I skirt sierras, my palms cover continents,
I am afoot with my vision.
By the city's quadrangular houses--in log huts, camping with
lumbermen,
Along the ruts of the turnpike, along the dry gulch and rivulet
bed,
Weeding my onion-patch or hoeing rows of carrots and parsnips,
crossing savannas, trailing in forests,
Prospecting, gold digging, girdling the trees of a new purchase,
Scorch'd ankle-deep by the hot sand, hauling my boat down the
shallow river,
Where the panther walks to and fro on a limb overhead, where
the buck turns furiously at the hunter,
Where the rattlesnake suns his flabby length on a rock, where the otter
is feeding on fish,
Where the alligator in his tough pimples sleeps by the bayou,
Where the black bear is searching for roots or honey, where the
beaver pats the mud with his paddle-shaped tail;
Over the growing sugar, over the yellow-flower'd cotton plant,
over the rice in its low moist field,
Over the sharp-peak'd farm house, with its scallop'd scum and
slender shoots from the gutters,
Over the western persimmon, over the long-leav'd corn, over the delicate
blue-flower flax,
Over the white and brown buckwheat, a hummer and buzzer
there with the rest,
Over the dusky green of the rye as it ripples and shades in the
breeze;
Scaling mountains, pulling myself cautiously up, holding on by
low scragged limbs,
Walking the path worn in the grass and beat through the leaves of
the brush,
Where the quail is whistling betwixt the woods and the wheat-lot,
Where the bat flies in the Seventh-month eve, where the great
gold-bug drops through the dark,
Where the brook puts out of the roots of the old tree and flows
to the meadow,
Where cattle stand and shake away flies with the tremulous shud-
dering of their hides,
Where the cheese-cloth hangs in the kitchen, where andirons
straddle the hearth-slab, where cobwebs fall in festoons from
the rafters;
Where trip-hammers crash, where the press is whirling its cylin-
ders,
Where the human heart beats with terrible throes under its ribs,
Where the pear-shaped balloon is floating aloft, (floating in it my-
self and looking composedly down,)
Where the life-car is drawn on the slip-noose, where the heat
hatches palegreen eggs in the dented sand.
Where the she-whale swims with her calf and never forsakes it,
Where the steam-ship trails hind-ways its long pennant of smoke,
Where the fin of the shark cuts like a black chip out of the water,
Where the half-burn'd brig is riding on unknown currents,
Where shells grow to her slimy deck, where the dead are corrupt-
ing below;
Where the dense-starr'd flag is borne at the head of the regiments,
Approaching Manhattan up by the long-stretching island,
Under Niagara, the cataract falling like a veil over my counte-
nance,
Upon a door-step, upon the horse-block of hard wood outside,
Upon the race-course, or enjoying picnics or jigs or a good game
of baseball,
At he-festivals with blackguard gibes, ironical license, bull-
dances, drinking, laughter,
At the cider-mill tasting the sweets of the brown mash, sucking
the juice through a straw,
At apple-peelings wanting kisses for all the red fruit I find,
At musters, beach-parties, friendly bees, huskings, house-raisings;
Where the mocking-bird sounds his delicious gurgles, cackles,
screams, weeps,
Where the hay-rick stands in the barn-yard, where the dry-stalks
are scattered where the brood-cow waits in the hovel,
Where the bull advances to do his masculine work, where the stud
to the mare, where the cock is treading the hen,
Where the heifers browse, where geese nip their food with short
jerks,
Where sun-down shadows lengthen over the limitless and lone-
some prairie,
Where herds of buffalo make a crawling spread of the square
miles far and near,
Where the humming-bird shimmers, where the neck of the long-
lived swan is curving and winding,
Where the laughing-gull scoots by the shore, where she laughs her
near human laugh,
Where bee-hives range on a gray bench in the garden half hid by
the high weeds,
Where band-neck'd partridges roost in a ring on the ground with
their heads out,
Where burial coaches enter the arch'd gates of a cemetery,
Where winter wolves bark amid wastes of snow and icicled trees,
Where the yellow-crown'd heron comes to the edge of the marsh
at night and feeds upon small crabs,
Where the splash of swimmers and divers cools the warm noon,
