Poets to Come
Poets to come! orators, singers,
musicians to come!
Not to-day is to justify me, and answer
what I am for;
But you, a new brood, native, athletic, continental,
greater than before known,
Arouse! Arouse—for you must justify me—
you must answer.
I myself but write one or two indicative words
for the future,
I but advance a moment, only to wheel and
hurry back in the darkness.
I am a man who, sauntering along,
without fully stopping, turns a casual look upon you,
and then
averts his face,
Leaving it to you to prove and define it,
Expecting the main things from you.
- Walt Whitman
The Voice of the Rain
And who art thou? said I
to the soft-falling shower,
Which, strange to tell, gave me an answer,
as here translated:
I am the Poem of Earth,
said the voice of the rain,
Eternal I rise impalpable out of the land
and the bottomless sea,
Upward to heaven, whence, vaguely form'd,
altogether changed, and
yet the same,
I descend to lave the drouths, atomies,
dust-layers of the globe,
And all that in them without me were seeds only,
latent, unborn;
And forever, by day and night,
I give back life to my own origin,
and make pure and beautify it;
(For song, issuing from its birth-place,
after fulfilment, wandering,
Reck'd or unreck'd, duly with love returns.
- Walt Whitman
O Captain My Captain
O Captain my Captain!
our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weathered 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 bouquets and ribboned 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 anchored safe and sound,
its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in
with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
- Walt Whitman
Who is now reading this?
Who is now reading this?
May-be one is now reading this
who knows some wrong-doing of my past life,
Or may-be a stranger is reading this
who has secretly loved me,
Or may-be one who meets all my grand assumptions
and egotisms with derision,
Or may-be one who is puzzled at me.
As if I were not puzzled at myself!
Or as if I never deride myself!
(O conscience-struck! O self-convicted!)
Or as if I do not secretly love strangers!
(O tenderly, a long time, and never avow it;)
Or as if I did not see, perfectly well,
interior in myself, the stuff of wrong-doing,
Or as if it could cease
transpiring from me until it must cease.
- Walt Whitman
To a Stranger
Passing stranger! you do not know
how longingly I look upon you,
You must be he I was seeking,
or she I was seeking,
(it comes to me as of a dream,)
I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you,
All is recall'd as we flit by each other,
fluid, affectionate, chaste, matured,
You grew up with me,
were a boy with me
or a girl with me,
I ate with you and slept with you,
your body has become not yours only
nor left my body mine only,
You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face,
flesh, as we pass,
you take of my beard, breast, hands, in return,
I am not to speak to you,
I am to think of you when I sit alone
or wake at night alone,
I am to wait, I do not doubt I am to meet you again,
I am to see to it that I do not lose you.
- Walt Whitman
Poets to come! orators, singers,
musicians to come!
Not to-day is to justify me, and answer
what I am for;
But you, a new brood, native, athletic, continental,
greater than before known,
Arouse! Arouse—for you must justify me—
you must answer.
I myself but write one or two indicative words
for the future,
I but advance a moment, only to wheel and
hurry back in the darkness.
I am a man who, sauntering along,
without fully stopping, turns a casual look upon you,
and then
averts his face,
Leaving it to you to prove and define it,
Expecting the main things from you.
- Walt Whitman
The Voice of the Rain
And who art thou? said I
to the soft-falling shower,
Which, strange to tell, gave me an answer,
as here translated:
I am the Poem of Earth,
said the voice of the rain,
Eternal I rise impalpable out of the land
and the bottomless sea,
Upward to heaven, whence, vaguely form'd,
altogether changed, and
yet the same,
I descend to lave the drouths, atomies,
dust-layers of the globe,
And all that in them without me were seeds only,
latent, unborn;
And forever, by day and night,
I give back life to my own origin,
and make pure and beautify it;
(For song, issuing from its birth-place,
after fulfilment, wandering,
Reck'd or unreck'd, duly with love returns.
- Walt Whitman
O Captain My Captain
O Captain my Captain!
our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weathered 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 bouquets and ribboned 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 anchored safe and sound,
its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in
with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
- Walt Whitman
Who is now reading this?
Who is now reading this?
May-be one is now reading this
who knows some wrong-doing of my past life,
Or may-be a stranger is reading this
who has secretly loved me,
Or may-be one who meets all my grand assumptions
and egotisms with derision,
Or may-be one who is puzzled at me.
As if I were not puzzled at myself!
Or as if I never deride myself!
(O conscience-struck! O self-convicted!)
Or as if I do not secretly love strangers!
(O tenderly, a long time, and never avow it;)
Or as if I did not see, perfectly well,
interior in myself, the stuff of wrong-doing,
Or as if it could cease
transpiring from me until it must cease.
- Walt Whitman
To a Stranger
Passing stranger! you do not know
how longingly I look upon you,
You must be he I was seeking,
or she I was seeking,
(it comes to me as of a dream,)
I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you,
All is recall'd as we flit by each other,
fluid, affectionate, chaste, matured,
You grew up with me,
were a boy with me
or a girl with me,
I ate with you and slept with you,
your body has become not yours only
nor left my body mine only,
You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face,
flesh, as we pass,
you take of my beard, breast, hands, in return,
I am not to speak to you,
I am to think of you when I sit alone
or wake at night alone,
I am to wait, I do not doubt I am to meet you again,
I am to see to it that I do not lose you.
- Walt Whitman
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