Walt Whitman - Leaves of Grass

Say on, sayers of the earth!
Delve! mould! pile the substantial words of the earth!
Work on, age after age! nothing is to be lost,
It may have to wait long, but it will certainly come in use,
When the materials are all prepared, the architects shall appear,
I swear to you the architects shall appear without fail! I announce them and lead them!
I swear to you they will understand you and justify you!
I swear to you the greatest among them shall be he who best knows you, and encloses all, and is faithful to all!
I swear to you, he and the rest shall not forget you! they shall perceive that you are not an iota less than they!
I swear to you, you shall be glorified in them!

To think of time! to think through the retrospection!
To think of today, and the ages continued henceforward!

Have you guessed you yourself would not continue? Have you dreaded those earth-beetles?
Have you feared the future would be nothing to you?

Is today nothing? Is the beginningless past nothing?
If the future is nothing, they are just as surely nothing.

To think that the sun rose in the east! that men and women were flexible, real, alive! that every thing was alive!
To think that you and I did not see, feel, think, nor bear our part!
To think that we are now here, and bear our part!
Not a day passes, not a minute or second, without an accouchement!
Not a day passes, not a minute or second, without corpse!

The dull nights go over, and the dull days also,
The soreness of lying so much in bed goes over,
The physician, after long putting off, gives the silent and terrible look for an answer,
The children come hurried and weeping, and the brothers and sisters are sent for,
Medicines stand unused on the shelf—the camphor-smell has pervaded the rooms,
The faithful hand of the living does not desert the hand of the dying,
The twitching lips press lightly on the forehead of the dying,
The breath ceases and the pulse of the heart ceases,
The corpse stretches on the bed, and the living look upon it,
It is palpable as the living are palpable.

The living look upon the corpse with their eyesight,
But without eye-sight lingers a different living, and looks curiously on the corpse.

To think that the rivers will come to flow, and the snow fall, and fruits ripen, and act upon others as upon us now—yet not act upon us!
To think of all these wonders of city and country, and others taking great interest in them—and we taking no interest in them!

To think how eager we are in building our houses!
To think others shall be just as eager, and we quite indifferent!

I see one building the house that serves him a few years, or seventy or eighty years at most,
I see one building the house that serves him longer than that.

Slow-moving and black lines creep over the whole earth—they never cease—they are the burial lines,
He that was President was buried, and he that is now President shall surely be buried.

Cold dash of waves at the ferry-wharf—posh and ice in the river, half-frozen mud in the streets, a gray discouraged sky overhead, the short last daylight of December,
A hearse and stages, other vehicles give place—the funeral of an old Broadway stage-driver, the cortege mostly drivers.

Rapid the trot to the cemetery, duly rattles the death-bell, the gate is passed, the grave is halted at, the living alight, the hearse uncloses,
The coffin is lowered and settled, the whip is laid on the coffin, the earth is swiftly shovelled in—a minute, no one moves or speaks—it is done,
He is decently put away—is there anything more?

He was a good fellow, free-mouthed, quick-tempered, not bad-looking, able to take his own part, witty, sensitive to a slight, ready with life or death for a friend, fond of women, played some, ate hearty, drank hearty, had known what it was to be flush, grew low-spirited toward the last, sickened, was helped by a contribution, died aged forty-one years—and that was his funeral.

Thumb extended, finger uplifted, apron, cape, gloves, strap, wet-weather clothes, whip carefully chosen, boss, spotter, starter, hostler, somebody loafing on you, you loafing on somebody, head-way, man before and man behind, good day’s work, bad day’s work, pet stock, mean stock, first out, last out, turning in at night,
To think that these are so much and so nigh to other drivers—and he there takes no interest in them!

The markets, the government, the working-man’s wages—to think what account they are through our nights and days!
To think that other working-men will make just as great account of them—yet we make little or no account!

The vulgar and the refined, what you call sin and what you call goodness—to think how wide a difference!
To think the difference will still continue to others, yet we lie beyond the difference!

To think how much pleasure there is!
Have you pleasure from looking at the sky? have you pleasure from poems?
Do you enjoy yourself in the city? or engaged in business? or planning a nomination and election? or with your wife and family?
Or with your mother and sisters? or in womanly housework? or the beautiful maternal cares?
These also flow onward to others—you and I flow onward,
But in due time you and I shall take less interest in them.

Your farm, profits, crops—to think how engrossed you are!
To think there will still be farms, profits, crops—yet for you, of what avail?

What will be, will be well—for what is, is well,
To take interest is well, and not to take interest shall be well.

The sky continues beautiful, the pleasure of men with women shall never be sated, nor the pleasure of women with men, nor the pleasure from poems,
The domestic joys, the daily house-work or business, the building of houses—these are not phantasms, they have weight, form, location;
Farms, profits, crops, markets, wages, government, are none of them phantasms,
The difference between sin and goodness is no delusion,
The earth is not an echo—man and his life, and all the things of his life, are well-considered.

You are not thrown to the winds—you gather certainly and safely around yourself,
Yourself! Yourself! Yourself, forever and ever!

It is not to diffuse you that you were born of your mother and father—it is to identify you,
It is not that you should be undecided, but that you should be decided;
Something long preparing and formless is arrived and formed in you,
You are thenceforth secure, whatever comes or goes.

The threads that were spun are gathered, the weft crosses the warp, the pattern is systematic.

The preparations have every one been justified,
The orchestra have tuned their instruments sufficiently, the baton has given the signal.

The guest that was coming—he waited long for reasons—he is now housed,
He is one of those who are beautiful and happy—he is one of those that to look upon and be with is enough.