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, politics, wars, markets,
      newspapers, schools,
  The mayor and councils, banks, tariffs, steamships, factories,
      stocks, stores, real estate and personal estate.

  The little plentiful manikins skipping around in collars and tail'd coats
  I am aware who they are, (they are positively not worms or fleas,)
  I acknowledge the duplicates of myself, the weakest and shallowest
      is deathless with me,
  What I do and say the same waits for them,
  Every thought that flounders in me the same flounders in them.

  I know perfectly well my own egotism,
  Know my omnivorous lines and must not write any less,
  And would fetch you whoever you are flush with myself.

  Not words of routine this song of mine,
  But abruptly to question, to leap beyond yet nearer bring;
  This printed and bound book—but the printer and the
      printing-office boy?
  The well-taken photographs—but your wife or friend close and solid
      in your arms?
  The black ship mail'd with iron, her mighty guns in her turrets—but
      the pluck of the captain and engineers?
  In the houses the dishes and fare and furniture—but the host and
      hostess, and the look out of their eyes?
  The sky up there—yet here or next door, or across the way?
  The saints and sages in history—but you yourself?
  Sermons, creeds, theology—but the fathomless human brain,
  And what is reason? and what is love? and what is life?

       43
  I do not despise you priests, all time, the world over,
  My faith is the greatest of faiths and the least of faiths,
  Enclosing worship ancient and modern and all between ancient and modern,
  Believing I shall come again upon the earth after five thousand years,
  Waiting responses from oracles, honoring the gods, saluting the sun,
  Making a fetich of the first rock or stump, powowing with sticks in
      the circle of obis,
  Helping the llama or brahmin as he trims the lamps of the idols,
  Dancing yet through the streets in a phallic procession, rapt and
      austere in the woods a gymnosophist,
  Drinking mead from the skull-cap, to Shastas and Vedas admirant,
      minding the Koran,
  Walking the teokallis, spotted with gore from the stone and knife,
      beating the serpent-skin drum,
  Accepting the Gospels, accepting him that was crucified, knowing
      assuredly that he is divine,
  To the mass kneeling or the puritan's prayer rising, or sitting
      patiently in a pew,
  Ranting and frothing in my insane crisis, or waiting dead-like till
      my spirit arouses me,
  Looking forth on pavement and land, or outside of pavement and land,
  Belonging to the winders of the circuit of circuits.

  One of that centripetal and centrifugal gang I turn and talk like
      man leaving charges before a journey.

  Down-hearted doubters dull and excluded,
  Frivolous, sullen, moping, angry, affected, dishearten'd, atheistical,
  I know every one of you, I know the sea of torment, doubt, despair
      and unbelief.

  How the flukes splash!
  How they contort rapid as lightning, with spasms and spouts of blood!

  Be at peace bloody flukes of doubters and sullen mopers,
  I take my place among you as much as among any,
  The past is the push of you, me, all, precisely the same,
  And what is yet untried and afterward is for you, me, all, precisely
      the same.

  I do not know what is untried and afterward,
  But I know it will in its turn prove sufficient, and cannot fail.

  Each who passes is consider'd, each who stops is consider'd, not
      single one can it fall.

  It cannot fall the young man who died and was buried,
  Nor the young woman who died and was put by his side,
  Nor the little child that peep'd in at the door, and then drew back
      and was never seen again,
  Nor the old man who has lived without purpose, and feels it with
      bitterness worse than gall,
  Nor him in the poor house tubercled by rum and the bad disorder,
  Nor the numberless slaughter'd and wreck'd, nor the brutish koboo
      call'd the ordure of humanity,
  Nor the sacs merely floating with open mouths for food to slip in,
  Nor any thing in the earth, or down in the oldest graves of the earth,
  Nor any thing in the myriads of spheres, nor the myriads of myriads
      that inhabit them,
  Nor the present, nor the least wisp that is known.

       44
  It is time to explain myself—let us stand up.

  What is known I strip away,
  I launch all men and women forward with me into the Unknown.