Where the katy-did works her chromatic reed on the walnut-tree
over the well,
Through patches of citrons and cucumbers with silver-wired
leaves,
Through the salt-lick or orange glade, or under conical firs,
Through the gymnasium, through the curtain'd saloon, through
the office or public hall;
Pleas'd with the native and pleas'd with the foreign, pleas'd with
the new and old,
Pleas'd with the homely woman as well as the handsome,
Pleas'd with the quakeress as she puts off her bonnet and talks
melodiously,
Pleas'd with the tune of the choir of the whitewash'd church,
Pleas'd with the earnest words of the sweating Methodist preacher,
impress'd seriously at the camp-meeting;
Looking in at the shop windows of Broadway the whole forenoon,
flatting the flesh of my nose on the thick plate glass,
Wandering the same afternoon with my face turn'd up to the
clouds, or down a lane or along the beach,
My right and left arms round the sides of two friends, and I in
the middle;
Coming home with the silent and dark-cheek'd bush-boy, (behind
me he rides at the drape of the day,)
Far from the settlements studying the print of animals' feet, or
the moccasin print,
By the cot in the hospital reaching lemonade to a feverish patient,
Nigh the cofffin'd corpse when all is still, examining with a candle;
Voyaging to every port to dicker and adventure,
Hurrying with the modern crowd as eager and fickle as any,
Hot toward one I hate, ready in my madness to knife him;
Solitary at midnight in my back yard, my thoughts gone from me
a long while,
Walking the old hills of Judaea with the beautiful gentle God by
my side,
Speeding through space, speeding through heaven and the stars,
Speeding amid the seven satellites and the broad ring, and the
diameter of eighty thousand miles,
Speeding with tail'd meteors, throwing fire-balls like the rest,
Carrying the crescent child that carries its own full mother in its
belly,
Storming, enjoying, planning, loving, cautioning,
Backing and hilling, appearing and disappearing,
I tread day and night such roads.
I visit the orchards of spheres and look at the product,
And look at quintillions ripen'd and look at quintillions green.
I fly those flights of a fluid and swallowing soul,
My course runs below the soundings of plummets.
I help myself to material and immaterial,
No guard can shut me off, no law prevent me.
I anchor my ship for a little while only,
My messengers continually cruise away or bring their returns to me.
I go hunting polar furs and the seal, leaping chasms with a pike-
pointed staff, clinging to topples of brittle and blue.
I ascend to the foretruck,
I take my place late at night in the crows-nest,
We sail the arctic sea, it is plenty light enough,
Through the clear atmosphere I stretch around on the wonderful
beauty,
The enormous masses of ice pass me and I pass them, the scenery
is plain in all directions,
The white-topt mountains show in the distance, I fling out my
fancies toward them,
We are approaching some great battle-field in which we are soon
to be engaged,
We pass the colossal outposts of the encampment, we pass with
still feet and caution,
Or we are entering by the suburbs some vast and ruin'd city,
The blocks and fallen architecture more than all the living cities
of the globe.
I am a free companion, I bivouac by invading watchfires,
I turn the bridegroom out of bed and stay with the bride myself,
I tighten her all night to my thighs and lips.
My voice is the wife's voice, the screech by the rail of the stairs,
They fetch my man's body up dripping and drowned.
I understand the large hearts of heroes,
The courage of present times and all times,
How the skipper saw the crowded and rudderless wreck of the
steamship, and Death chasing it up and down the storm,
How he knuckled tight and gave not back an inch, and was faith-
ful of days and faithful of nights, And chalk'd in large letters on a board, Be of
good cheer, we will
not desert you;
How he follow'd with them and tack'd with them three days
and would not give it up,
How he saved the drifting company at last,
How the lank loose-gown'd women look'd when boated from the
side of their prepared graves,
How the silent old faced infants and the lifted sick, and the sharp-
lipp'd unshaven men;
All this I swallow, it tastes good, I like it well, it becomes mine,
I am the man, I suffered, I was there.
