One of the more meditative poems in the collection, (if such a thing is really posible to define) To Think of Time has stood out repeatedly as a favorite among readers of Leaves of Grass. This poem explores to the far-edges of man's (rather limited) box of consciousness of mortality. It seems to strike a particular chord among intellectual people lacking a belief in any definable afterlife. ie Atheist people and the like tend to find many of their own concerns well-articulated in this poem. Whatever your beliefs, here is another beautifully written piece from Leaves of Grass.
To Think of Time
By Walt Whitman from his Leaves of Grass
Last poem of the Autumn Rivulets section.
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To think of time of all that retrospection
To think of to-day, and the ages continued henceforward.
Have you guess'd you yourself would not continue?
Have you dreaded these earth-beetles?
Have you fear'd the future would be nothing to you?
Is to-day nothing? is the beginningless past nothing?
If the future is nothing they are just as surely nothing.
To think that the sun rose in the east that men and women were flexible, real, alive
that every thing was alive,
To think that you and I did not see, feel, think, nor bear our part,
To think that we are now here and bear our part.
Not a day passes, not a minute or second without an accouchement
Not a day passes, not a minute or second without a corpse.
The dull nights go over and the dull days also,
The soreness of lying so much in bed goes over,
The physician after long putting off gives the silent and terrible look for an answer,
The children come hurried and weeping,
and the brothers and sisters are sent for,
Medicines stand unused on the shelf, (the camphor-smell has long pervaded the rooms,)
The faithful hand of the living does not desert the hand of the dying,
The twitching lips press lightly on the forehead of the dying,
The breath ceases and the pulse of the heart ceases,
The corpse stretches on the bed and the living look upon it,
It is palpable as the living are palpable.
The living look upon the corpse with their eyesight,
But without eyesight lingers a different living and
looks curiously on the corpse.
To think the thought of death merged in the thought of materials,
To think of all these wonders
of city and country, and others taking great interest in them,
taking no interest in them.
To think how eager we are in building our houses,
To think others shall be just as eager, and we quite indifferent.
(I see one building the house that serves him a few years, or seventy or eighty years at most,
I see one
building the house that serves him longer than that.)
Slow-moving and black lines creep over the whole earth they never cease they are the burial lines,
that was President was buried, and he that is now President shall surely be buried.
of the vulgar fate,
A frequent sample of the life and death of workmen,
Each after his kind.
Cold dash of waves at the ferry-wharf, posh and ice in the river, half-frozen mud in the streets,
A gray discouraged sky overhead, the short last daylight of December,
A hearse and stages, the funeral of an old Broadway stagedriver, the cortege mostly drivers.
Steady the trot to the cemetery, duly rattles the death-bell,
The gate is pass'd, the new-dug grave is halted
at, the living alight, the hearse uncloses,
The coffin is pass'd out, lower'd and settled, the whip is laid on
the earth is swiftly shovel'd in,
The mound above is flatted with the spades silence,
A minute no one moves or speaks it is done,
He is decently put away is there any thing more?
He was a good fellow, free-mouth'd, quick-temper'd, not bad-looking,
Ready with life or death for a friend, fond of women, gambled, ate hearty, drank hearty,
Had known what it was to be flush, grew low-spirited toward the last, sicken'd, was help'd by a contribution,
Died, aged forty-one years and that was his
Thumb extended, finger uplifted, apron, cape, gloves, strap, wet-weather clothes, whip carefully chosen,
Boss, spotter, starter, hostler, somebody loafing on you, you loafing on somebody, headway,
man before and man behind,
Good day's work, bad day's work, pet stock, mean stock, first out, last out, turning-in at night,
To think that these are so much and so nigh to other drivers, and he there takes no interest in them.
The markets, the government, the working-man's wages
, to think what account they are
our nights and days,
To think that other working-men
will make just as great account of them, yet we make
little or no account.
