Leaves of Grass Part 57

Two boats with nets lying off the sea-beach, quite still, Ten fishermen waiting-they discover a thick school of mossbonkers -they drop the join'd seine-ends in the water, The boats separate and row off, each on its rounding course to the beach, enclosing the mossbonkers, The net is drawn in by a windla.s.s by those who stop ash.o.r.e, Some of the fishermen lounge in their boats, others stand ankle-deep in the water, pois'd on strong legs, The boats partly drawn up, the water slapping against them, Strew'd on the sand in heaps and windrows, well out from the water, the green-back'd spotted mossbonkers.

BOOK x.x.xII. FROM NOON TO STARRY NIGHT

Thou Orb Aloft Full-Dazzling Thou orb aloft full-dazzling! thou hot October noon!

Flooding with sheeny light the gray beach sand, The sibilant near sea with vistas far and foam, And tawny streaks and shades and spreading blue; O sun of noon refulgent! my special word to thee.

Hear me ill.u.s.trious!

Thy lover me, for always I have loved thee, Even as basking babe, then happy boy alone by some wood edge, thy touching-distant beams enough, Or man matured, or young or old, as now to thee I launch my invocation.

(Thou canst not with thy dumbness me deceive, I know before the fitting man all Nature yields, Though answering not in words, the skies, trees, hear his voice-and thou O sun, As for thy throes, thy perturbations, sudden breaks and shafts of flame gigantic, I understand them, I know those flames, those perturbations well.)

Thou that with fructifying heat and light, O'er myriad farms, o'er lands and waters North and South, O'er Mississippi's endless course, o'er Texas' gra.s.sy plains, Kanada's woods, O'er all the globe that turns its face to thee shining in s.p.a.ce, Thou that impartially enfoldest all, not only continents, seas, Thou that to grapes and weeds and little wild flowers givest so liberally, Shed, shed thyself on mine and me, with but a fleeting ray out of thy million millions, Strike through these chants.

Nor only launch thy subtle dazzle and thy strength for these, Prepare the later afternoon of me myself-prepare my lengthening shadows, Prepare my starry nights.

Faces

1 Sauntering the pavement or riding the country by-road, faces!

Faces of friendship, precision, caution, suavity, ideality, The spiritual-prescient face, the always welcome common benevolent face, The face of the singing of music, the grand faces of natural lawyers and judges broad at the back-top, The faces of hunters and fishers bulged at the brows, the shaved blanch'd faces of orthodox citizens, The pure, extravagant, yearning, questioning artist's face, The ugly face of some beautiful soul, the handsome detested or despised face, The sacred faces of infants, the illuminated face of the mother of many children, The face of an amour, the face of veneration, The face as of a dream, the face of an immobile rock, The face withdrawn of its good and bad, a castrated face, A wild hawk, his wings clipp'd by the clipper, A stallion that yielded at last to the thongs and knife of the gelder.

Sauntering the pavement thus, or crossing the ceaseless ferry, faces and faces and faces, I see them and complain not, and am content with all.

2 Do you suppose I could be content with all if I thought them their own finale?

This now is too lamentable a face for a man, Some abject louse asking leave to be, cringing for it, Some milk-nosed maggot blessing what lets it wrig to its hole.

This face is a dog's snout sniffing for garbage, Snakes nest in that mouth, I hear the sibilant threat.

This face is a haze more chill than the arctic sea, Its sleepy and wobbling icebergs crunch as they go.

This is a face of bitter herbs, this an emetic, they need no label, And more of the drug-shelf, laudanum, caoutchouc, or hog's-lard.

This face is an epilepsy, its wordless tongue gives out the unearthly cry, Its veins down the neck distend, its eyes roll till they show nothing but their whites, Its teeth grit, the palms of the hands are cut by the turn'd-in nails, The man falls struggling and foaming to the ground, while he speculates well.

This face is bitten by vermin and worms, And this is some murderer's knife with a half-pull'd scabbard.

This face owes to the s.e.xton his dismalest fee, An unceasing death-bell tolls there.

