第 98 节

oul, war and peace have I sung, and the songs of life and death, And the songs of birth, and shown that there are many births.

I have offer’d my style to every one, I have journey’d with confident step; While my pleasure is yet at the full I whisper So long! And take the young woman’s hand and the young man’s hand for the last time.

I announce natural persons to arise, I announce justice triumphant, I announce uncompromising liberty and equality, I announce the justification of candor and the justification of pride.

I announce that the identity of these States is a single identity only, I announce the Union more and more compact, indissoluble, I announce splendors and majesties to make all the previous politics of the earth insignificant.

I announce adhesiveness, I say it shall be limitless, unloosen’d, I say you shall yet find the friend you were looking for.

I announce a man or woman coming, perhaps you are the one, (So long!) I announce the great individual, fluid as Nature, chaste, affectionate, compassionate, fully arm’d.

I announce a life that shall be copious, vehement, spiritual, bold, I announce an end that shall lightly and joyfully meet its translation.

I announce myriads of youths, beautiful, gigantic, sweet-blooded, I announce a race of splendid and savage old men.

O thicker and faster--(So long!) O crowding too close upon me, I foresee too much, it means more than I thought, It appears to me I am dying.

Hasten throat and sound your last, Salute me--salute the days once more. Peal the old cry once more.

Screaming electric, the atmosphere using, At random glancing, each as I notice absorbing, Swiftly on, but a little while alighting, Curious envelop’d messages delivering, Sparkles hot, seed ethereal down in the dirt dropping, Myself unknowing, my commission obeying, to question it never daring, To ages and ages yet the growth of the seed leaving, To troops out of the war arising, they the tasks I have set promulging, To women certain whispers of myself bequeathing, their affection me more clearly explaining, To young men my problems offering--no dallier I--I the muscle of their brains trying, So I pass, a little time vocal, visible, contrary, Afterward a melodious echo, passionately bent for, (death making me really undying,) The best of me then when no longer visible, for toward that I have been incessantly preparing.

What is there more, that I lag and pause and crouch extended with unshut mouth? Is there a single final farewell? My songs cease, I abandon them, From behind the screen where I hid I advance personally solely to you.

Camerado, this is no book, Who touches this touches a man, (Is it night? are we here together alone?) It is I you hold and who holds you, I spring from the pages into your arms--decease calls me forth.

O how your fingers drowse me, Your breath falls around me like dew, your pulse lulls the tympans of my ears, I feel immerged from head to foot, Delicious, enough.

Enough O deed impromptu and secret, Enough O gliding present--enough O summ’d-up past.

Dear friend whoever you are take this kiss, I give it especially to you, do not forget me, I feel like one who has done work for the day to retire awhile, I receive now again of my many translations, from my avataras ascending, while others doubtless await me, An unknown sphere more real than I dream’d, more direct, darts awakening rays about me, So long! Remember my words, I may again return, I love you, I depart from materials, I am as one disembodied, triumphant, dead.

BOOK XXXIV. SANDS AT SEVENTY

Mannahatta

My city’s fit and noble name resumed, Choice aboriginal name, with marvellous beauty, meaning, A rocky founded island--shores where ever gayly dash the coming, going, hurrying sea waves.

Paumanok

Sea-beauty! stretch’d and basking! One side thy inland ocean laving, broad, with copious commerce, steamers, sails, And one the Atlantic’s wind caressing, fierce or gentle--mighty hulls dark-gliding in the distance. Isle of sweet brooks of drinking-water--healthy air and soil! Isle of the salty shore and breeze and brine!

From Montauk Point

I stand as on some mighty eagle’s beak, Eastward the sea absorbing, viewing, (nothing but sea and sky,) The tossing waves, the foam, the ships in the distance, The wild unrest, the snowy, curling caps--that inbound urge and urge of waves, Seeking the shores forever.

To Those Who’ve Fail’d

To those who’ve fail’d, in aspiration vast, To unnam’d soldiers fallen in front on the lead, To calm, devoted engineers--to over-ardent travelers--to pilots on their ships, To many a lofty song and picture without recognition--I’d rear laurel-cover’d monument, High, high above the rest--To all cut off before their time, Possess’d by some strange spirit of fire, Quench’d by an early death.

A Carol Closing Sixty-Nine

A carol closing sixty-nine--a resume--a repetition, My lines in joy and hope continuing on the same, Of ye, O God, Life, Nature, Freedom, Poetry; Of you, my Land--your rivers, prairies, States--you, mottled Flag I love, Your aggregate retain’d entire--Of north, south, east and west, your items all; Of me myself--the jocund heart yet beating in my breast, The body wreck’d, old, poor and paralyzed--the strange inertia falling pall-like round me, The burning fires down in my sluggish blood not yet extinct, The undiminish’d faith--the groups of loving friends.

The Bravest Soldiers

Brave, brave were the soldiers (high named to-day) who lived through the fight; But the bravest press’d to the front and fell, unnamed, unknown.

A Font of Type

This latent mine--these unlaunch’d voices--passionate powers, Wrath, argument, or praise, or comic leer, or prayer devout, (Not nonpareil, brevier, bourgeois, long primer merely,) These ocean waves arousable to fury and to death, Or sooth’d to ease and sheeny sun and sleep, Within the pallid slivers slumbering.

As I Sit Writing Here

As I sit writing here, sick and grown old, Not my least burden is that dulness of the years, querilities, Ungracious glooms, aches, lethargy, constipation, whimpering ennui, May filter in my dally songs.

My Canary Bird

Did we count great, O soul, to penetrate the themes of mighty books, Absorbing deep and full from thoughts, plays, speculations? But now from thee to me, caged bird, to feel thy joyous warble, Filling the air, the lonesome room, the long forenoon, Is it not just as great, O soul?

Queries to My Seventieth Year

Approaching, nearing, curious, Thou dim, uncertain spectre--bringest thou life or death? Strength, weakness, blindness, more paralysis and heavier? Or placid skies and sun?