Trippers and askers surround me,
People I meet…. the effect upon me of my early life…. of the
ward and city I live in…. of the nation,
The latest news…. discoveries, inventions, societies….
authors old and new,
My dinner, dress, associates, looks, business, compliments, dues,
The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman I love,
The sickness of one of my folks—or of myself…. or ill-
doing…. or loss or lack of money…. or depressions
or exaltations, These come to me days and nights and go from me again,
But they are not the Me myself.
Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am,
Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary,
Looks down, is erect, bends an arm on an impalpable certain
rest,
Looks with its sidecurved head, curious what will come next,
Both in and out of the game, and watching and wondering at it.
Backward I see in my own days where I sweated through fog
with linguists and contenders,
I have no mockings or arguments…. I witness and wait.
I believe in you my soul…. the other I am must not abase itself
to you,
And you must not be abased to the other.
Loafe with me on the grass…. loose the stop from your throat,
Not words, not music or rhyme I want…. not custom or
lecture, not even the best,
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.
I mind how we lay in June, such a transparent summer morning;
You settled your head athwart my hips and gently turned over
upon me,
And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your
tongue to my barestript heart,
And reached till you felt my beard, and reached till you held
my feet.
Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and knowledge
that pass all the argument of the earth;
And I know that the hand of God is the elderhand of my own,
And I know that the spirit of God is the eldest brother of my
own,
And that all the men ever born are also my brothers…. and the
women my sisters and lovers,
And that a kelson of the creation is love;
And limitless are leaves stiff or drooping in the fields,
And brown ants in the little wells beneath them,
And mossy scabs of the wormfence, and heaped stones, and
elder and mullen and pokeweed.
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 greater to one than one’s-self is,
And whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his
own funeral, dressed in his 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 employment but the young man
following it may become a hero,
And there is no object so soft but it makes a hub for the wheeled
universe,
And any man or woman shall stand cool and supercilious before
a million universes.
And I call to mankind, Be not curious about God,
For I who 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 I 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 better than this day?
I see something of God in each 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 dropped in the street, and every one is
signed by God’s name,
And I leave them where they are, for I know that others will
punctually come forever and ever.
And as to you death, and you bitter hug of mortality…. it is
idle to try to alarm me.
To his work without flinching the accoucheur comes,
I see the elderhand pressing receiving supporting,
I recline by the sills of the exquisite flexible doors…. and mark
the outlet, and mark the relief and escape.
And as to you corpse, I think you are good manure, but that
does not offend me,
I smell the white roses sweetscented and growing,
I reach to the leafy lips…. I reach to the polished breasts
of melons.
And as to you life, I reckon you are the leavings of many deaths,
No doubt I have died myself ten thousand times before.
I hear you whispering there O stars of heaven,
O suns…. O grass of graves…. O perpetual transfers and
promotions…. if you do not say anything how can I
say anything?
Of the turbid pool that lies in the autumn forest,
Of the moon that descends the steeps of the soughing twilight,
Toss, sparkles of day and dusk…. toss on the black stems that
decay in the muck,
Toss to the moaning gibberish of the dry limbs.
I ascend from the moon…. I ascend from the night,
And perceive of the ghastly glimmer the sunbeams reflected,
And debouch to the steady and central from the offspring great
or small.
There is that in me…. I do not know what it is…. but I know
it is in me.
Wrenched and sweaty…. calm and cool then my body
becomes;
I sleep…. I sleep long.
I do not know it…. it is without name…. it is a word unsaid,
It is not in any dictionary or utterance or symbol.
Something it swings on more than the earth I swing on,
To it the creation is the friend whose embracing awakes me.
Perhaps I might tell more…. Outlines! I plead for my brothers
and sisters.
Do you see O my brothers and sisters?
It is not chaos or death…. It is form and union and plan…. it
is eternal life…. it is happiness.