The disdain and calmness of martyrs,
The mother of old, condemn'd for a witch, burnt with dry wood,
her children gazing on,
The hounded slave that flags in the race, leans by the fence,
blowing, cover'd with sweat, The twinges that sting like needles his legs and
neck, the mur-
derous buckshot and the bullets,
All these I feel or am.
I am the hounded slave, I wince at the bite of the dogs,
Hell and despair are upon me, crack and again crack the marks-
men,
I clutch the rails of the fence, my gore dribs, thinn'd with the
ooze of my skin,
I fall on the weeds and stones,
The riders spur their unwilling horses, haul close,
Taunt my dizzy ears and beat me violently over the head with
whipstocks.
Agonies are one of my changes of garments,
I do not ask the wounded person how he feels, I myself become
the wounded person,
My hurts turn livid upon me as I lean on a cane and observe.
I am the mash'd fireman with breast-bone broken,
Tumbling walls buried me in their debris,
Heat and smoke I inspired, I heard the yelling shouts of my
comrades,
I heard the distant click of their picks and shovels,
They have clear'd the beams away, they tenderly lift me forth.
I lie in the night air in my red shirt, the pervading hush is for my
sake,
Painless after all I lie exhausted but not so unhappy,
White and beautiful are the faces around me, the heads are bared
of their fire-caps,
The kneeling crowd fades with the light of the torches.
Distant and dead resuscitate,
They show as the dial or move as the hands of me, I am the clock
myself.
I am an old artillerist, I tell of my fort's bombardment,
I am there again.
Again the long roll of the drummers,
Again the attacking cannon, mortars,
Again to my listening ears the cannon responsive.
I take part, I see and hear the whole,
The cries, curses, roar, the plaudits for well-aim'd shots,
The ambulanza slowly passing trailing its red drip,
Workmen searching after damages, making indispensable repairs,
The fall of grenades through the rent roof, the fan-shaped ex-
plosion,
The whizz of limbs, heads, stone, wood, iron, high in the air.
Again gurgles the mouth of my dying general, he furiously waves
with his hand,
He gasps through the clot Mind not me--mind--the entrench-
ments.
34
Now I tell what I know in Texas in my early youth,
(I tell not the fall of Alamo,
Not one escaped to tell the fall of Alamo,
The hundred and fifty are dumb yet at Alamo,)
'Tis the tale of the murder in cold blood of four hundred and
twelve young men.
Retreating they had form'd in a hollow square with their baggage
for breastworks,
Nine hundred lives out of the surrounding enemy's, nine times
their number, was the price they took in advance,
Their colonel was wounded and their ammunition gone,
They treated for an honorable capitulation, receiv'd writing and
seal, gave up their arms and march'd back prisoners of war.
They were the glory of the race of rangers,
Matchless with horse, rifle, song, supper, courtship,
Large, turbulent, generous, handsome, proud, and affectionate,
Bearded, sunburnt, drest in the free costume of hunters,
Not a single one over thirty years of age.
The second First-day morning they were brought out in squads
and massacred, it was beautiful early summer,
The work commenced about five o'clock and was over by eight.
None obey'd the command to kneel,
Some made a mad and helpless rush, some stood stark and
straight,
A few fell at once, shot in the temple or heart, the living and
dead lay together,
The maim'd and mangled dug in the dirt, the new-comers saw
them there,
Some half-kill'd attempted to crawl away,
These were despatch'd with bayonets or batter'd with the blunts
of muskets.
A youth not seventeen years old seiz'd his assassin till two more
came to release him,
The three were all torn and cover'd with the boy's blood.
At eleven o'clock began the burning of the bodies;
That is the tale of the murder of the four hundred and twelve
young men.
35
Would you hear of an old-time sea-fight?
Would you learn who won by the light of the moon and stars?
List to the yarn, as my grandmother's father the sailor told it to
me.
