Walt Whitman

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

Nové Literární doupě!

Literární doupě bylo modernizováno a přechází pod novou doménu literdo.com!.

Nový web LD vám přínáší ještě více knih s možností výhodného stahování většího množství e-knih podle vlastního výběru (tedy nejen jednotlivých knih nebo balíčků podle autorů) ve formátech ePub , PDF  a MOBI.

 Přejít na nový web Literární doupě

 

49

 And as to you Death, and you bitter hug of mortality, it is idle to
 try to alarm me.
 
 To his work without flinching the accoucheur comes,
 I see the elder-hand pressing receiving supporting,
 I recline by the sills of the exquisite flexible doors,
 And mark the outlet, and mark the relief and escape.
 
 And as to you Corpse I think you are good manure, but that does not
 offend me,
 I smell the white roses sweet-scented and growing,
 I reach to the leafy lips, I reach to the polish'd breasts of melons.
 
 And as to you Life I reckon you are the leavings of many deaths,
 (No doubt I have died myself ten thousand times before.)
 
 I hear you whispering there O stars of heaven,
 O suns--O grass of graves--O perpetual transfers and promotions,
 If you do not say any thing how can I say any thing?
 
 Of the turbid pool that lies in the autumn forest,
 Of the moon that descends the steeps of the soughing twilight,
 Toss, sparkles of day and dusk--toss on the black stems that decay
 in the muck,
 Toss to the moaning gibberish of the dry limbs.
 
 I ascend from the moon, I ascend from the night,
 I perceive that the ghastly glimmer is noonday sunbeams reflected,
 And debouch to the steady and central from the offspring great or small.