Some Leaves for your enjoyment...

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Love

Whoever You Are Holding Me Now in Hand

Whoever you are now holding me now in hand,
Without one thing all will be useless,
I give you fair warning before you tempt me further,
I am not what you supposed, but far different.

Who is it that would become my follower?
Who would assign himself for my affections?

The way is auspicious, the result uncertain, perhaps destructive,
You would have to give up all else, I alone would expect to be your sole and exclusive standard,
Your novitiate would be long and exhausting,
The whole past theory of your life and all conformity to the lives around you would have to be abandoned,
Therefore release me now before troubling yourself any further, let go your hand from my shoulders,
Put me down and depart on your way.

Or else by some stealth in some wood for trial,
Or back of a rock in the open air,
(For in any roof'd room of a house I emerge not, nor in company,
and in libraries I lie as one dumb, a gawk, or unborn, or dead,)
But just possibly with you on a high hill, first watching lest any person for miles around approach unawares,
Or possibly with you sailing at sea, or on the beach of the seaor some quiet island,
Here to put your lips upon mine I permit you,
With the comrade's long-dwelling kiss or the new husband's kiss,
for I am the new husband and I am the comrade.

Or if you will, thrusting me beneath your clothing,
Where I may feel the throbs of your heart or rest upon your hip,
Carry me when you go forth over land or sea;
For thus touching you is enough, it is best,
And thus touching you I would silently sleep and be carried eternally.

But these leaves conning you con at peril,
For these leaves and me you will not understand,
They will elude you at first and still more afterward, I will certainly elude you.
Even while you should think you had unquestionably caught me, behold!
Already you see I have escaped you.

For it is not what I have put into it that I have written this book,
Nor is it by reading it you will require it,
Nor do those who know me best who admire me and vauntingly praise me,
Nor will the candidates for my love (unless at most a very few) prove victorious,
Nor will my poems do good only, they will do just as much evil, perhaps more,
For all is useless without that which you may guess at many times and not hit, that which I hinted at;
Therefore release me and depart on your way.

O You Whom I Often and Silently Come

O you whom I often and silently come where you are so that I may be with you,
As I walk by your side or sit near, or remain in the same room with you,
Little you know the subtle electric fire that for your sake is playing within me.

Are You the New Person Drawn Toward Me?

Are you the new person drawn toward me?
To begin with take warning, I am surely far different from what you suppose;
Do you suppose you will find me in your ideal?
Do you think it so easy to have me become your lover?
Do you think the friendship me would be unalloy'd satisfaction?
Do you think I am trusty and faithful?
Do you see no further than this facade, this smooth and tolerant manner of me?
Do you see yourself advancing on real ground toward a real heroic man?
Have you no thought O dreamer that it may be all maya, illusion?

Among The Multitude

Among the men and women the multitude,
I perceive one picking me out by secret and divine signs,
Acknowledging none else, not parent, wife husband, brother, child, any nearer than I am,
Some are baffled, but that one is not- that one knows me.

Ah lover and perfect equal,
I meant that you should discover me so by faint indirections,
And when I meet you mean to discover you by the like in you.

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Sensuality

Song of Myself, #28

Is this then a touch? quivering me to a new identity,
Flames and ether making a rush for my veins, My flesh and blood playing out lightning to strike what is hardly different from myself,
On all sides purient provokers stiffening my limbs,
Straining the udder of my heart for its withheld drip,
Behaving licentious toward me, taking no denial,
Depriving me of my best as for a purpose,
Unbuttoning my clothes, holding me by the bare waist,
Deluding my confusion with the calm of the sunlight and pasture-fields,
Immodestly sliding the fellow-senses away,
They bribed to swap off with touch and go and graze at the edges of me,
No consideration, no regard for my draining strength or my anger,
Fetching the rest of the herd around to enjoy them a while,
Then all uniting to stand on a headland and worry me.

The sentries desert every part of me,
They have left me helpless to a red marauder,
They all come to the headland to witness and assist against me.
I am given up by traitors,
I talk wildly, I have lost my wits, I and nobody else am the greatest traitor,
I went myself first to the headland, my own hands carried me there.

You villian touch! what are you doing? my breath is tight in its throat,
Unclench your floodgates, you are too much for me.

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Spirituality

Song of Myself, #48

I have said that the soul is not more than the body,
And I have said that the body is not more than the soul,
And nothing, not God, is no greater to one than one's self is,
And whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his funeral drest in his own shroud,
And I or you pocketless of a dime may purchase the pick of the earth,
And to glance with an eye or show a bean in its pod confounds the learning of all times,
And there is no trade or unemployment but the young following it may become a hero,
And there is no object so soft but it makes a hub for the wheel'd universe,
And I say to any man or woman, Let your soul stand cool and composed before a million universes.

And I say to mankind, Be not curious about God,
For I am curious about each am not curious about God,
(No array of terms can say how much I am at peace about God and about death.)

I hear and behold God in every object, yet understand God not in the least,
Nor do I understand who there can be more wonderful than myself.

Why should I wish to see God any better than this day?
I see something of God in every hour of the twenty-four, and each moment then,
In the faces of men and women I see God and in my own face in the glass,
I find letters from God dropt in the street, and every one is sign'd by God's name,
And I leave them where they are, for I know wheresoe'er I go,
Others will come for ever and ever.