3 Features of my equals would you trick me with your creas'd and cadaverous march?

Well, you cannot trick me.

I see your rounded never-erased flow, I see 'neath the rims of your haggard and mean disguises.

Splay and twist as you like, poke with the tangling fores of fishes or rats, You'll be unmuzzled, you certainly will.

I saw the face of the most smear'd and s...o...b..ring idiot they had at the asylum, And I knew for my consolation what they knew not, I knew of the agents that emptied and broke my brother, The same wait to clear the rubbish from the fallen tenement, And I shall look again in a score or two of ages, And I shall meet the real landlord perfect and unharm'd, every inch as good as myself.

4 The Lord advances, and yet advances, Always the shadow in front, always the reach'd hand bringing up the laggards.

Out of this face emerge banners and horses-O superb! I see what is coming, I see the high pioneer-caps, see staves of runners clearing the way, I hear victorious drums.

This face is a life-boat, This is the face commanding and bearded, it asks no odds of the rest, This face is flavor'd fruit ready for eating, This face of a healthy honest boy is the programme of all good.

These faces bear testimony slumbering or awake, They show their descent from the Master himself.

Off the word I have spoken I except not one-red, white, black, are all deific, In each house is the ovum, it comes forth after a thousand years.

Spots or cracks at the windows do not disturb me, Tall and sufficient stand behind and make signs to me, I read the promise and patiently wait.

This is a full-grown lily's face, She speaks to the limber-hipp'd man near the garden pickets, Come here she blushingly cries, Come nigh to me limber-hipp'd man, Stand at my side till I lean as high as I can upon you, Fill me with albescent honey, bend down to me, Rub to me with your chafing beard, rub to my breast and shoulders.

5 The old face of the mother of many children, Whist! I am fully content.

Lull'd and late is the smoke of the First-day morning, It hangs low over the rows of trees by the fences, It hangs thin by the sa.s.safras and wild-cherry and cat-brier under them.

I saw the rich ladies in full dress at the soiree, I heard what the singers were singing so long, Heard who sprang in crimson youth from the white froth and the water-blue.

Behold a woman!

She looks out from her quaker cap, her face is clearer and more beautiful than the sky.

She sits in an armchair under the shaded porch of the farmhouse, The sun just shines on her old white head.

Her ample gown is of cream-hued linen, Her grandsons raised the flax, and her grand-daughters spun it with the distaff and the wheel.

The melodious character of the earth, The finish beyond which philosophy cannot go and does not wish to go, The justified mother of men.

The Mystic Trumpeter

1 Hark, some wild trumpeter, some strange musician, Hovering unseen in air, vibrates capricious tunes to-night.

I hear thee trumpeter, listening alert I catch thy notes, Now pouring, whirling like a tempest round me, Now low, subdued, now in the distance lost.

2 Come nearer bodiless one, haply in thee resounds Some dead composer, haply thy pensive life Was fill'd with aspirations high, unform'd ideals, Waves, oceans musical, chaotically surging, That now ecstatic ghost, close to me bending, thy cornet echoing, pealing, Gives out to no one's ears but mine, but freely gives to mine, That I may thee translate.

3 Blow trumpeter free and clear, I follow thee, While at thy liquid prelude, glad, serene, The fretting world, the streets, the noisy hours of day withdraw, A holy calm descends like dew upon me, I walk in cool refreshing night the walks of Paradise, I scent the gra.s.s, the moist air and the roses; Thy song expands my numb'd imbonded spirit, thou freest, launchest me, Floating and basking upon heaven's lake.

4 Blow again trumpeter! and for my sensuous eyes, Bring the old pageants, show the feudal world.

What charm thy music works! thou makest pa.s.s before me, Ladies and cavaliers long dead, barons are in their castle halls, the troubadours are singing, Arm'd knights go forth to redress wrongs, some in quest of the holy Graal; I see the tournament, I see the contestants incased in heavy armor seated on stately champing horses, I hear the shouts, the sounds of blows and smiting steel; I see the Crusaders' tumultuous armies-hark, how the cymbals clang, Lo, where the monks walk in advance, bearing the cross on high.