duly over,)“The world, the race, the soul — in space and time the universes,
“All bound as is befitting each — all surely going somewhere.”
Small the Theme of My Chant
Small the theme of my Chant, yet the greatest — namely, One’s-Self —
a simple, separate person. That, for the use of the New World, I sing.
Man’s physiology complete, from top to toe, I sing. Not physiognomy alone,
nor brain alone, is worthy for the Muse; — I say the Form complete
is worthier far. The Female equally with the Male, I sing.
Nor cease at the theme of One’s-Self. I speak the word of the
modern, the word En-Masse.
My Days I sing, and the Lands — with interstice I knew of hapless War.
(O friend, whoe’er you are, at last arriving hither to commence, I
feel through every leaf the pressure of your hand, which I return.
And thus upon our journey, footing the road, and more than once, and
link’d together let us go.)
True Conquerors
Old farmers, travelers, workmen (no matter how crippled or bent,)
Old sailors, out of many a perilous voyage, storm and wreck,
Old soldiers from campaigns, with all their wounds, defeats and scars;
Enough that they’ve survived at all — long life’s unflinching ones!
Forth from their struggles, trials, fights, to have emerged at all —
in that alone,
True conquerors o’er all the rest.
The United States to Old World Critics
Here first the duties of to-day, the lessons of the concrete,
Wealth, order, travel, shelter, products, plenty;
As of the building of some varied, vast, perpetual edifice,
Whence to arise inevitable in time, the towering roofs, the lamps,
The solid-planted spires tall shooting to the stars.
The Calming Thought of All
That coursing on, whate’er men’s speculations,
Amid the changing schools, theologies, philosophies,
Amid the bawling presentations new and old,
The round earth’s silent vital laws, facts, modes continue.
Thanks in Old Age
Thanks in old age — thanks ere I go,
For health, the midday sun, the impalpable air — for life, mere life,
For precious ever-lingering memories, (of you my mother dear — you,
father — you, brothers, sisters, friends,)
For all my days — not those of peace alone — the days of war the same,
For gentle words, caresses, gifts from foreign lands,
For shelter, wine and meat — for sweet appreciation,
(You distant, dim unknown — or young or old — countless, unspecified,
readers belov’d,
We never met, and neer shall meet — and yet our souls embrace, long,
close and long;)
For beings, groups, love, deeds, words, books — for colors, forms,
For all the brave strong men — devoted, hardy men — who’ve forward
sprung in freedom’s help, all years, all lands
For braver, stronger, more devoted men — (a special laurel ere I go,
to life’s war’s chosen ones,
The cannoneers of song and thought — the great artillerists — the
foremost leaders, captains of the soul:)
As soldier from an ended war return’d — As traveler out of myriads,
to the long procession retrospective,
Thanks — joyful thanks! — a soldier’s, traveler’s thanks.
Life and Death
The two old, simple problems ever intertwined,
Close home, elusive, present, baffled, grappled.
By each successive age insoluble, pass’d on,
To ours to-day — and we pass on the same.
The Voice of the Rain
And who art thou? said I to the soft-falling shower,
Which, strange to tell, gave me an answer, as here translated:
I am the Poem of Earth, said the voice of the rain,
Eternal I rise impalpable out of the land and the bottomless sea,
Upward to heaven, whence, vaguely form’d, altogether changed, and
yet the same,
