The Walt Whitman MEGAPACK ®. Walt Whitman

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      For You, O Democracy

      Come, I will make the continent indissoluble,

      I will make the most splendid race the sun ever shone upon,

      I will make divine magnetic lands,

      With the love of comrades,

      With the life-long love of comrades.

      I will plant companionship thick as trees along all the rivers of America, and along the shores of the great lakes, and all over the prairies,

      I will make inseparable cities with their arms about each other’s necks,

      By the love of comrades,

      By the manly love of comrades.

      For you these from me, O Democracy, to serve you ma femme!

      For you, for you I am trilling these songs.

      These I Singing in Spring

      These I singing in spring collect for lovers,

      (For who but I should understand lovers and all their sorrow and joy?

      And who but I should be the poet of comrades?)

      Collecting I traverse the garden the world, but soon I pass the gates,

      Now along the pond-side, now wading in a little, fearing not the wet,

      Now by the post-and-rail fences where the old stones thrown there, pick’d from the fields, have accumulated,

      (Wild-flowers and vines and weeds come up through the stones and partly cover them, beyond these I pass,)

      Far, far in the forest, or sauntering later in summer, before I think where I go,

      Solitary, smelling the earthy smell, stopping now and then in the silence,

      Alone I had thought, yet soon a troop gathers around me,

      Some walk by my side and some behind, and some embrace my arms or neck,

      They the spirits of dear friends dead or alive, thicker they come, a great crowd, and I in the middle,

      Collecting, dispensing, singing, there I wander with them,

      Plucking something for tokens, tossing toward whoever is near me,

      Here, lilac, with a branch of pine,

      Here, out of my pocket, some moss which I pull’d off a live-oak in Florida as it hung trailing down,

      Here, some pinks and laurel leaves, and a handful of sage,

      And here what I now draw from the water, wading in the pondside,

      (O here I last saw him that tenderly loves me, and returns again never to separate from me,

      And this, O this shall henceforth be the token of comrades, this calamus-root shall,

      Interchange it youths with each other! let none render it back!)

      And twigs of maple and a bunch of wild orange and chestnut,

      And stems of currants and plum-blows, and the aromatic cedar,

      These I compass’d around by a thick cloud of spirits,

      Wandering, point to or touch as I pass, or throw them loosely from me,

      Indicating to each one what he shall have, giving something to each;

      But what I drew from the water by the pond-side, that I reserve,

      I will give of it, but only to them that love as I myself am capable of loving.

      Not Heaving from My Ribb’d Breast Only

      Not heaving from my ribb’d breast only,

      Not in sighs at night in rage dissatisfied with myself,

      Not in those long-drawn, ill-supprest sighs,

      Not in many an oath and promise broken,

      Not in my wilful and savage soul’s volition,

      Not in the subtle nourishment of the air,

      Not in this beating and pounding at my temples and wrists,

      Not in the curious systole and diastole within which will one day cease,

      Not in many a hungry wish told to the skies only,

      Not in cries, laughter, defiancies, thrown from me when alone far in the wilds,

      Not in husky pantings through clinch’d teeth,

      Not in sounded and resounded words, chattering words, echoes, dead words,

      Not in the murmurs of my dreams while I sleep,

      Nor the other murmurs of these incredible dreams of every day,

      Nor in the limbs and senses of my body that take you and dismiss you continually—not there,

      Not in any or all of them O adhesiveness! O pulse of my life!

      Need I that you exist and show yourself any more than in these songs.

      Of the Terrible Doubt of Appearances

      Of the terrible doubt of appearances,

      Of the uncertainty after all, that we may be deluded,

      That may-be reliance and hope are but speculations after all,

      That may-be identity beyond the grave is a beautiful fable only,

      May-be the things I perceive, the animals, plants, men, hills, shining and flowing waters,

      The skies of day and night, colors, densities, forms, may-be these are (as doubtless they are) only apparitions, and the real something has yet to be known,

      (How often they dart out of themselves as if to confound me and mock me!

      How often I think neither I know, nor any man knows, aught of them,)

      May-be seeming to me what they are (as doubtless they indeed but seem) as from my present point of view, and might prove (as of course they would) nought of what they appear, or nought anyhow, from entirely changed points of view;

      To me these and the like of these are curiously answer’d by my lovers, my dear friends,

      When he whom I love travels with me or sits a long while holding me by the hand,

      When the subtle air, the impalpable, the sense that words and reason hold not, surround us and pervade us,

      Then СКАЧАТЬ