LITMIR.BIZ

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young man?

       Are you so earnest, so given up to literature, science, art, amours?

       These ostensible realities, politics, points?

       Your ambition or business whatever it may be?

      It is well — against such I say not a word, I am their poet also,

       But behold! such swiftly subside, burnt up for religion’s sake,

       For not all matter is fuel to heat, impalpable flame, the essential

       life of the earth,

       Any more than such are to religion.

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       What do you seek so pensive and silent?

       What do you need camerado?

       Dear son do you think it is love?

      Listen dear son — listen America, daughter or son,

       It is a painful thing to love a man or woman to excess, and yet it

       satisfies, it is great,

       But there is something else very great, it makes the whole coincide,

       It, magnificent, beyond materials, with continuous hands sweeps and

       provides for all.

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       Know you, solely to drop in the earth the germs of a greater religion,

       The following chants each for its kind I sing.

      My comrade!

       For you to share with me two greatnesses, and a third one rising

       inclusive and more resplendent,

       The greatness of Love and Democracy, and the greatness of Religion.

      Melange mine own, the unseen and the seen,

       Mysterious ocean where the streams empty,

       Prophetic spirit of materials shifting and flickering around me,

       Living beings, identities now doubtless near us in the air that we

       know not of,

       Contact daily and hourly that will not release me,

       These selecting, these in hints demanded of me.

      Not he with a daily kiss onward from childhood kissing me,

       Has winded and twisted around me that which holds me to him,

       Any more than I am held to the heavens and all the spiritual world,

       After what they have done to me, suggesting themes.

      O such themes — equalities! O divine average!

       Warblings under the sun, usher’d as now, or at noon, or setting,

       Strains musical flowing through ages, now reaching hither,

       I take to your reckless and composite chords, add to them, and

       cheerfully pass them forward.

      11

       As I have walk’d in Alabama my morning walk,

       I have seen where the she-bird the mocking-bird sat on her nest in

       the briers hatching her brood.

      I have seen the he-bird also,

       I have paus’d to hear him near at hand inflating his throat and

       joyfully singing.

      And while I paus’d it came to me that what he really sang for was

       not there only,

       Nor for his mate nor himself only, nor all sent back by the echoes,

       But subtle, clandestine, away beyond,

       A charge transmitted and gift occult for those being born.

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       Democracy! near at hand to you a throat is now inflating itself and

       joyfully singing.

      Ma femme! for the brood beyond us and of us,

       For those who belong here and those to come,

       I exultant to be ready for them will now shake out carols stronger

       and haughtier than have ever yet been heard upon earth.

      I will make the songs of passion to give them their way,

       And your songs outlaw’d offenders, for I scan you with kindred eyes,

       and carry you with me the same as any.

      I will make the true poem of riches,

       To earn for the body and the mind whatever adheres and goes forward

       and is not dropt by death;

       I will effuse egotism and show it underlying all, and I will be the

       bard of personality,

       And I will show of male and female that either is but the equal of

       the other,

       And sexual organs and acts! do you concentrate in me, for I am determin’d

       to tell you with courageous clear voice to prove you illustrious,

       And I will show that there is no imperfection in the present, and

       can be none in the future,

       And I will show that whatever happens to anybody it may be turn’d to

       beautiful results,

       And I will show that nothing can happen more beautiful than death,

       And I will thread a thread through my poems that time and events are

       compact,

       And that all the things of the universe are perfect miracles, each

       as profound as any.

      I will not make poems with reference to parts,

       But I will make poems, songs, thoughts, with reference to ensemble,

       And I will not sing with reference to a day, but with reference to

       all days,

       And I will not make a poem nor the least part of a poem but has

       reference to the soul,

       Because having look’d at the objects of the universe, I find there

       is no one nor any particle of one but has reference to the soul.

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       Was somebody asking to see the soul?

       See, your own shape and countenance, persons, substances, beasts,

       the trees, the running rivers, the rocks and sands.

      All hold spiritual joys and afterwards loosen them;

       How can the real body ever die and be buried?

      Of your real body and any man’s or woman’s real body,

       Item for item it will elude the hands of the corpse-cleaners and

       pass to fitting spheres,

       Carrying what has accrued to it from the moment of birth to the

       moment of death.

      Not the types set up by the printer return their impression, the

       meaning, the main concern,

       Any more than a man’s substance and life or a woman’s substance and

       life return in the body and the soul,

       Indifferently before death and after death.

      Behold, the body includes and is the meaning, the main concern and

       includes and is the soul;

       Whoever you are, how superb and how divine is your body, or any part

       of it!

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