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Nature

Song of Myself, #31

I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journeywork of the stars,
And the pismire equally perfect, and a grain of sand, and the egg of the wren,
And the tree-toad is a chef-d'oevure for the highest,
And the running blackberry would adorn the parlors of heaven,
And the narrowest hinge of my hand puts to scorn all machinery,
And the cow crunching with depress'd head surpasses any statue,
And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels.

I find I incorporate gneiss, coal, long-threaded moss, fruits, grains, succulent roots,
And I am stucco'd with quadrupeds and birds all over,
And have distanced what is behind me for good reasons,
But call anything back again when I desire it.

In vain the speeding or shyness,
In vain the plutonic rocks send their old heat against my approach,
In vain the mastadon retreats beneath its own powder'd bones,
In vain objects stand leagues off and assume manifold shapes,
In vain the ocean settling in hollows and the great monsters lying low,
In vain the buzzard houses herself with the sky,
In vain the snake slides through the creepers and logs,
In vain the elk takes to the inner passes of the woods,
In vain the razor-bill'd auk sails north to Labrador,
I follow quickly, I ascend to the nest in the fissure of the cliff.

Song of Myself, # 52

The spotted hawk swoops byand he accuses me, he complains of my gab and loitering,
I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.

The last scud of day holds back for me,
It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on shadow'd wilds,
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.

I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
I effuse my flesh eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good for you nonetheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waititng for you.

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Death

Song of Myself, #6

A child said what is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands,
How could I answer the child?I do not know what it is any more than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven.
Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and rememberancer designedly dropt,
Bearing the owner's name somewhere in the corners, that we may see and remark whose?

Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation.

Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,
Growing among black folks as well as white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I recieve the same.

And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.

Tenderly I will use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them,
It may be that you are from old people, or from offspring taken soon out of their mothers' laps,
And here you are the mothers' laps.

This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.

O I percieve after all so many uttering tongues,
And I percieve they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing.

I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young and old men and women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their laps.

What do you think has become of the young and old men?
What do you think has become of the women and children?

They are alive and well somewhere,
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,
And if there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it,
And ceas'd the moment life appear'd.

All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,
And to die is different than any one supposed, and luckier.

O Captain! my Captain!

O Captain! My Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells,
Rise up- for you the flag is flung- for you the bugle trills,
For you boquets and ribbon'd wreaths- for you the shores a- crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning,
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won,
Exult O shore, and ring O bells!
But I with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

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War

Beat! Beat! Drums!

Beat! beat! drums!- blow! bugles! blow!
Through the windows- through doors- burst like a ruthless force,
Into the solemn church, and scatter the congregation,
Into the school where the scholar is studying;
Leave not the bridegroom quiet- no happiness must he have now with his bride,
Nor the peaceful farmer any peace, ploughing his field or gathering his grain,
So fierce you wirr and pound you drums, so shrill you bugles blow.

Over the traffic of cities- over the rumble of wheels in the streets;
Are beds prepared for sleepeers at night in the houses? no sleepers must sleep in those beds,
No bargainers' bargains by day- no brokers or speculators- would they continue?
Would the talkers be talking? Would the singer attempt to sing?
Would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case before the judge?
Then rattle quicker, heavier drums- you bugles wilder blow.

Beat! beat! drums!- blow! bugles! blow!
Make no parley- stop for no expostulation,
Mind not the timid- mind not the weeper or prayer,
Mind not the old man beseeching the young man,
Let not the child's voice be heard, nor the mother's entreaties,
Make even the trestles to shake the dead where they lie awaiting the hearses,
So strong you thump O terrible drums- so loud you bugles blow.

Vigil Strange I Kept on the Field One Night

Vigil Strange I kept on the field one night,
When you my son and my comrade dropt at my side one day,
One look I but gave which your dear eyes return'd with a look I shall never forget,
One touch of your hand to mine O boy, reach'd up as you lay on the ground,
Then onward I sped in the battle, the even-contested battle,
Till late in the night reliev'd to the place at last again I made my way,
Found you in death so cold dear comrade, found your body son of responding kisses, (never again on earth responding,)
Bared your face in the starlight, curious the scene, cool blew the moderate night-wind,
Long there and then in vigil I stood, dimly around me the battle-field spreading,
Vigil wondrous and vigil sweet there in the fragrant silent night,
But not a tear fell, not even a long-drawn sigh, long, long I gazed,
Then on the earth partially reclining sat by your side leaning my chin in my hands,
Passing sweet hours, immortal and mystic hours with you dearest comrade- not a tear, not a word,
Vigil of silence, love, and death, vigil for my son and my soldier,
As onward silently stars aloft, eastward new ones upward stole,
Vigil final for you brave boy, (I could not save you, swift was your death,
I faithfully loved and cared for you living, I think we shall surely meet again,)
Till at latest lingering of night, indeed just as dawn appear'd,
My comrade I wrapt in his blanket, envelop'd well his form,
Folded the blanket well, tucking it carefully over head and carefully under feet,
And there and then and bathed by the rising sun, my son in his grave, in his rude-dug grave I depsoited,
Ending my vigil strange with that, vigil of night and battle-field dim,
Vigil for comrade swiftly slain, vigil I never forget, how as day brighten'd,
I rose from the chill ground and folded my soldier well in his blanket,
And buried him where he fell.

 

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Created by Whitman's Ghost.
These Leaves last edited: January 6, 1998