Walt Whitman

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

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33

 Space and Time! now I see it is true, what I guess'd at,
 What I guess'd when I loaf'd on the grass,
 What I guess'd while I lay alone in my bed,
 And again as I walk'd the beach under the paling stars of the morning.
 
 My ties and ballasts leave me, my elbows rest in sea-gaps,
 I skirt sierras, my palms cover continents,
 I am afoot with my vision.
 
 By the city's quadrangular houses--in log huts, camping with lumber-men,
 Along the ruts of the turnpike, along the dry gulch and rivulet bed,
 Weeding my onion-patch or hosing rows of carrots and parsnips,
 crossing savannas, trailing in forests,
 Prospecting, gold-digging, girdling the trees of a new purchase,
 Scorch'd ankle-deep by the hot sand, hauling my boat down the
 shallow river,
 Where the panther walks to and fro on a limb overhead, where the
 buck turns furiously at the hunter,
 Where the rattlesnake suns his flabby length on a rock, where the
 otter is feeding on fish,
 Where the alligator in his tough pimples sleeps by the bayou,
 Where the black bear is searching for roots or honey, where the
 beaver pats the mud with his paddle-shaped tall;
 Over the growing sugar, over the yellow-flower'd cotton plant, over
 the rice in its low moist field,
 Over the sharp-peak'd farm house, with its scallop'd scum and
 slender shoots from the gutters,
 Over the western persimmon, over the long-leav'd corn, over the
 delicate blue-flower flax,
 Over the white and brown buckwheat, a hummer and buzzer there with
 the rest,
 Over the dusky green of the rye as it ripples and shades in the breeze;
 Scaling mountains, pulling myself cautiously up, holding on by low
 scragged limbs,
 Walking the path worn in the grass and beat through the leaves of the brush,
 Where the quail is whistling betwixt the woods and the wheat-lot,
 Where the bat flies in the Seventh-month eve, where the great
 goldbug drops through the dark,
 Where the brook puts out of the roots of the old tree and flows to
 the meadow,
 Where cattle stand and shake away flies with the tremulous
 shuddering of their hides,
 Where the cheese-cloth hangs in the kitchen, where andirons straddle
 the hearth-slab, where cobwebs fall in festoons from the rafters;
 Where trip-hammers crash, where the press is whirling its cylinders,
 Wherever the human heart beats with terrible throes under its ribs,
 Where the pear-shaped balloon is floating aloft, (floating in it
 myself and looking composedly down,)
 Where the life-car is drawn on the slip-noose, where the heat
 hatches pale-green eggs in the dented sand,
 Where the she-whale swims with her calf and never forsakes it,
 Where the steam-ship trails hind-ways its long pennant of smoke,
 Where the fin of the shark cuts like a black chip out of the water,
 Where the half-burn'd brig is riding on unknown currents,
 Where shells grow to her slimy deck, where the dead are corrupting below;
 Where the dense-starr'd flag is borne at the head of the regiments,
 Approaching Manhattan up (...)
(......)