LITMIR.BIZ

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from his cheeks,

       He sees the slaughter of the southern braves confided to him by

       their parents.

      The same at last and at last when peace is declared,

       He stands in the room of the old tavern, the well-belov’d soldiers

       all pass through,

       The officers speechless and slow draw near in their turns,

       The chief encircles their necks with his arm and kisses them on the cheek,

       He kisses lightly the wet cheeks one after another, he shakes hands

       and bids good-by to the army.

      6

       Now what my mother told me one day as we sat at dinner together,

       Of when she was a nearly grown girl living home with her parents on

       the old homestead.

      A red squaw came one breakfast-time to the old homestead,

       On her back she carried a bundle of rushes for rush-bottoming chairs,

       Her hair, straight, shiny, coarse, black, profuse, half-envelop’d

       her face,

       Her step was free and elastic, and her voice sounded exquisitely as

       she spoke.

      My mother look’d in delight and amazement at the stranger,

       She look’d at the freshness of her tall-borne face and full and

       pliant limbs,

       The more she look’d upon her she loved her,

       Never before had she seen such wonderful beauty and purity,

       She made her sit on a bench by the jamb of the fireplace, she cook’d

       food for her,

       She had no work to give her, but she gave her remembrance and fondness.

      The red squaw staid all the forenoon, and toward the middle of the

       afternoon she went away,

       O my mother was loth to have her go away,

       All the week she thought of her, she watch’d for her many a month,

       She remember’d her many a winter and many a summer,

       But the red squaw never came nor was heard of there again.

      7

       A show of the summer softness — a contact of something unseen — an

       amour of the light and air,

       I am jealous and overwhelm’d with friendliness,

       And will go gallivant with the light and air myself.

      O love and summer, you are in the dreams and in me,

       Autumn and winter are in the dreams, the farmer goes with his thrift,

       The droves and crops increase, the barns are well-fill’d.

      Elements merge in the night, ships make tacks in the dreams,

       The sailor sails, the exile returns home,

       The fugitive returns unharm’d, the immigrant is back beyond months

       and years,

       The poor Irishman lives in the simple house of his childhood with

       the well known neighbors and faces,

       They warmly welcome him, he is barefoot again, he forgets he is well off,

       The Dutchman voyages home, and the Scotchman and Welshman voyage

       home, and the native of the Mediterranean voyages home,

       To every port of England, France, Spain, enter well-fill’d ships,

       The Swiss foots it toward his hills, the Prussian goes his way, the

       Hungarian his way, and the Pole his way,

       The Swede returns, and the Dane and Norwegian return.

      The homeward bound and the outward bound,

       The beautiful lost swimmer, the ennuye, the onanist, the female that

       loves unrequited, the money-maker,

       The actor and actress, those through with their parts and those

       waiting to commence,

       The affectionate boy, the husband and wife, the voter, the nominee

       that is chosen and the nominee that has fail’d,

       The great already known and the great any time after to-day,

       The stammerer, the sick, the perfect-form’d, the homely,

       The criminal that stood in the box, the judge that sat and sentenced

       him, the fluent lawyers, the jury, the audience,

       The laugher and weeper, the dancer, the midnight widow, the red squaw,

       The consumptive, the erysipalite, the idiot, he that is wrong’d,

       The antipodes, and every one between this and them in the dark,

       I swear they are averaged now — one is no better than the other,

       The night and sleep have liken’d them and restored them.

      I swear they are all beautiful,

       Every one that sleeps is beautiful, every thing in the dim light is

       beautiful,

       The wildest and bloodiest is over, and all is peace.

      Peace is always beautiful,

       The myth of heaven indicates peace and night.

      The myth of heaven indicates the soul,

       The soul is always beautiful, it appears more or it appears less, it

       comes or it lags behind,

       It comes from its embower’d garden and looks pleasantly on itself

       and encloses the world,

       Perfect and clean the genitals previously jetting,and perfect and

       clean the womb cohering,

       The head well-grown proportion’d and plumb, and the bowels and

       joints proportion’d and plumb.

      The soul is always beautiful,

       The universe is duly in order, every thing is in its place,

       What has arrived is in its place and what waits shall be in its place,

       The twisted skull waits, the watery or rotten blood waits,

       The child of the glutton or venerealee waits long, and the child of

       the drunkard waits long, and the drunkard himself waits long,

       The sleepers that lived and died wait, the far advanced are to go on

       in their turns, and the far behind are to come on in their turns,

       The diverse shall be no less diverse, but they shall flow and unite —

       they unite now.

      8

       The sleepers are very beautiful as they lie unclothed,

       They flow hand in hand over the whole earth from east to west as

       they lie unclothed,

       The Asiatic and African are hand in hand, the European and American

       are hand in hand,

       Learn’d and unlearn’d are hand in hand, and male and female are hand

       in hand,

       The bare arm of the girl crosses the bare breast of her lover, they

       press close without lust, his lips press her neck,

      

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