Our foe was no skulk in his ship I tell you, (said he,)
His was the surly English pluck, and there is no tougher or truer,
and never was, and never will be;
Along the lower'd eve he came horribly raking us.
We closed with him, the yards entangled, the cannon touch'd,
My captain lash'd fast with his own hands.
We had receiv'd some eighteen pound shots under the water,
On our lower-gun-deck two large pieces had burst at the first fire,
killing all around and blowing up overhead.
Fighting at sun-down, fighting at dark,
Ten o'clock at night, the full moon well up, our leaks on the gain,
and five feet of water reported,
The master-at-arms loosing the prisoners confined in the after-
hold to give them a chance for themselves.
The transit to and from the magazine is now stopt by the sen-
tinels,
They see so many strange faces they do not know whom to trust.
Our frigate takes fire,
The other asks if we demand quarter?
If our colors are struck and the fighting done?
Now I laugh content, for I hear the voice of my little captain,
We have not struck, he composedly cries, we have just begun our
part of the fighting.
nly three guns are in use,
One is directed by the captain himself against the enemy's main-
mast,
Two well serv'd with grape and canister silence his musketry and
clear his decks.
The tops alone second the fire of this little battery, especially the
main-top,
They hold out bravely during the whole of the action.
Not a moment's cease,
The leaks gain fast on the pumps, the fire eats toward the powder-
magazine.
One of the pumps has been shot away, it is generally thought we
are sinking.
Serene stands the little captain,
He is not hurried, his voice is neither high nor low,
His eyes give more light to us than our battle-lanterns.
Toward twelve there in the beams of the moon they surrender to
us
36
Stretch'd and still lies the midnight,
Two great hulls motionless on the breast of the darkness,
Our vessel riddled and slowly sinking, preparations to pass to the
one we have conquer'd,
The captain on the quarter-deck coldly giving his orders through
a countenance white as a sheet,
Near by the corpse of the child that serv'd in the cabin,
The dead face of an old salt with long white hair and carefully
curl'd whiskers,
The flames spite of all that can be done flickering aloft and below,
The husky voices of the two or three officers yet fit for duty.
Formless stacks of bodies and bodies by themselves, dabs of flesh
upon the masts and spars,
Cut of cordage, dangle of rigging, light shock of the soothe of
waves,
Black and impassive guns, litter of powder-parcels, strong scent,
A few large stars overhead, silent and mournful shining,
Delicate sniffs of sea-breeze, smells of sedgy grass and fields by the
shore, death-messages given in charge to survivors,
The hiss of the surgeon's knife, the gnawing teeth of his saw.
Wheeze, cluck, swash of falling blood, short wild scream, and
long, dull, tapering groan,
These so, these irretrievable.
37
You laggards there on guard! look to your arms!
In at the conquer'd doors they crowd! I am posses'd!
Embody all presences outlaw'd or suffering,
See myself in prison shaped like another man,
And feel the dull unintermitted pain.
For me the keepers of convicts shoulder their carbines and keep
watch,
It is I let out in the morning and barr'd at night.
Not a muntineer walks handcuff'd to jail but I am handcuff'd to
him and walk by his side,
(I am less the jolly one there, and more the silent one with sweat
on my twitching lips.)
Not a youngster is taken for larceny but I go up too, and am tried
and sentenced.
Not a cholera patient lies at the last gasp but I also lie at the last
gasp,
My face is ash-color'd, my sinews gnarl, away from me people
retreat.
Askers embody themselves in me and I am embodied in them,
I project my hat, sit shame-faced, and beg.
38
Enough! enough! enough!
Somehow I have been stunn'd. Stand back!
Give me a little time beyond my cuff'd head, slumbers, dreams,
gaping,
I discover myself on the verge of a usual mistake.
That I could forget the mockers and insults!
That I could forget the trickling tears and the blows of the bludg-
eons and hammers!
That I could look with a separate look on my own crucifixion and
bloody crowning!