  The clock indicates the moment—but what does eternity indicate?

  We have thus far exhausted trillions of winters and summers,
  There are trillions ahead, and trillions ahead of them.

  Births have brought us richness and variety,
  And other births will bring us richness and variety.

  I do not call one greater and one smaller,
  That which fills its period and place is equal to any.

  Were mankind murderous or jealous upon you, my brother, my sister?
  I am sorry for you, they are not murderous or jealous upon me,
  All has been gentle with me, I keep no account with lamentation,
  (What have I to do with lamentation?)

  I am an acme of things accomplish'd, and I an encloser of things to be.

  My feet strike an apex of the apices of the stairs,
  On every step bunches of ages, and larger bunches between the steps,
  All below duly travel'd, and still I mount and mount.

  Rise after rise bow the phantoms behind me,
  Afar down I see the huge first Nothing, I know I was even there,
  I waited unseen and always, and slept through the lethargic mist,
  And took my time, and took no hurt from the fetid carbon.

  Long I was hugg'd close—long and long.

  Immense have been the preparations for me,
  Faithful and friendly the arms that have help'd me.

  Cycles ferried my cradle, rowing and rowing like cheerful boatmen,
  For room to me stars kept aside in their own rings,
  They sent influences to look after what was to hold me.

  Before I was born out of my mother generations guided me,
  My embryo has never been torpid, nothing could overlay it.

  For it the nebula cohered to an orb,
  The long slow strata piled to rest it on,
  Vast vegetables gave it sustenance,
  Monstrous sauroids transported it in their mouths and deposited it
      with care.

  All forces have been steadily employ'd to complete and delight me,
  Now on this spot I stand with my robust soul.
      45
  O span of youth! ever-push'd elasticity!
  O manhood, balanced, florid and full.

  My lovers suffocate me,
  Crowding my lips, thick in the pores of my skin,
  Jostling me through streets and public halls, coming naked to me at night,
  Crying by day, Ahoy! from the rocks of the river, swinging and
      chirping over my head,
  Calling my name from flower-beds, vines, tangled underbrush,
  Lighting on every moment of my life,
  Bussing my body with soft balsamic busses,
  Noiselessly passing handfuls out of their hearts and giving them to be mine.

  Old age superbly rising! O welcome, ineffable grace of dying days!

  Every condition promulges not only itself, it promulges what grows
      after and out of itself,
  And the dark hush promulges as much as any.

  I open my scuttle at night and see the far-sprinkled systems,
  And all I see multiplied as high as I can cipher edge but the rim of
      the farther systems.

  Wider and wider they spread, expanding, always expanding,
  Outward and outward and forever outward.

  My sun has his sun and round him obediently wheels,
  He joins with his partners a group of superior circuit,
  And greater sets follow, making specks of the greatest inside them.

  There is no stoppage and never can be stoppage,
  If I, you, and the worlds, and all beneath or upon their surfaces,
      were this moment reduced back to a pallid float, it would
      not avail the long run,
  We should surely bring up again where we now stand,
  And surely go as much farther, and then farther and farther.

  A few quadrillions of eras, a few octillions of cubic leagues, do
      not hazard the span or make it impatient,
  They are but parts, any thing is but a part.

  See ever so far, there is limitless space outside of that,
  Count ever so much, there is limitless time around that.

  My rendezvous is appointed, it is certain,
  The Lord will be there and wait till I come on perfect terms,
  The great Camerado, the lover true for whom I pine will be there.

       46
  I know I have the best of time and space, and was never measured and
      never will be measured.

  I tramp a perpetual journey, (come listen all!)
  My signs are a rain-proof coat, good shoes, and a staff cut from the woods,
  No friend of mine takes his ease in my chair,
  I have no chair, no church, no philosophy,
  I lead no man to a dinner-table, library, exchange,
  But each man and each woman of you I lead upon a knoll,
  My left hand hooking you round the waist,
  My right hand pointing to landscapes of continents and the public road.

  Not I, not any one else can travel that road for you,
  You must travel it for yourself.

