Walt Whitman

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

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42

 A call in the midst of the crowd,
 My own voice, orotund sweeping and final.
 
 Come my children,
 Come my boys and girls, my women, household and intimates,
 Now the performer launches his nerve, he has pass'd his prelude on
 the reeds within.
 
 Easily written loose-finger'd chords--I feel the thrum of your
 climax and close.
 
 My head slues round on my neck,
 Music rolls, but not from the organ,
 Folks are around me, but they are no household of mine.
 
 Ever the hard unsunk ground,
 Ever the eaters and drinkers, ever the upward and downward sun, ever
 the air and the ceaseless tides,
 Ever myself and my neighbors, refreshing, wicked, real,
 Ever the old inexplicable query, ever that thorn'd thumb, that
 breath of itches and thirsts,
 Ever the vexer's hoot! hoot! till we find where the sly one hides
 and bring him forth,
 Ever love, ever the sobbing liquid of life,
 Ever the bandage under the chin, ever the trestles of death.
 
 Here and there with dimes on the eyes walking,
 To feed the greed of the belly the brains liberally spooning,
 Tickets buying, taking, selling, but in to the feast never once going,
 Many sweating, ploughing, thrashing, and then the chaff for payment
 receiving,
 A few idly owning, and they the wheat continually claiming.
 
 This is the city and I am one of the citizens,
 Whatever interests the rest interests me, (...)
(......)