I remember now,
I resume the overstaid fraction,
The grave of rock multiplies what has been confided to it, or to
any graves,
Corpses rise, gashes heal, fastenings roll from me.
I troop forth replenish'd with supreme power, one of an average
unending procession,
Inland and sea-coast we go, and pass all boundary lines,
Our swift ordinances on their way over the whole earth.
The blossoms we wear in our hats the growth of thousands of
years.
Eleves, I salute you! come forward!
Continue your annotations, continue your questionings.
39
The friendly and flowing savage, who is he?
Is he waiting for civilization, or past it and mastering it?
Is he some Southwesterner rais'd out-doors? is he Kanadian?
Is he from the Mississippi country? Iowa, Oregon, California?
The mountains? prairie-life, bush-life? or sailor from the sea
Wherever he goes men and women accept and desire him,
They desire he should like them,touch them, speak to them, stay
with them.
Behavior lawless as snow-flakes, words simple as grass, uncomb'd
head, laughter, and naivete,
Slow-stepping feet, common features common modes and emana-
tions,
They descend in new forms from the tips of his fingers,
They are wafted with the odor of his body or breath, they fly out
of the glance of his eye.
40
Flaunt of the sunshine I need not your bask--lie over!
You light surfaces only, I force surfaces and depths also.
Earth! you seem to look for something at my hands,
Say, old top-knot, what do you want?
Man or woman, I might tell how I like you, but cannot,
And might tell what it is in me and what it is in you, but cannot,
And might tell that pining I have, that pulse of my nights and
days.
Behold, I do not give lectures or a little charity,
When I give I give myself.
You there, impotent, loose in the knees,
Open your scarf'd chops till I blow grit within you,
Spread your palms and lift the flaps of your pockets,
I am not to be denied, I compel, I have stores plenty and to spare,
And any thing I have I bestow.
I do not ask who you are, that is not important to me,
You can do nothing and be nothing but what I will infold you.
To cotton-field drudge or cleaner of privies I lean,
On his right cheek I put the family kiss,
And in my soul I swear I never will deny him.
On women fit for conception I start bigger and nimbler babes,
(This day I am jetting the stuff of far more arrogant republics.)
To any one dying, thither I speed and twist the knob of the door,
Turn the bed-clothes toward the foot of the bed,
Let the physician and the priest go home.
I seize the descending man and raise him with resistless will,
O despairer here is my neck,
By God, you shall not go down! hang your whole weight upon me.
I dilate you with tremendous breath, I buoy you up,
Every room of the house do I fill with an arm'd force,
Lovers of me, bafflers of graves.
Sleep--I and they keep guard all night,
Not doubt, not decease shall dare to lay finger upon you,
I have embraced you, and henceforth possess you to myself,
And when you rise in the morning you will find what I tell you is so.
41
I am he bringing help for the sick as they pant on their backs,
And for strong upright men I bring yet more needed help.
I heard what was said of the universe,
Heard it and heard it of several thousand years;
It is middling well as far as it goes--but is that all?
Magnifying and applying come I,
Outbidding at the start the old cautious hucksters,
Taking myself the exact dimensions of Jehovah,
Lithographing Kronos, Zeus his son, and Hercules his grandson,
Buying drafts of Osiris, Isis, Belus, Brahma, Buddha,
In my portfolio placing Manito loose, Allah on a leaf, the crucifix
engraved,
With Odin and the hideous-faced Mexitli and every idol and
image,
Taking them all for what they are worth and not a cent more,
Admitting they were alive and did the work of their days,
(They bore mites as for unfledg'd birds who have now to rise and
fly and sing for themselves,)
Accepting the rough deific sketches to fill out better in myself, be-
stowing them freely on each man and woman I see,
Discovering as much or more in a framer framing a house,
Putting higher claims for him there with his roll'd-up sleeves
driving the mallet and chisel,
Not objecting to special revelations, considering a curl of smoke or
a hair on the back of my hand just as curious as any revela-
tion,
Lads ahold of fire-engines and hook-and-ladder ropes no less to me
than the gods of the antique wars,
Minding their voices peal through the crash of destruction,
Their brawny limbs passing safe over charr'd laths, their white
foreheads whole and unhurt out of the flames;
By the mechanic's wife with her babe at her nipple interceding
for every person born,
Three scythes at harvest whizzing in a row from three lusty angels
with shirts bagg'd out at their waists,
The snag-tooth'd hostler with red hair redeeming sins past and to
come,
Selling all he possesses, traveling on foot to fee lawyers for his
brother and sit by him while he is tried for forgery;
What was strewn in the amplest strewing the square rod about
me, and not filling the square rod then,
The bull and the bug never worshipp'd half enough,
Dung and dirt more admirable than was dream'd,
The supernatural of no account, myself waiting my time to be
one of the supremes,
The day getting ready for me when I shall do as much good as
the best, and be as prodigious;
By my life-lumps! becoming already a creator,
Putting myself here and now to the ambush'd womb of the
shadows.