  It is not far, it is within reach,
  Perhaps you have been on it since you were born and did not know,
  Perhaps it is everywhere on water and on land.

  Shoulder your duds dear son, and I will mine, and let us hasten forth,
  Wonderful cities and free nations we shall fetch as we go.

  If you tire, give me both burdens, and rest the chuff of your hand
      on my hip,
  And in due time you shall repay the same service to me,
  For after we start we never lie by again.

  This day before dawn I ascended a hill and look'd at the crowded heaven,
  And I said to my spirit When we become the enfolders of those orbs,
      and the pleasure and knowledge of every thing in them, shall we
      be fill'd and satisfied then?
  And my spirit said No, we but level that lift to pass and continue beyond.

  You are also asking me questions and I hear you,
  I answer that I cannot answer, you must find out for yourself.

  Sit a while dear son,
  Here are biscuits to eat and here is milk to drink,
  But as soon as you sleep and renew yourself in sweet clothes, I kiss you
      with a good-by kiss and open the gate for your egress hence.

  Long enough have you dream'd contemptible dreams,
  Now I wash the gum from your eyes,
  You must habit yourself to the dazzle of the light and of every
      moment of your life.

  Long have you timidly waded holding a plank by the shore,
  Now I will you to be a bold swimmer,
  To jump off in the midst of the sea, rise again, nod to me, shout,
      and laughingly dash with your hair.

       47
  I am the teacher of athletes,
  He that by me spreads a wider breast than my own proves the width of my own,
  He most honors my style who learns under it to destroy the teacher.

  The boy I love, the same becomes a man not through derived power,
      but in his own right,
  Wicked rather than virtuous out of conformity or fear,
  Fond of his sweetheart, relishing well his steak,
  Unrequited love or a slight cutting him worse than sharp steel cuts,
  First-rate to ride, to fight, to hit the bull's eye, to sail a
      skiff, to sing a song or play on the banjo,
  Preferring scars and the beard and faces pitted with small-pox over
      all latherers,
  And those well-tann'd to those that keep out of the sun.

  I teach straying from me, yet who can stray from me?
  I follow you whoever you are from the present hour,
  My words itch at your ears till you understand them.

  I do not say these things for a dollar or to fill up the time while
      I wait for a boat,
  (It is you talking just as much as myself, I act as the tongue of you,
  Tied in your mouth, in mine it begins to be loosen'd.)

  I swear I will never again mention love or death inside a house,
  And I swear I will never translate myself at all, only to him or her
      who privately stays with me in the open air.

  If you would understand me go to the heights or water-shore,
  The nearest gnat is an explanation, and a drop or motion of waves key,
  The maul, the oar, the hand-saw, second my words.

  No shutter'd room or school can commune with me,
  But roughs and little children better than they.

  The young mechanic is closest to me, he knows me well,
  The woodman that takes his axe and jug with him shall take me with
      him all day,
  The farm-boy ploughing in the field feels good at the sound of my voice,
  In vessels that sail my words sail, I go with fishermen and seamen
      and love them.

  The soldier camp'd or upon the march is mine,
  On the night ere the pending battle many seek me, and I do not fail them,
  On that solemn night (it may be their last) those that know me seek me.
  My face rubs to the hunter's face when he lies down alone in his blanket,
  The driver thinking of me does not mind the jolt of his wagon,
  The young mother and old mother comprehend me,
  The girl and the wife rest the needle a moment and forget where they are,
  They and all would resume what I have told them.

       48
  I have said that the soul is not more than the body,
  And I have said that the body is not more than the soul,
  And nothing, not God, is greater to one than one's self is,
  And whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his own
      funeral drest in his shroud,
  And I or you pocketless of a dime may purchase the pick of the earth,
  And to glance with an eye or show a bean in its pod confounds the
      learning of all times,
  And there is no trade or employment but the young man following it
      may become a hero,
  And there is no object so soft but it makes a hub for the wheel'd universe,
  And I say to any man or woman, Let your soul stand cool and composed
      before a million universes.