The vulgar and the refined, what you call sin and what you call goodness, to think how wide a difference,
To think the difference will still continue to others, yet we lie beyond the difference.
To think how much pleasure there is,
Do you enjoy yourself in the city? or engaged in business? or planning
a nomination and election?
or with your wife and family?
Or with your mother and sisters? or in womanly
housework? or the beautiful maternal cares?
These also flow onward to others, you and I flow onward,
But in due time you and I shall take less interest in them.
Your farm, profits, crops to think how engross'd you are,
To think there will still be farms, profits, crops,
yet for you of what avail?
What will be will be well, for what is is well,
To take interest is well, and not to take interest
shall be well.
The domestic joys, the daily housework or business, the building of houses, are not phantasms,
have weight, form, location,
Farms, profits, crops, markets, wages, government, are none of them phantasms,
The difference between sin and goodness is no delusion,
The earth is not an echo, man and his life and all
the things of his life are well-consider'd.
You are not thrown to the winds, you gather certainly and safely around yourself,
Yourself! yourself! yourself,
for ever and ever!
It is not to diffuse
you that you were born of your mother and father, it is to identify you,
It is not that you should be undecided
, but that you should be decided,
Something long preparing and formless is arrived and form'd in you,
You are henceforth secure, whatever comes or goes.
The threads that were spun are gather'd, the weft crosses the warp, the pattern is systematic.
The preparations have every one been justified,
The orchestra have sufficiently tuned their instruments, the
baton has given the signal.
The guest that was coming, he waited long, he is now housed,
He is one of those who are beautiful and
happy, he is one of those that to look upon and be with is enough.
The law of the past cannot be eluded,
The law of the present and future cannot be eluded,
The law of the living cannot be eluded, it is eternal,
The law of promotion and transformation cannot be eluded,
of heroes and good-doers cannot be eluded,
The law of drunkards, informers, mean persons, not one
iota thereof can be eluded.
Slow moving and black lines go ceaselessly over the earth,
goes carried and Southerner
goes carried, and they
on the Atlantic
side and they
on the Pacific
And they between, and all through the Mississippi country, and all over the earth.
The great masters and kosmos are well as they go, the heroes and good-doers are well,
The known leaders and inventors and the rich owners and pious and distinguish'd may be well,
But there is more account than that, there is strict account of all.
The interminable hordes of the ignorant and wicked are not nothing,
The barbarians of Africa and Asia are not nothing,
The perpetual successions of shallow people are not nothing as they go.
Of and in all these things,
I have dream'd that we are not to be changed so much, nor the law of us changed,
I have dream'd that heroes and good-doers shall be under the present and past law,
And that murderers, drunkards, liars, shall be under the present and past law,
For I have dream'd that the law they are under
now is enough.
And I have dream'd that the purpose and essence of the known life, the transient,
Is to form and decide identity for the unknown life, the permanent.
If all came but to ashes of dung,
If maggots and rats ended us, then Alarum! for we are betray'd,
Then indeed suspicion of death.
Do you suspect death? if I were to suspect death I should die now,
Do you think I could walk pleasantly and well-suited toward annihilation?
Pleasantly and well-suited I walk,
Whither I walk I cannot define, but I know it is good,
The whole universe indicates that it is good,
The past and the present indicate that it is good.
How beautiful and perfect are the animals!
How perfect the earth, and the minutest thing upon it!
What is called good is perfect, and what is called bad is just as perfect,
The vegetables and minerals are all
perfect, and the imponderable fluids perfect;
Slowly and surely they have pass'd on to this, and slowly
and surely they yet pass on.
I swear I think now that every thing without exception has an eternal soul
The trees have, rooted in the ground! the weeds of the sea have! the animals!
I swear I think there is nothing but immortality!
That the exquisite scheme is for it, and the nebulous float is for it, and the cohering is for it!
And all preparation is for it and identity is for it and life and materials are altogether for it!