42
A call in the midst of the crowd,
My own voice, orotund sweeping and final
Come my children,
Come my boys and girls, my women, household and intimates,
Now the performer launches his nerve, he has pass'd his prelude
on the reeds within.
Easily written loose-finger'd chords--I feel the hrum of your clim-
ax and close.
My head slues round on my neck
Music rolls, but not from the organ,
Folks are around me, but they are no household of mine
Ever the hard unsunk ground,
Ever the eaters and drinkers, ever the upward and downward sun,
ever the air and the ceaseless tides,
Ever myself and my neighbors, refreshing, wicked, real,
Ever the old inexplicable query, ever that thorn'd thumb, that
breath of itches and thirsts,
Ever the vexer's hoot! hoot! till we find where the sly one hides
and bring him forth,
Ever love, ever the sobbing liquid of life,
Ever the bandage under the chin, ever the trestles of death.
Here and there with dimes on the eyes walking,
To feed the greed of the belly the brains liberally spooning,
Tickets buying, taking, selling, but in to the feast never once going,
Many sweating, ploughing, thrashing, and then the chaff for pay-
ment receiving,
A few idly owning, and they the wheat continually claiming.
This is the city and I am one of the citizens,
Whatever interests the rest interests me, politics, wars, markets,
newspapers, schools,
The mayor and councils, banks, tariffs, steamships, factories,
stocks, stores, real estate and personal estate.
The little plentiful manikins skipping around in collars and tail'd
coats,
I am aware who they are, (they are positively not worms or fleas,)
I acknowledge the duplicates of myself, the weakest and shallow-
est is deathless with me,
What I do and say the same waits for them,
Every thought that flounders in me the same flounders in them.
I know perfectly well my own egotism,
Know my omnivorous lines and must not write any less,
And would fetch you whoever you are flush with myself.
Not words of routine this song of mine,
But abruptly to question, to leap beyond yet nearer bring;
This printed and bound book--but the printer and the printing-
office boy?
The well-taken photographs--hut your wife or friend close and
solid in your arms?
The black ship mail'd with iron, her mighty guns in her turrets--
but the pluck of the captain and engineers?
In the houses the dishes and fare and furniture--but the host and
hostess, and the look out of their eyes?
The sky up there--yet here or next door, or across the way?
The saints and sages in history--but you yourself?
Sermons, creeds, theology--but the fathomless human brain,
And what is reason? and what is love? and what is life?
43
I do not despise you priests, all time, the world over,
My faith is the greatest of faiths and the least of faiths,
Enclosing worship ancient and modern and all between ancient
and modern,
Believing I shall come again upon the earth after Eve thousand
years,
Waiting responses from oracles, honoring the gods, saluting the
sun,
Making a fetish of the first rock or stump, powowing with sticks
in the circle of obis,
Helping the lama or brahmin as he trims the lamps of the idols,
Dancing yet through the streets in a phallic procession, rapt and
austere in the woods a gymnosophist,
Drinking mead from the skull-cup, to Shastas and Vedas admir-
ant, minding the Koran,
Walking the teokallis, spotted with gore from the stone and
knife, beating the serpent-skin drum,
Accepting the Gospels, accepting him that was crucified, knowing
assuredly that he is divine,
To the mass kneeling or the puritan's prayer rising, or sitting
patiently in a pew,
Ranting and frothing in my insane crisis, or waiting dead-like till
my spirit arouses me,
Looking forth on pavement and land, or outside of pavement and
land,
Belonging to the winders of the circuit of circuits.