  And I say to mankind, Be not curious about God,
  For I who am curious about each am not curious about God,
  (No array of terms can say how much I am at peace about God and
      about death.)

  I hear and behold God in every object, yet understand God not in the least,
  Nor do I understand who there can be more wonderful than myself.

  Why should I wish to see God better than this day?
  I see something of God each hour of the twenty-four, and each moment then,
  In the faces of men and women I see God, and in my own face in the glass,
  I find letters from God dropt in the street, and every one is sign'd
      by God's name,
  And I leave them where they are, for I know that wheresoe'er I go,
  Others will punctually come for ever and ever.

       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.

       50
  There is that in me—I do not know what it is—but I know it is in me.

  Wrench'd and sweaty—calm and cool then my body becomes,
  I sleep—I sleep long.

  I do not know it—it is without name—it is a word unsaid,
  It is not in any dictionary, utterance, symbol.

  Something it swings on more than the earth I swing on,
  To it the creation is the friend whose embracing awakes me.

  Perhaps I might tell more. Outlines! I plead for my brothers and sisters.

  Do you see O my brothers and sisters?
  It is not chaos or death—it is form, union, plan—it is eternal
      life—it is Happiness.

       51
  The past and present wilt—I have fill'd them, emptied them.
  And proceed to fill my next fold of the future.

  Listener up there! what have you to confide to me?
  Look in my face while I snuff the sidle of evening,
  (Talk honestly, no one else hears you, and I stay only a minute longer.)

  Do I contradict myself?
  Very well then I contradict myself,
  (I am large, I contain multitudes.)

  I concentrate toward them that are nigh, I wait on the door-slab.

  Who has done his day's work? who will soonest be through with his supper?
  Who wishes to walk with me?

  Will you speak before I am gone? will you prove already too late?

       52
  The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains of my gab
      and my loitering.

  I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
  I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.

  The last scud of day holds back for me,
  It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow'd wilds,
  It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.

  I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
  I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.

  I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
  If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.

  You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
  But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
  And filter and fibre your blood.

  Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
  Missing me one place search another,
  I stop somewhere waiting for you.





BOOK IV. CHILDREN OF ADAM

To the Garden the World

  To the garden the world anew ascending,
  Potent mates, daughters, sons, preluding,
  The love, the life of their bodies, meaning and being,
  Curious here behold my resurrection after slumber,
  The revolving cycles in their wide sweep having brought me again,
  Amorous, mature, all beautiful to me, all wondrous,
  My limbs and the quivering fire that ever plays through them, for
      reasons, most wondrous,
  Existing I peer and penetrate still,
  Content with the present, content with the past,
  By my side or back of me Eve following,
  Or in front, and I following her just the same.





