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

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 truckling fold with powders for invalids, conformity

       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 compass,

       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 myself,

       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 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 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.

      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 СКАЧАТЬ