Walt Whitman - Leaves of Grass

202 I visit the orchards of spheres, and look at the product,
And look at quintillions ripened, and look at quintillions green.

203 I fly the flight of the fluid and swallowing soul,
My course runs below the soundings of plummets.

204 I help myself to material and immaterial,
No guard can shut me off, nor law prevent me.

205 I anchor my ship for a little while only,
My messengers continually cruise away, or bring their returns to me.

206 I go hunting polar furs and the seal—Leaping chasms with a pike-pointed staff—Clinging to topples of brittle and blue.

207 I ascend to the foretruck,
I take my place late at night in the crow’s-nest,
We sail the arctic sea—it is plenty light enough,
Through the clear atmosphere I stretch around on the wonderful beauty,
The enormous masses of ice pass me, and I pass them—the scenery is plain in all directions,
The white-topped mountains show in the distance—I fling out my fancies toward them,
We are approaching some great battle-field in which we are soon to be engaged,
We pass the colossal out-posts of the encampment—we pass with still feet and caution,
Or we are entering by the suburbs some vast and ruined city,
The blocks and fallen architecture more than all the living cities of the globe.

208 I am a free companion—I bivouac by invading watchfires.

209 I turn the bridegroom out of bed, and stay with the bride myself,
I tighten her all night to my thighs and lips.

210 My voice is the wife’s voice, the screech by the rail of the stairs,
They fetch my man’s body up, dripping and drowned.

211 I understand the large hearts of heroes,
The courage of present times and all times,
How the skipper saw the crowded and rudderless wreck of the steam-ship, and Death chasing it up and down the storm,
How he knuckled tight, and gave not back one inch, and was faithful of days and faithful of nights,
And chalked in large letters, on a board, Be of good cheer, We will not desert you,
How he followed with them, and tacked with them—and would not give it up,
How he saved the drifting company at last,
How the lank loose-gowned women looked when boated from the side of their prepared graves,
How the silent old-faced infants, and the lifted sick, and the sharp-lipped unshaved men,
All this I swallow—it tastes good—I like it well—it becomes mine,
I am the man—I suffered—I was there.

212 The disdain and calmness of martyrs,
The mother, condemned for a witch, burnt with dry wood, her children gazing on,
The hounded slave that flags in the race, leans by the the fence, blowing, covered with sweat,
The twinges that sting like needles his legs and neck—the murderous buck-shot and the bullets,
All these I feel or am.

213 I am the hounded slave, I wince at the bite of the dogs,
Hell and despair are upon me, crack and again crack the marksmen,
I clutch the rails of the fence, my gore dribs, thinned with the ooze of my skin,
I fall on the weeds and stones,
The riders spur their unwilling horses, haul close,
Taunt my dizzy ears, and beat me violently over the head with whip-stocks.

214 Agonies are one of my changes of garments,
I do not ask the wounded person how he feels—I myself become the wounded person,
My hurt turns livid upon me as I lean on a cane and observe.

215 I am the mashed fireman with breastbone broken,
Tumbling walls buried me in their debris,
Heat and smoke I inspired—I heard the yelling shouts of my comrades,
I heard the distant click of their picks and shovels,
They have cleared the beams away—they tenderly lift me forth.

216 I lie in the night air in my red shirt—the pervading hush is for my sake,
Painless after all I lie, exhausted but not so unhappy,
White and beautiful are the faces around me—the heads are bared of their fire-caps,
The kneeling crowd fades with the light of the torches.

217 Distant and dead resuscitate,
They show as the dial or move as the hands of me—I am the clock myself.

218 I am an old artillerist—I tell of my fort’s bombardment,
I am there again.

219 Again the reveille of drummers,
Again the attacking cannon, mortars, howitzers,
Again the attacked send cannon responsive.

220 I take part—I see and hear the whole,
The cries, curses, roar—the plaudits for well-aimed shots,
The ambulanza slowly passing, trailing its red drip,
Workmen searching after damages, making indispensable repairs,
The fall of grenades through the rent roof—the fan-shaped explosion,
The whizz of limbs, heads, stone, wood, iron, high in the air.

221 Again gurgles the mouth of my dying general—he furiously waves with his hand,
He gasps through the clot, Mind not me — mind — the entrenchments .

222 I tell not the fall of Alamo,
Not one escaped to tell the fall of Alamo,
The hundred and fifty are dumb yet at Alamo.

223 Hear now the tale of the murder in cold blood of four hundred and twelve young men.

224 Retreating, they had formed in a hollow square, with their baggage for breastworks,
Nine hundred lives out of the surrounding enemy’s, nine times their number, was the price they took in advance,
Their colonel was wounded and their ammunition gone,
They treated for an honorable capitulation, received writing and seal, gave up their arms, and marched back prisoners of war.

225 They were the glory of the race of rangers,
Matchless with horse, rifle, song, supper, courtship,
Large, turbulent, generous, brave, handsome, proud, and affectionate,
Bearded, sunburnt, dressed in the free costume of hunters,
Not a single one over thirty years of age.

226 The second First Day morning they were brought out in squads and massacred—it was beautiful early summer,
The work commenced about five o’clock, and was over by eight.

227 None obeyed the command to kneel,
Some made a mad and helpless rush—some stood stark and straight,
A few fell at once, shot in the temple or heart—the living and dead lay together,
The maimed and mangled dug in the dirt—the new-comers saw them there,
Some, half-killed, attempted to crawl away,
These were despatched with bayonets, or battered with the blunts of muskets,
A youth not seventeen years old seized his assassin till two more came to release him,
The three were all torn, and covered with the boy’s blood.

228 At eleven o’clock began the burning of the bodies:
That is the tale of the murder of the four hundred and twelve young men.

229 Did you read in the sea-books of the old-fashioned frigate-fight?
Did you learn who won by the light of the moon and stars?

230 Our foe was no skulk in his ship, I tell you,
His was the English pluck—and there is no tougher or truer, and never was, and never will be;
Along the lowered eve he came, horribly raking us.

231 We closed with him—the yards entangled—the cannon touched,
My captain lashed fast with his own hands.