From Pent-Up Aching Rivers

  From pent-up aching rivers,
  From that of myself without which I were nothing,
  From what I am determin'd to make illustrious, even if I stand sole
      among men,
  From my own voice resonant, singing the phallus,
  Singing the song of procreation,
  Singing the need of superb children and therein superb grown people,
  Singing the muscular urge and the blending,
  Singing the bedfellow's song, (O resistless yearning!
  O for any and each the body correlative attracting!
  O for you whoever you are your correlative body! O it, more than all
      else, you delighting!)
  From the hungry gnaw that eats me night and day,
  From native moments, from bashful pains, singing them,
  Seeking something yet unfound though I have diligently sought it
      many a long year,
  Singing the true song of the soul fitful at random,
  Renascent with grossest Nature or among animals,
  Of that, of them and what goes with them my poems informing,
  Of the smell of apples and lemons, of the pairing of birds,
  Of the wet of woods, of the lapping of waves,
  Of the mad pushes of waves upon the land, I them chanting,
  The overture lightly sounding, the strain anticipating,
  The welcome nearness, the sight of the perfect body,
  The swimmer swimming naked in the bath, or motionless on his back
      lying and floating,
  The female form approaching, I pensive, love-flesh tremulous aching,
  The divine list for myself or you or for any one making,
  The face, the limbs, the index from head to foot, and what it arouses,
  The mystic deliria, the madness amorous, the utter abandonment,
  (Hark close and still what I now whisper to you,
  I love you, O you entirely possess me,
  O that you and I escape from the rest and go utterly off, free and lawless,
  Two hawks in the air, two fishes swimming in the sea not more
      lawless than we;)
  The furious storm through me careering, I passionately trembling.
  The oath of the inseparableness of two together, of the woman that
      loves me and whom I love more than my life, that oath swearing,
  (O I willingly stake all for you,
  O let me be lost if it must be so!
  O you and I! what is it to us what the rest do or think?
  What is all else to us? only that we enjoy each other and exhaust
      each other if it must be so;)
  From the master, the pilot I yield the vessel to,
  The general commanding me, commanding all, from him permission taking,
  From time the programme hastening, (I have loiter'd too long as it is,)
  From sex, from the warp and from the woof,
  From privacy, from frequent repinings alone,
  From plenty of persons near and yet the right person not near,
  From the soft sliding of hands over me and thrusting of fingers
      through my hair and beard,
  From the long sustain'd kiss upon the mouth or bosom,
  From the close pressure that makes me or any man drunk, fainting
      with excess,
  From what the divine husband knows, from the work of fatherhood,
  From exultation, victory and relief, from the bedfellow's embrace in
      the night,
  From the act-poems of eyes, hands, hips and bosoms,
  From the cling of the trembling arm,
  From the bending curve and the clinch,
  From side by side the pliant coverlet off-throwing,
  From the one so unwilling to have me leave, and me just as unwilling
      to leave,
  (Yet a moment O tender waiter, and I return,)
  From the hour of shining stars and dropping dews,
  From the night a moment I emerging flitting out,
  Celebrate you act divine and you children prepared for,
  And you stalwart loins.





I Sing the Body Electric

       1
  I sing the body electric,
  The armies of those I love engirth me and I engirth them,
  They will not let me off till I go with them, respond to them,
  And discorrupt them, and charge them full with the charge of the soul.

  Was it doubted that those who corrupt their own bodies conceal themselves?
  And if those who defile the living are as bad as they who defile the dead?
  And if the body does not do fully as much as the soul?
  And if the body were not the soul, what is the soul?

       2
  The love of the body of man or woman balks account, the body itself
      balks account,
  That of the male is perfect, and that of the female is perfect.

  The expression of the face balks account,
  But the expression of a well-made man appears not only in his face,
  It is in his limbs and joints also, it is curiously in the joints of
      his hips and wrists,
  It is in his walk, the carriage of his neck, the flex of his waist
      and knees, dress does not hide him,
  The strong sweet quality he has strikes through the cotton and broadcloth,
  To see him pass conveys as much as the best poem, perhaps more,
  You linger to see his back, and the back of his neck and shoulder-side.

  The sprawl and fulness of babes, the bosoms and heads of women, the
      folds of their dress, their style as we pass in the street, the
      contour of their shape downwards,
  The swimmer naked in the swimming-bath, seen as he swims through
      the transparent green-shine, or lies with his face up and rolls
      silently to and from the heave of the water,
  The bending forward and backward of rowers in row-boats, the
      horse-man in his saddle,
  Girls, mothers, house-keepers, in all their performances,
  The group of laborers seated at noon-time with their open
      dinner-kettles, and their wives waiting,
  The female soothing a child, the farmer's daughter in the garden or
      cow-yard,
  The young fellow hosing corn, the sleigh-driver driving his six
      horses through the crowd,
  The wrestle of wrestlers, two apprentice-boys, quite grown, lusty,
      good-natured, native-born, out on the vacant lot at sundown after work,
  The coats and caps thrown down, the embrace of love and resistance,
  The upper-hold and under-hold, the hair rumpled over and blinding the eyes;
  The march of firemen in their own costumes, the play of masculine
      muscle through clean-setting trowsers and waist-straps,
  The slow return from the fire, the pause when the bell strikes
      suddenly again, and the listening on the alert,
  The natural, perfect, varied attitudes, the bent head, the curv'd
      neck and the counting;
  Such-like I love—I loosen myself, pass freely, am at the mother's
      breast with the little child,
  Swim with the swimmers, wrestle with wrestlers, march in line with
      the firemen, and pause, listen, count.

