A poem by Walt Whitman
, from his Leaves of Grass
For the lands and for these passionate days and for myself,
Now I awhile retire to thee O soil of autumn fields,
Reclining on thy breast, giving myself to thee,
Answering the pulses of thy sane and equable heart,
Tuning a verse for thee.
O earth that hast no voice, confide to me a voice,
O harvest of my lands - O boundless summer growths,
O lavish brown parturient earth - O infinite teeming womb,
A song to narrate thee.
Ever upon this stage,
Is acted God's calm annual drama,
Gorgeous procession, songs of birds,
Sunrise that fullest feeds and freshens most the soul,
The heaving sea, the waves upon the shore, the musical,
The woods, the stalwart trees, the slender, tapering trees,
The liliput countless armies of the grass,
The heat, the showers, the measureless pasturages,
The scenery of the snows, the winds' free orchestra,
The stretching light-hung roof of clouds, the clear cerulean and the silvery fringes,
The high dilating stars, the placid beckoning stars,
The moving flocks and herds, the plains and emerald meadows,
The shows of all the varied lands and all the growths and
Fecund America - to-day,
Thou art all over set in births and joys!
Thou groan'st with riches, thy wealth clothes thee as a
Thou laughest loud with ache of great possessions,
A myriad-twining life like interlacing vines binds all thy vast demesne,
As some huge ship freighted to water's edge thou ridest
As rain falls from the heaven and vapors rise from earth, so
have the precious values fallen upon thee and risen out
Thou envy of the globe! thou miracle!
Thou, bathed, choked, swimming in plenty,
Thou lucky Mistress of the tranquil barns,
Thou Prairie Dame that sittest in the middle and lookest out
upon thy world, and lookest East and lookest West,
Dispensatress, that by a word givest a thousand miles,
a million farms, and missest nothing,
Thou all-acceptress - thou hospitable, (thou only art hospitable
as God is hospitable.)
When late I sang sad was my voice,
Sad were the shows around me with deafening noises of
hatred and smoke of war;
In the midst of the conflict, the heroes, I stood,
Or pass'd with slow step through the wounded and dying.
But now I sing not war,
Nor the measur'd march of soldiers, nor the tents of camps,
Nor the regiments hastily coming up deploying in line of
No more the sad, unnatural shows of war.
Ask'd room those flush'd immortal ranks, the first forth-
Ask room alas the ghastly ranks, the armies dread that
(Pass, pass, ye proud brigades, with your tramping sinewy
With your shoulders young and strong, with your knapsacks
and your muskets;
How elate I stood and watch'd you, where starting off you
Pass - then rattle drums again,
For an army heaves in sight, O another gathering army,
Swarming, trailing on the rear, O you dread accruing army,
O you regiments so piteous, with your mortal diarrhoea, with your fever,
O my land's maim'd darlings, with the plenteous bloody
bandage and the crutch,
Lo, your pallid army follows.)
But on these days of brightness,
On the far-stretching beauteous landscape, the roads and
lanes, the high-piled farm-wagons, and the fruits and
Should the dead intrude?
Ah the dead to me mar not, they fit well in Nature,
They fit very well in the landscape under the trees and grass,
And along the edge of the sky in the horizon's far margin.
Nor do I forget you Departed,
Nor in winter or summer my lost ones,
But most in the open air as now when my soul is rapt and
at peace, like pleasing phantoms,
Your memories rising glide silently by me.
I saw the day the return of the heroes,
(Yet the heroes never surpass'd shall never return,
Them that day I saw not.)
I saw the interminable corps, I saw the processions of armies,
I saw them approaching, defiling by with divisions,
Streaming northward, their work done, camping awhile in
clusters of mighty camps.
No holiday soldiers - youthful, yet veterans,
Worn, swart, handsome, strong, of the stock of homestead
Harden'd of many a long campaign and sweaty march,
Inured on many a hard-fought bloody field.
A pause - the armies wait,
A million flush'd embattled conquerors wait,
The world too waits, then soft as breaking night and sure as
They melt, they disappear.
Exult O lands! victorious lands!
Not there your victory on those red shuddering fields,
But here and hence your victory.
Melt, melt away ye armies - disperse ye blue-clad soldiers,
Resolve ye back again, give up for good your deadly arms,
Other the arms the fields henceforth for you, or South or
With saner wars, sweet wars, life-giving wars.
Loud O my throat, and clear O soul!
The season of thanks and the voice of full-yielding,
The chant of joy and power for boundless fertility.
All till'd and untill'd fields expand before me,
I see the true arenas of my race, or first or last,
Man's innocent and strong arenas.
I see the heroes at other toils,
I see well-wielded in their hands the better weapons.
I see where the Mother of All,
With full-spanning eye gazes forth, dwells long,
And counts the varied gathering of the products.
Busy the far, the sunlit panorama,
Prairie, orchard, and yellow grain of the North,
Cotton and rice of the South and Louisianian cane,
Open unseeded fallows, rich fields of clover and timothy,
Kine and horses feeding, and droves of sheep and swine,
And many a stately river flowing and many a jocund brook,
And healthy uplands with herby-perfumed breezes,
And the good green grass, that delicate miracle the ever-
Toil on heroes! harvest the products!
Not alone on those warlike fields the Mother of All,
With dilated form and lambent eyes watch'd you.
Toil on heroes! toil well! handle the weapons well!
The Mother of All, yet here as ever she watches you.
Well-pleased America thou beholdest,
Over the fields of the West those crawling monsters,
The human-divine inventions, the labor-saving implements;
Beholdest moving in every direction imbued as with life the
The steam-power reaping-machines and the horse-power
The engines, thrashers of grain and cleaners of grain, well
separating the straw, the nimble work of the patent
Beholdest the newer saw-mill, the southern cotton-gin,
and the rice-cleanser.
Beneath thy look O Maternal,
With these and else and with their own strong hands the
All gather and all harvest,
Yet but for thee O Powerful, not a scythe might swing as now
Not a maize-stalk dangle as now its silken tassels in peace.
Under thee only they harvest, even but a wisp of hay under
thy great face only,
Harvest the wheat of Ohio, Illinois, Wisconsin, every barbed spear under thee,
Harvest the maize of Missouri, Kentucky, Tennessee, each
ear in its light-green sheath,
Gather the hay to its myriad mows in the odorous tranquil
Oats to their bins, the white potato, the buckwheat of Michigan,
Gather the cotton in Mississippi or Alabama, dig and hoard
the golden the sweet potato of Georgia and the Carolinas,
Clip the wool of California or Pennsylvania,
Cut the flax in the Middle States, or hemp or tobacco in the
Pick the pea and the bean, or pull apples from the trees or
bunches of grapes from the vines,
Or aught that ripens in all these States or North or South,
Under the beaming sun and under thee.