Walt Whitman

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

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5

 Beautiful world of new superber birth that rises to my eyes,
 Like a limitless golden cloud filling the westernr sky,
 Emblem of general maternity lifted above all,
 Sacred shape of the bearer of daughters and sons,
 Out of thy teeming womb thy giant babes in ceaseless procession issuing,
 Acceding from such gestation, taking and giving continual strength
 and life,
 World of the real--world of the twain in one,
 World of the soul, born by the world of the real alone, led to
 identity, body, by it alone,
 Yet in beginning only, incalculable masses of composite precious materials,
 By history's cycles forwarded, by every nation, language, hither sent,
 Ready, collected here, a freer, vast, electric world, to be
 constructed here,
 (The true New World, the world of orbic science, morals, literatures
 to come,)
 Thou wonder world yet undefined, unform'd, neither do I define thee,
 How can I pierce the impenetrable blank of the future?
 I feel thy ominous greatness evil as well as good,
 I watch thee advancing, absorbing the present, transcending the past,
 I see thy light lighting, and thy shadow shadowing, as if the entire globe,
 But I do not undertake to define thee, hardly to comprehend thee,
 I but thee name, thee prophesy, as now,
 I merely thee ejaculate!
 
 Thee in thy future,
 Thee in thy only permanent life, career, thy own unloosen'd mind,
 thy soaring spirit,
 Thee as another equally needed sun, radiant, ablaze, swift-moving,
 fructifying all,
 Thee risen in potent cheerfulness and (...)
(......)