One of that centripetal and centrifugal gang I turn and talk like a
man leaving charges before a journey.
Down-hearted doubters dull and excluded,
Frivolous, sullen, moping, angry, affected, disheartened, atheistical,
I know every one of you, I know the sea of torment, doubt, de-
spair and unbelief.
How the flukes splash!
How they contort rapid as lightning, with spasms and spouts of
blood!
Be at peace bloody flukes of doubters and sullen mopers,
I take my place among you as much as among any,
The past is the push of you, me, all, precisely the same,
And what is yet untried and afterward is for me, all precisely
the same.
I do not know what is untried and afterward,
But I know it will in its turn prove sufficient, and cannot fail.
Each who passes is considered each who stops is considered not a
single one can it fail.
It cannot fail the voung man who died and was buried,
Nor the young woman who died and was put by his side
Nor the little child that peep'd in at the door, and then drew
back and was never seen again,
Nor the old man who has lived without purpose, and feels it with
bitterness worse than gall,
Nor him in the poor house tubercled by rum and the bad disorder,
Nor the numberlessslaughtered and wrecked nor the brutish ko-
boo called the ordure of humanity,
Nor the sacs merely floating with open mouths for food to slip in,
Nor any thing in the earth, or down in the oldest graves of the
earth,
Nor any thing in the myriads of spheres, nor the myriads of
myriads that inhabit them,
Nor the present, nor the least wisp that is known.
44
It is time to explain myself--let us stand up.
What is known I strip away,
I launch all men and women forward with me into the Unknown.
The clock indicates the moment--but what does eternity indi-
cate?
We have thus far exhausted trillions of winters and summers,
There are trillions ahead, and trillions ahead of them.
Births have brought us richness and variety,
