The Walt Whitman MEGAPACK ®. Walt Whitman

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ

      What has succeeded? yourself? your nation? Nature?

      Now understand me well—it is provided in the essence of things that from any fruition of success, no matter what, shall come forth something to make a greater struggle necessary.

      My call is the call of battle, I nourish active rebellion,

      He going with me must go well arm’d,

      He going with me goes often with spare diet, poverty, angry enemies, desertions.

      15

      Allons! the road is before us!

      It is safe—I have tried it—my own feet have tried it well—be not detain’d!

      Let the paper remain on the desk unwritten, and the book on the shelf unopen’d!

      Let the tools remain in the workshop! let the money remain unearn’d!

      Let the school stand! mind not the cry of the teacher!

      Let the preacher preach in his pulpit! let the lawyer plead in the court, and the judge expound the law.

      Camerado, I give you my hand!

      I give you my love more precious than money,

      I give you myself before preaching or law;

      Will you give me yourself? will you come travel with me?

      Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?

      BOOK VIII

      Crossing Brooklyn Ferry

      1

      Flood-tide below me! I see you face to face!

      Clouds of the west—sun there half an hour high—I see you also face to face.

      Crowds of men and women attired in the usual costumes, how curious you are to me!

      On the ferry-boats the hundreds and hundreds that cross, returning home, are more curious to me than you suppose,

      And you that shall cross from shore to shore years hence are more to me, and more in my meditations, than you might suppose.

      2

      The impalpable sustenance of me from all things at all hours of the day,

      The simple, compact, well-join’d scheme, myself disintegrated, every one disintegrated yet part of the scheme,

      The similitudes of the past and those of the future,

      The glories strung like beads on my smallest sights and hearings, on the walk in the street and the passage over the river,

      The current rushing so swiftly and swimming with me far away,

      The others that are to follow me, the ties between me and them,

      The certainty of others, the life, love, sight, hearing of others.

      Others will enter the gates of the ferry and cross from shore to shore,

      Others will watch the run of the flood-tide,

      Others will see the shipping of Manhattan north and west, and the heights of Brooklyn to the south and east,

      Others will see the islands large and small;

      Fifty years hence, others will see them as they cross, the sun half an hour high,

      A hundred years hence, or ever so many hundred years hence, others will see them,

      Will enjoy the sunset, the pouring-in of the flood-tide, the falling-back to the sea of the ebb-tide.

      3

      It avails not, time nor place—distance avails not,

      I am with you, you men and women of a generation, or ever so many generations hence,

      Just as you feel when you look on the river and sky, so I felt,

      Just as any of you is one of a living crowd, I was one of a crowd,

      Just as you are refresh’d by the gladness of the river and the bright flow, I was refresh’d,

      Just as you stand and lean on the rail, yet hurry with the swift current, I stood yet was hurried,

      Just as you look on the numberless masts of ships and the thick-stemm’d pipes of steamboats, I look’d.

      I too many and many a time cross’d the river of old,

      Watched the Twelfth-month sea-gulls, saw them high in the air floating with motionless wings, oscillating their bodies,

      Saw how the glistening yellow lit up parts of their bodies and left the rest in strong shadow,

      Saw the slow-wheeling circles and the gradual edging toward the south,

      Saw the reflection of the summer sky in the water,

      Had my eyes dazzled by the shimmering track of beams,

      Look’d at the fine centrifugal spokes of light round the shape of my head in the sunlit water,

      Look’d on the haze on the hills southward and south-westward,

      Look’d on the vapor as it flew in fleeces tinged with violet,

      Look’d toward the lower bay to notice the vessels arriving,

      Saw their approach, saw aboard those that were near me,

      Saw the white sails of schooners and sloops, saw the ships at anchor,

      The sailors at work in the rigging or out astride the spars,

      The round masts, the swinging motion of the hulls, the slender serpentine pennants,

      The large and small steamers in motion, the pilots in their pilothouses,

      The white wake left by the passage, the quick tremulous whirl of the wheels,

      The flags of all nations, the falling of them at sunset,

      The scallop-edged waves in the twilight, the ladled cups, the frolic-some crests and glistening,

      The stretch afar growing dimmer and dimmer, the gray walls of the granite storehouses by the docks,

      On the river the shadowy group, the big steam-tug closely flank’d on each side by the barges, the hay-boat, the belated lighter,

      On the neighboring shore the fires from the foundry chimneys burning high and glaringly into the night,

      Casting their flicker of black contrasted with wild red and yellow light over the tops of houses, and down into the СКАЧАТЬ