       3
  I knew a man, a common farmer, the father of five sons,
  And in them the fathers of sons, and in them the fathers of sons.

  This man was a wonderful vigor, calmness, beauty of person,
  The shape of his head, the pale yellow and white of his hair and
      beard, the immeasurable meaning of his black eyes, the richness
      and breadth of his manners,
  These I used to go and visit him to see, he was wise also,
  He was six feet tall, he was over eighty years old, his sons were
      massive, clean, bearded, tan-faced, handsome,
  They and his daughters loved him, all who saw him loved him,
  They did not love him by allowance, they loved him with personal love,
  He drank water only, the blood show'd like scarlet through the
      clear-brown skin of his face,
  He was a frequent gunner and fisher, he sail'd his boat himself, he
      had a fine one presented to him by a ship-joiner, he had
      fowling-pieces presented to him by men that loved him,
  When he went with his five sons and many grand-sons to hunt or fish,
      you would pick him out as the most beautiful and vigorous of the gang,
  You would wish long and long to be with him, you would wish to sit
      by him in the boat that you and he might touch each other.

       4
  I have perceiv'd that to be with those I like is enough,
  To stop in company with the rest at evening is enough,
  To be surrounded by beautiful, curious, breathing, laughing flesh is enough,
  To pass among them or touch any one, or rest my arm ever so lightly
      round his or her neck for a moment, what is this then?
  I do not ask any more delight, I swim in it as in a sea.

  There is something in staying close to men and women and looking
      on them, and in the contact and odor of them, that pleases the soul well,
  All things please the soul, but these please the soul well.

       5
  This is the female form,
  A divine nimbus exhales from it from head to foot,
  It attracts with fierce undeniable attraction,
  I am drawn by its breath as if I were no more than a helpless vapor,
      all falls aside but myself and it,
  Books, art, religion, time, the visible and solid earth, and what
      was expected of heaven or fear'd of hell, are now consumed,
  Mad filaments, ungovernable shoots play out of it, the response
      likewise ungovernable,
  Hair, bosom, hips, bend of legs, negligent falling hands all
      diffused, mine too diffused,
  Ebb stung by the flow and flow stung by the ebb, love-flesh swelling
      and deliciously aching,
  Limitless limpid jets of love hot and enormous, quivering jelly of
      love, white-blow and delirious nice,
  Bridegroom night of love working surely and softly into the prostrate dawn,
  Undulating into the willing and yielding day,
  Lost in the cleave of the clasping and sweet-flesh'd day.

  This the nucleus—after the child is born of woman, man is born of woman,
  This the bath of birth, this the merge of small and large, and the
      outlet again.

  Be not ashamed women, your privilege encloses the rest, and is the
      exit of the rest,
  You are the gates of the body, and you are the gates of the soul.

  The female contains all qualities and tempers them,
  She is in her place and moves with perfect balance,
  She is all things duly veil'd, she is both passive and active,
  She is to conceive daughters as well as sons, and sons as well as daughters.

  As I see my soul reflected in Nature,
  As I see through a mist, One with inexpressible completeness,
      sanity, beauty,
  See the bent head and arms folded over the breast, the Female I see.

       6
  The male is not less the soul nor more, he too is in his place,
  He too is all qualities, he is action and power,
  The flush of the known universe is in him,
  Scorn becomes him well, and appetite and defiance become him well,
  The wildest largest passions, bliss that is utmost, sorrow that is
      utmost become him well, pride is for him,
  The full-spread pride of man is calming and excellent to the soul,
  Knowledge becomes him, he likes it always, he brings every thing to
      the test of himself,
  Whatever the survey, whatever the sea and the sail he strikes
      soundings at last only here,
  (Where else does he strike soundings except here?)

