Walt Whitman

LEAVES OF GRASS
(1891-92 issue)
complete book, e-book

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Come Up from the Fields Father

 Come up from the fields father, here's a letter from our Pete,
 And come to the front door mother, here's a letter from thy dear son.
 
 Lo, 'tis autumn,
 Lo, where the trees, deeper green, yellower and redder,
 Cool and sweeten Ohio's villages with leaves fluttering in the
 moderate wind,
 Where apples ripe in the orchards hang and grapes on the trellis'd vines,
 (Smell you the smell of the grapes on the vines?
 Smell you the buckwheat where the bees were lately buzzing?)
 
 Above all, lo, the sky so calm, so transparent after the rain, and
 with wondrous clouds,
 Below too, all calm, all vital and beautiful, and the farm prospers well.
 
 Down in the fields all prospers well,
 But now from the fields come father, come at the daughter's call.
 And come to the entry mother, to the front door come right away.
 
 Fast as she can she hurries, something ominous, her steps trembling,
 She does not tarry to smooth her hair nor adjust her cap.
 
 Open the envelope quickly,
 O this is not our son's writing, yet his name is sign'd,
 O a strange hand writes for our dear son, O stricken mother's soul!
 (...)
(......)