Walt Whitman in Mickle Street Part 13

[_The Return of the Heroes_]

Shot gold, maroon and violet, dazzling silver, emerald, fawn, The earth's whole amplitude and Nature's multiform power consign'd for once to colors; The light, the general air possess'd by them--colors till now unknown, No limit, confine--not the Western sky alone--the high meridian-- North, South, all, Pure luminous color fighting the silent shadows to the last.

[_A Prairie Sunset_]

Ever the undiscouraged, resolute, struggling soul of man; (Have former armies fail'd? then we send fresh armies--and fresh again); Ever the grappled mysteries of all earth's ages old or new; Ever the eager eyes, hurrahs, the welcome-clapping hands, the loud applause; Ever the soul dissatisfied, curious, unconvinced at last, Struggling to-day the same--battling the same.

[_Life_]

Spirit that form'd this scene, These tumbled rock-piles grim and red, These reckless heaven-ambitious peaks, These gorges, turbulent-clear streams, this naked freshness, These formless wild arrays, for reasons of their own, I know thee, savage spirit--we have communed together, Mine too such wild arrays, for reasons of their own; Was't charged against my chants they had forgotten art?

To fuse within themselves its rules precise and delicatesse?

The lyrist's measur'd beat, the wrought-out temple's grace--column and polish'd arch forgot?

But thou that revellest here--spirit that form'd this scene, They have remember'd thee.

[_Spirit That Formed This Scene_]

Quicksand years that whirl me I know not whither, Your schemes, politics, fail, lines give way, substances mock and elude me, Only the theme I sing, the great and strong-possess'd soul, eludes not, One's-Self must never give way--that is the final substance--that out of all is sure, Out of politics, triumphs, battles, life, what at last finally remains?

When shows break up what but One's-Self is sure?

[_Quicksand Years_]

O living always, always dying!

O the burials of me past and present, O me while I stride ahead, material, visible, imperious as ever; O me, what I was for years, now dead, (I lament not, I am content); O to disengage myself from those corpses of me, which I turn and look at where I cast them, To pa.s.s on (O living! always living!) and leave the corpses behind.

[_O Living Always, Always Dying_]

This is thy hour, O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless, Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done, Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes thou lovest best, Night, sleep, death and the stars.

[_A Clear Midnight_]

I was thinking the day most splendid till I saw what the not-day exhibited, I was thinking this globe enough till there sprang out so noiseless around me myriads of other globes.

Now while the great thoughts of s.p.a.ce and eternity fill me I will measure myself by them, And now touch'd with the lives of other globes arrived as far along as those of the earth, Or waiting to arrive, or pa.s.s'd on farther than those of the earth, I henceforth no more ignore them than I ignore my own life, Or the lives of the earth arrived as far as mine, or waiting to arrive.

O I see now that life cannot exhibit all to me, as the day cannot, I see that I am to wait for what will be exhibited by death.

[_Night on the Prairies_]

Now the great organ sounds, Tremulous, while underneath (as the hid footholds of the earth, On which arising rest, and leaping forth depend, All shapes of beauty, grace and strength, all hues we know, Green blades of gra.s.s and warbling birds, children that gambol and play, the clouds of heaven above) The strong base stands, and its pulsations intermits not, Bathing, supporting, merging all the rest, maternity of all the rest, And with it every instrument in mult.i.tudes, The players playing, all the world's musicians, The solemn hymns and ma.s.ses rousing adoration, All pa.s.sionate heart-chants, sorrowful appeals, The measureless sweet vocalists of ages, And for their solvent setting earth's own diapason, Of winds and woods and mighty ocean waves, A new composite orchestra, binder of years and climes, ten-fold renewer, As of the far-back days the poets tell, the Paradiso, The straying thence, the separation long, but now the wandering done, The journey done, the journeyman come home, And man and art with Nature fused again.

[_Proud Music of the Storm_]

Now trumpeter for thy close, Vouchsafe a higher strain than any yet, Sing to my soul, renew its languishing faith and hope, Rouse up my slow belief, give me some vision of the future, Give me for once its prophecy and joy.

O glad, exulting, culminating song!

A vigor more than earth's is in thy notes, Marches of victory--man disenthral'd--the conqueror at last, Hymns to the universal G.o.d from universal man--all joy!

A reborn race appears--a perfect world, all joy!

Women and men in wisdom, innocence and health--all joy!

Riotous laughing baccha.n.a.ls fill'd with joy!

War, sorrow, suffering gone--the rank earth purged--nothing but joy left!

The ocean fill'd with joy--the atmosphere all joy!

Joy! joy! in freedom, worship, love! joy in the ecstasy of life!

Enough to merely be! enough to breathe!

Joy! joy! all over joy!

[_The Mystic Trumpeter_]

The touch of flame--the illuminating fire--the loftiest look at last, O'er city, pa.s.sion, sea--o'er prairie, mountain, wood--the earth itself; The airy, different, changing hues of all, in falling twilight, Objects and groups, bearings, faces, reminiscences; The calmer sight--the golden setting, clear and broad: So much i' the atmosphere, the points of view, the situation whence we scan, Brought out by them alone--so much (perhaps the best) unreck'd before; The lights indeed from them--old age's lambent peaks.

[_Old Age's Lambent Peaks_]

Thanks in old age--thanks ere I go, For health, the midday sun, the impalpable air--for life, mere life, For precious ever-lingering memories, (of you, my mother dear--you, father--you, brothers, sisters, friends), For all my days--not those of peace alone--the days of war the same, For gentle words, caresses, gifts from foreign lands, For shelter, wine and meat--for sweet appreciation, (You distant, dim unknown--or young or old--countless, unspecified, readers belov'd, We never met, and ne'er shall meet--and yet our souls embrace, long, close and long); For beings, groups, love, deeds, words, books--for colors, forms, For all the brave strong men--devoted, hardy men--who've forward sprung in freedom's help, all years, all lands, For braver, stronger, more devoted men--(a special laurel ere I go, to life's war's chosen ones, The cannoneers of song and thought--the great artillerists--the foremost leaders, captains of the soul): As soldier from an ended war return'd--as traveller out of myriads, to the long procession retrospective, Thanks--joyful thanks!--a soldier's, traveller's thanks.

[_Thanks in Old Age_]