  The man's body is sacred and the woman's body is sacred,
  No matter who it is, it is sacred—is it the meanest one in the
      laborers' gang?
  Is it one of the dull-faced immigrants just landed on the wharf?
  Each belongs here or anywhere just as much as the well-off, just as
      much as you,
  Each has his or her place in the procession.

  (All is a procession,
  The universe is a procession with measured and perfect motion.)

  Do you know so much yourself that you call the meanest ignorant?
  Do you suppose you have a right to a good sight, and he or she has
      no right to a sight?
  Do you think matter has cohered together from its diffuse float, and
      the soil is on the surface, and water runs and vegetation sprouts,
  For you only, and not for him and her?

       7
  A man's body at auction,
  (For before the war I often go to the slave-mart and watch the sale,)
  I help the auctioneer, the sloven does not half know his business.

  Gentlemen look on this wonder,
  Whatever the bids of the bidders they cannot be high enough for it,
  For it the globe lay preparing quintillions of years without one
      animal or plant,
  For it the revolving cycles truly and steadily roll'd.

  In this head the all-baffling brain,
  In it and below it the makings of heroes.

  Examine these limbs, red, black, or white, they are cunning in
      tendon and nerve,
  They shall be stript that you may see them.

  Exquisite senses, life-lit eyes, pluck, volition,
  Flakes of breast-muscle, pliant backbone and neck, flesh not flabby,
      good-sized arms and legs,
  And wonders within there yet.

  Within there runs blood,
  The same old blood! the same red-running blood!
  There swells and jets a heart, there all passions, desires,
      reachings, aspirations,
  (Do you think they are not there because they are not express'd in
      parlors and lecture-rooms?)

  This is not only one man, this the father of those who shall be
      fathers in their turns,
  In him the start of populous states and rich republics,
  Of him countless immortal lives with countless embodiments and enjoyments.

  How do you know who shall come from the offspring of his offspring
      through the centuries?
  (Who might you find you have come from yourself, if you could trace
      back through the centuries?)

       8
  A woman's body at auction,
  She too is not only herself, she is the teeming mother of mothers,
  She is the bearer of them that shall grow and be mates to the mothers.

  Have you ever loved the body of a woman?
  Have you ever loved the body of a man?
  Do you not see that these are exactly the same to all in all nations
      and times all over the earth?

  If any thing is sacred the human body is sacred,
  And the glory and sweet of a man is the token of manhood untainted,
  And in man or woman a clean, strong, firm-fibred body, is more
      beautiful than the most beautiful face.

  Have you seen the fool that corrupted his own live body? or the fool
      that corrupted her own live body?
  For they do not conceal themselves, and cannot conceal themselves.

