Walt Whitman

LEAVES OF GRASS
(1891-92 issue)
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6

 Then I woke softly,
 And pausing, questioning awhile the music of my dream,
 And questioning all those reminiscences, the tempest in its fury,
 And all the songs of sopranos and tenors,
 And those rapt oriental dances of religious fervor,
 And the sweet varied instruments, and the diapason of organs,
 And all the artless plaints of love and grief and death,
 I said to my silent curious soul out of the bed of the slumber-chamber,
 Come, for I have found the clew I sought so long,
 Let us go forth refresh'd amid the day,
 Cheerfully tallying life, walking the world, the real,
 Nourish'd henceforth by our celestial dream.
 
 And I said, moreover,
 Haply what thou hast heard O soul was not the sound of winds,
 Nor dream of raging storm, nor sea-hawk's flapping wings nor harsh scream,
 Nor vocalism of sun-bright Italy,
 Nor German organ majestic, nor vast concourse of voices, nor layers
 of harmonies,
 Nor strophes of husbands and wives, nor sound of marching soldiers,
 Nor flutes, nor harps, nor the bugle-calls of camps,
 But to a new rhythmus fitted for thee,
 Poems bridging the way from Life to Death, vaguely wafted in night
 air, uncaught, unwritten,
 Which let us go forth in the bold day and write.