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

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pulsing blood,

       The personal urge and form for me — not merely paper, automatic type

       and ink,)

       Each song of mine — each utterance in the past — having its long, long

       history,

       Of life or death, or soldier’s wound, of country’s loss or safety,

       (O heaven! what flash and started endless train of all! compared

       indeed to that!

       What wretched shred e’en at the best of all!)

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      After a week of physical anguish,

       Unrest and pain, and feverish heat,

       Toward the ending day a calm and lull comes on,

       Three hours of peace and soothing rest of brain.

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      The touch of flame — the illuminating fire — the loftiest look at last,

       O’er city, passion, sea — o’er prairie, mountain, wood — the earth itself,

       The airy, different, changing hues of all, in failing twilight,

       Objects and groups, bearings, faces, reminiscences;

       The calmer sight — the golden setting, clear and broad:

       So much i’ the atmosphere, the points of view, the situations whence

       we scan,

       Bro’t out by them alone — so much (perhaps the best) unreck’d before;

       The lights indeed from them — old age’s lambent peaks.

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      After the supper and talk — after the day is done,

       As a friend from friends his final withdrawal prolonging,

       Good-bye and Good-bye with emotional lips repeating,

       (So hard for his hand to release those hands — no more will they meet,

       No more for communion of sorrow and joy, of old and young,

       A far-stretching journey awaits him, to return no more,)

       Shunning, postponing severance — seeking to ward off the last word

       ever so little,

       E’en at the exit-door turning — charges superfluous calling back —

       e’en as he descends the steps,

       Something to eke out a minute additional — shadows of nightfall deepening,

       Farewells, messages lessening — dimmer the forthgoer’s visage and form,

       Soon to be lost for aye in the darkness — loth, O so loth to depart!

       Garrulous to the very last.

      BOOK XXXV. GOOD-BYE MY FANCY

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      Heave the anchor short!

       Raise main-sail and jib — steer forth,

       O little white-hull’d sloop, now speed on really deep waters,

       (I will not call it our concluding voyage,

       But outset and sure entrance to the truest, best, maturest;)

       Depart, depart from solid earth — no more returning to these shores,

       Now on for aye our infinite free venture wending,

       Spurning all yet tried ports, seas, hawsers, densities, gravitation,

       Sail out for good, eidolon yacht of me!

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      And whence and why come you?

      We know not whence, (was the answer,)

       We only know that we drift here with the rest,

       That we linger’d and lagg’d — but were wafted at last, and are now here,

       To make the passing shower’s concluding drops.

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      Good-bye my fancy — (I had a word to say,

       But ’tis not quite the time — The best of any man’s word or say,

       Is when its proper place arrives — and for its meaning,

       I keep mine till the last.)

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      On, on the same, ye jocund twain!

       My life and recitative, containing birth, youth, mid-age years,

       Fitful as motley-tongues of flame, inseparably twined and merged in

       one — combining all,

       My single soul — aims, confirmations, failures, joys — Nor single soul alone,

       I chant my nation’s crucial stage, (America’s, haply humanity’s) —

       the trial great, the victory great,

       A strange eclaircissement of all the masses past, the eastern world,

       the ancient, medieval,

       Here, here from wanderings, strayings, lessons, wars, defeats — here

       at the west a voice triumphant — justifying all,

       A gladsome pealing cry — a song for once of utmost pride and satisfaction;

       I chant from it the common bulk, the general average horde, (the

       best sooner than the worst) — And now I chant old age,

       (My verses, written first for forenoon life, and for the summer’s,

       autumn’s spread,

       I pass to snow-white hairs the same, and give to pulses

       winter-cool’d the same;)

       As here in careless trill, I and my recitatives, with faith and love,

       wafting to other work, to unknown songs, conditions,

       On, on ye jocund twain! continue on the same!

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