And other births will bring us richness and variety.
I do not
我听见美国在歌唱
我听见美国在歌唱，我听见各种各样的歌，
那些机械工人的歌，每个人都唱着他那理所当然地快乐而又
雄伟的歌，
木匠一面衡量着他的木板或房梁，一面唱着他的歌，
泥水匠在准备开始工作或离开工作的时候唱着他的歌，
船夫在他的船上唱着属于他的歌，舱面水手在汽船甲板上唱
歌，
鞋匠坐在他的凳子上唱歌，做帽子的人站着唱歌，
伐木者的砍，牵引耕畜的孩子在早晨、午休或日落时走在路上
唱的歌，
母亲或年轻的妻子在工作时，或者姑娘在缝纫或洗衣裳时甜
美地唱着的歌，
每个人都唱着属于他或她而不属于任何其他人的歌，
白天唱着属于白天的歌——晚上这一群体格健壮、友好相处
的年轻小伙子，
就放开嗓子唱起他们那雄伟而又悦耳的歌。
一只沉默而耐心的蜘蛛
一只沉默而耐心的蜘蛛，
我注意它孤立地站在小小的海岬上．
注意它怎样勘测周围的茫茫空虚，
它射出了丝，丝，丝，从它自己之小，
不断地从纱绽放丝，不倦地加快速率。
而你——我的心灵啊，你站在何处，
被包围被孤立在无限空间的海洋里，
不停地沉思、探险、投射、寻求可以连结的地方，
直到架起你需要的桥，直到下定你韧性的锚，
直到你抛出的游丝抓住了某处，我的心灵啊！
哦．船长，我的船长！
哦．船长，我的船长！我们险恶的航程已经告终，
我们的船安渡过惊涛骇浪，我们寻求的奖赏已赢得手中。
港口已经不远，钟声我已听见，万千人众在欢呼呐喊，
目迎着我们的船从容返航，我们的船威严而且勇敢。
可是，心啊！心啊！心啊！
哦．殷红的血滴流泻，
在甲板上，那里躺着我的船长，
他已倒下，已死去，已冷却。
哦，船长，我的船长！起来吧，请听听这钟声，
起来，——旌旗，为你招展——号角，为你长鸣。
为你．岸上挤满了人群——为你，无数花束、彩带、花环。
为你，熙攘的群众在呼唤，转动着多少殷切的脸。
这里，船长！亲爱的父亲！
你头颅下边是我的手臂！
这是甲板上的一场梦啊，
你已倒下，已死去，已冷却。
我们的船长不作回答，他的双唇惨白、寂静，
我的父亲不能感觉我的手臂，他已没有脉搏、没有生命，
我们的船已安全抛锚碇泊，航行已完成，已告终，
胜利的船从险恶的旅途归来，我们寻求的已赢得手中。
欢呼，哦，海岸！轰鸣，哦，洪钟！
可是，我却轻移悲伤的步履，
在甲板上，那里躺着我的船长，
他已倒下，已死去，已冷却。
我在路易斯安那看见一棵栎树在生长
我在路易斯安那看见一棵栎树在生长，
它独自屹立着，树枝上垂着苔藓，
没有任何伴侣，它在那儿长着，进发出暗绿色的欢乐的树
叶，
它的气度粗鲁，刚宜，健壮，使我联想起自己，
但我惊讶于它如何能孤独屹立附近没有一个朋友而仍能
进发出欢乐的树叶，因为我明知我做不到，
于是我折下一根小枝上面带有若干叶子．并给它缠上一
点苔藓，
带走了它，插在我房间里在我眼界内．
我对我亲爱的朋友们的思念并不需要提醒，
（因为我相信近来我对他们的思念压倒了一切，）
但这树枝对我仍然是一个奇妙的象征，它使我想到
男子气概的爱；
尽管啊，尽管这棵栎树在路易斯安那孤独屹立在一片辽
阔中闪烁发光，
附近没有一个朋友一个情侣而一辈子不停地进发出欢乐
的树叶，
而我明知我做不到。
黑夜里在海滩上
黑夜里在海滩上，
一个小女孩和她父亲一起站着
望着东方，望着秋天的长空。
从黑暗的高空中，
从淹留在东方的一片透明的天空．
当埋葬一切的乌云正在黑压压地撒下，
越来越低，迅速地从上面横扫下来．
升起了那巨大的，宁静的主星——木星，
而在他的近处，就在他上面一点，
闪烁着纤秀的贝丽亚特斯姊妹星群。
在海滩上，这小女孩拉着她父亲的手，
眼看着那埋葬一切的云，气势凌人地压下来，
立刻就要吞灭一切，
默默地啜泣起来。
别哭，孩子
别哭，我的宝贝，
让我来吻干你的眼泪，
这阵可怕的乌云不会永久气盛凌人的，
它们不会长久霸占天空，吞灭星星只不过是幻象，
耐心的等吧，过一晚，木星一定又会出现，
贝丽亚特斯星群也会出现，
它们是不朽的，所有这些发金光和银光的星星都会
重新发光，
大星星和小星星都会重新发光，它们会永久存在，
大星星和小星星都会重新发光，它们会永久存在，
硕大的不朽的大阳和永久存在、沉思的月亮都会重新
发光。
那么，亲爱的孩子，难道你单单为木星还会悲伤7
难道你单单为了乌云埋葬星星着想?
有些东西，
（我用我的嘴唇亲你，并且低低告诉你，
我给你暗示．告诉你问题和侧面的答复，）
有些东西甚至比星星还要不朽，
（多少个星星被埋葬了，多少个日夜逝去了，再也
不回，)
有些东西甚至比光辉的木星存在得更久，
比太阳或任何环绕转动着的卫星，
或光芒闪耀的贝丽亚特斯姊妹星群，存在得还要长久！