       9
  O my body! I dare not desert the likes of you in other men and
      women, nor the likes of the parts of you,
  I believe the likes of you are to stand or fall with the likes of
      the soul, (and that they are the soul,)
  I believe the likes of you shall stand or fall with my poems, and
      that they are my poems,
  Man's, woman's, child, youth's, wife's, husband's, mother's,
      father's, young man's, young woman's poems,
  Head, neck, hair, ears, drop and tympan of the ears,
  Eyes, eye-fringes, iris of the eye, eyebrows, and the waking or
      sleeping of the lids,
  Mouth, tongue, lips, teeth, roof of the mouth, jaws, and the jaw-hinges,
  Nose, nostrils of the nose, and the partition,
  Cheeks, temples, forehead, chin, throat, back of the neck, neck-slue,
  Strong shoulders, manly beard, scapula, hind-shoulders, and the
      ample side-round of the chest,
  Upper-arm, armpit, elbow-socket, lower-arm, arm-sinews, arm-bones,
  Wrist and wrist-joints, hand, palm, knuckles, thumb, forefinger,
      finger-joints, finger-nails,
  Broad breast-front, curling hair of the breast, breast-bone, breast-side,
  Ribs, belly, backbone, joints of the backbone,
  Hips, hip-sockets, hip-strength, inward and outward round,
      man-balls, man-root,
  Strong set of thighs, well carrying the trunk above,
  Leg-fibres, knee, knee-pan, upper-leg, under-leg,
  Ankles, instep, foot-ball, toes, toe-joints, the heel;
  All attitudes, all the shapeliness, all the belongings of my or your
      body or of any one's body, male or female,
  The lung-sponges, the stomach-sac, the bowels sweet and clean,
  The brain in its folds inside the skull-frame,
  Sympathies, heart-valves, palate-valves, sexuality, maternity,
  Womanhood, and all that is a woman, and the man that comes from woman,
  The womb, the teats, nipples, breast-milk, tears, laughter, weeping,
      love-looks, love-perturbations and risings,
  The voice, articulation, language, whispering, shouting aloud,
  Food, drink, pulse, digestion, sweat, sleep, walking, swimming,
  Poise on the hips, leaping, reclining, embracing, arm-curving and tightening,
  The continual changes of the flex of the mouth, and around the eyes,
  The skin, the sunburnt shade, freckles, hair,
  The curious sympathy one feels when feeling with the hand the naked
      meat of the body,
  The circling rivers the breath, and breathing it in and out,
  The beauty of the waist, and thence of the hips, and thence downward
      toward the knees,
  The thin red jellies within you or within me, the bones and the
      marrow in the bones,
  The exquisite realization of health;
  O I say these are not the parts and poems of the body only, but of the soul,
  O I say now these are the soul!





A Woman Waits for Me

  A woman waits for me, she contains all, nothing is lacking,
  Yet all were lacking if sex were lacking, or if the moisture of the
      right man were lacking.

  Sex contains all, bodies, souls,
  Meanings, proofs, purities, delicacies, results, promulgations,
  Songs, commands, health, pride, the maternal mystery, the seminal milk,
  All hopes, benefactions, bestowals, all the passions, loves,
      beauties, delights of the earth,
  All the governments, judges, gods, follow'd persons of the earth,
  These are contain'd in sex as parts of itself and justifications of itself.

  Without shame the man I like knows and avows the deliciousness of his sex,
  Without shame the woman I like knows and avows hers.

  Now I will dismiss myself from impassive women,
  I will go stay with her who waits for me, and with those women that
      are warm-blooded and sufficient for me,
  I see that they understand me and do not deny me,
  I see that they are worthy of me, I will be the robust husband of
      those women.

  They are not one jot less than I am,
  They are tann'd in the face by shining suns and blowing winds,
  Their flesh has the old divine suppleness and strength,
  They know how to swim, row, ride, wrestle, shoot, run, strike,
      retreat, advance, resist, defend themselves,
  They are ultimate in their own right—they are calm, clear,
      well-possess'd of themselves.

  I draw you close to me, you women,
  I cannot let you go, I would do you good,
  I am for you, and you are for me, not only for our own sake, but for
      others' sakes,
  Envelop'd in you sleep greater heroes and bards,
  They refuse to awake at the touch of any man but me.

  It is I, you women, I make my way,
  I am stern, acrid, large, undissuadable, but I love you,
  I do not hurt you any more than is necessary for you,
  I pour the stuff to start sons and daughters fit for these States, I
      press with slow rude muscle,
  I brace myself effectually, I listen to no entreaties,
  I dare not withdraw till I deposit what has so long accumulated within me.

  Through you I drain the pent-up rivers of myself,
  In you I wrap a thousand onward years,
  On you I graft the grafts of the best-beloved of me and America,
  The drops I distil upon you shall grow fierce and athletic girls,
      new artists, musicians, and singers,
  The babes I beget upon you are to beget babes in their turn,
  I shall demand perfect men and women out of my love-spendings,
  I shall expect them to interpenetrate with others, as I and you
      inter-penetrate now,
  I shall count on the fruits of the gushing showers of them, as I
      count on the fruits of the gushing showers I give now,
  I shall look for loving crops from the birth, life, death,
      immortality, I plant so lovingly now.