I see you looking d

Added: Chardae Lipps - Date: 30.03.2022 03:27 - Views: 47475 - Clicks: 6497

Support the Archive. Support the Archive About the Archive. Distributed under a Creative Commons. Price, editors. The Walt Whitman Archive. My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air. Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same.

Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten. Houses and rooms are full of perfumes, the shelves are crowded with perfumes. 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.

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I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked. Echoes, ripples, buzz'd whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and vine. My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the pass- ing 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. 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 hill-sides.

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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? 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. I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the begin- ning and the end.

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.

Clear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not my soul. 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. 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 cover'd with white towels swelling the house with their plenty. Shall I postpone my acceptation and realization and scream at my eyes.

Exactly the value of one and exactly the value of two, and which is ahead? 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. 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. Looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest. Backward I see in my own days where I sweated through fog with linguists and contenders.

I believe in you my soul, the other I am must not abase itself to you. Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture, not even the best. 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 I see you looking d 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 that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women my sisters and lovers. And mossy scabs of the worm fence, heap'd stones, elder, mullein and poke-weed. said What is the grass? 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. Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say Whose? Or I guess the grass is itselfthe produced babe of the vegetation.

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It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken soon out of their mothers' laps. This grass is very dark to be from the white he of old mothers. 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. And what do you think has become of the women and chil- dren?

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And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it. 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. I am the mate and companion of people, all just as immortal and fathomless as myself.

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. And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot be shaken away. 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 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 flap of the curtain'd litter, a sick man inside borne to the hospital.

The excited crowd, the policeman with his star quickly working his passage to the centre of the crowd. 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.

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I mind them or the show or resonance of them—I come and I depart. Falling asleep on the 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.

I tuck'd my trowser-ends in my boots and went and had a good time. I 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 smoking, they had moccasins to their feet and large thick blankets 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.

Through the swung half-door of the kitchen I saw him limpsy and weak. 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 awkwardness. 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 me at table, my fire-lock lean'd in the corner. Dancing and laughing along the beach came the twenty-ninth bather. The beards of the young men glisten'd with wet, it ran from their long hair.

The young men float on their backs, their white bellies bulge to the sun, they do not ask who seizes fast to them.

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They do not know who puffs and declines with pendant and bend- ing arch. The butcher-boy puts off his killing-clothes, or sharpens his knife at the stall in the market. Each has his main-sledge, they are all out, there is a great heat in the fire. The lithe sheer of their waists plays even with their massive arms. Overhand the hammers swing, overhand so slow, overhand so sure. 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. 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. Oxen that rattle the yoke and chain or halt in the leafy shade, what is that you express in your eyes? My tread scares the wood-drake and wood-duck on my distant and day-long ramble.

And do not call the tortoise unworthy because she is not something else. And the jay in the woods never studied the gamut, yet trills pretty well to me. Ya-honk he says, and sounds it down to me like an invitation. The sharp-hoof'd moose of the north, the cat on the house-sill, the chickadee, the prairie-dog.

Of the builders and steerers of ships and the wielders of axes and mauls, and the drivers of horses. 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 mate stands braced in the whale-boat, lance and harpoon are ready. The spinning-girl retreats and advances to the hum of the big wheel.

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The farmer stops by the bars as he walks on a First-day loafe and looks at the oats and rye. He will never sleep any more as he did in the cot in his mother's bed-room. He turns his quid of tobacco while his eyes blurr with the manu- script. The quadroon girl is sold at the auction-stand, the drunkard nods by the bar-room stove.

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