LEAVES OF GRASS (The Original 1855 Edition & The 1892 Death Bed Edition). Walt Whitman

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      My feet strike an apex of the apices of the stairs,

       On every step bunches of ages, and larger bunches between the steps,

       All below duly traveled -- and still I mount and mount.

      Rise after rise bow the phantoms behind me,

       Afar down I see the huge first Nothing, the vapor from the nostrils of death,

      I know I was even there . . . . I waited unseen and always,

       And slept while God carried me through the lethargic mist,

       And took my time . . . . and took no hurt from the foetid carbon.

      Long I was hugged close . . . . long and long.

      Immense have been the preparations for me,

       Faithful and friendly the arms that have helped me.

      Cycles ferried my cradle, rowing and rowing like cheerful boatmen;

       For room to me stars kept aside in their own rings,

       They sent influences to look after what was to hold me.

      Before I was born out of my mother generations guided me,

       My embryo has never been torpid . . . . nothing could overlay it;

       For it the nebula cohered to an orb . . . . the long slow strata piled to rest it on . . . . vast vegetables gave it sustenance,

       Monstrous sauroids transported it in their mouths and deposited it with care.

      All forces have been steadily employed to complete and delight me,

       Now I stand on this spot with my soul.

      Span of youth! Ever-pushed elasticity! Manhood balanced and florid and full!

      My lovers suffocate me!

       Crowding my lips, and thick in the pores of my skin,

       Jostling me through streets and public halls . . . . coming naked to me at night,

       Crying by day Ahoy from the rocks of the river . . . . swinging and chirping over my head,

       Calling my name from flowerbeds or vines or tangled underbrush,

       Or while I swim in the bath . . . . or drink from the pump

      at the corner . . . . or the curtain is down at the opera . . . . or I glimpse at a woman’s face in the railroad car;

       Lighting on every moment of my life,

       Bussing my body with soft and balsamic busses,

       Noiselessly passing handfuls out of their hearts and giving them to be mine.

      Old age superbly rising! Ineffable grace of dying days!

      Every condition promulges not only itself . . . . it promulges what grows after and out of itself,

       And the dark hush promulges as much as any.

      I open my scuttle at night and see the far-sprinkled systems,

       And all I see, multiplied as high as I can cipher, edge but the rim of the farther systems.

       Wider and wider they spread, expanding and always expanding,

       Outward and outward and forever outward.

      My sun has his sun, and round him obediently wheels,

       He joins with his partners a group of superior circuit,

       And greater sets follow, making specks of the greatest inside them.

      There is no stoppage, and never can be stoppage;

       If I and you and the worlds and all beneath or upon their surfaces, and all the palpable life, were this moment reduced back to a pallid float, it would not avail in the long run,

       We should surely bring up again where we now stand,

       And as surely go as much farther, and then farther and farther.

      A few quadrillions of eras, a few octillions of cubic leagues, do not hazard the span, or make it impatient,

       They are but parts . . . . any thing is but a part.

      See ever so far . . . . there is limitless space outside of that,

       Count ever so much . . . . there is limitless time around that.

      Our rendezvous is fitly appointed . . . . God will be there and wait till we come.

      I know I have the best of time and space -- and that I was never measured, and never will be measured.

      I tramp a perpetual journey,

       My signs are a rain-proof coat and good shoes and a staff cut from the woods;

       No friend of mine takes his ease in my chair,

       I have no chair, nor church nor philosophy;

       I lead no man to a dinner-table or library or exchange,

       But each man and each woman of you I lead upon a knoll,

       My left hand hooks you round the waist,

       My right hand points to landscapes of continents, and a plain public road.

      Not I, not any one else can travel that road for you,

       You must travel it for yourself.

      It is not far . . . . it is within reach,

       Perhaps you have been on it since you were born, and did not know,

       Perhaps it is every where on water and on land.

      Shoulder your duds, and I will mine, and let us hasten forth;

       Wonderful cities and free nations we shall fetch as we go.

      If you tire, give me both burdens, and rest the chuff of your hand on my hip,

       And in due time you shall repay the same service to me;

       For after we start we never lie by again.

      This day before dawn I ascended a hill and looked at the crowded heaven,

       And I said to my spirit, When we become the enfolders of those orbs and the pleasure and knowledge of every thing in them, shall we be filled and satisfied then?

       And my spirit said No, we level that lift to pass and continue beyond.

      You are also asking me questions, and I hear you;

       I answer that I cannot answer . . . . you must find out for yourself.

      Sit СКАЧАТЬ