I hear the slapping waves, the restless keel, the rocking in the sand,I see the sailor kit, the canvas bag, the great box bound with brass,
I scan the face all berry-brown and bearded — the stout-strong frame,
Dress’d in its russet suit of good Scotch cloth:
(Then what the told-out story of those twenty years? What of the future?)
Orange Buds by Mail from Florida
A lesser proof than old Voltaire’s, yet greater,
Proof of this present time, and thee, thy broad expanse, America,
To my plain Northern hut, in outside clouds and snow,
Brought safely for a thousand miles o’er land and tide,
Some three days since on their own soil live-sprouting,
Now here their sweetness through my room unfolding,
A bunch of orange buds by mall from Florida.
Twilight
The soft voluptuous opiate shades,
The sun just gone, the eager light dispell’d — (I too will soon be
gone, dispell’d,)
A haze — nirwana — rest and night — oblivion.
You Lingering Sparse Leaves of Me
You lingering sparse leaves of me on winter-nearing boughs,
And I some well-shorn tree of field or orchard-row;
You tokens diminute and lorn — (not now the flush of May, or July
clover-bloom — no grain of August now;)
You pallid banner-staves — you pennants valueless — you overstay’d of time,
Yet my soul-dearest leaves confirming all the rest,
The faithfulest — hardiest — last.
Not Meagre, Latent Boughs Alone
Not meagre, latent boughs alone, O songs! (scaly and bare, like
eagles’ talons,)
But haply for some sunny day (who knows?) some future spring, some
summer — bursting forth,
To verdant leaves, or sheltering shade — to nourishing fruit,
Apples and grapes — the stalwart limbs of trees emerging — the fresh,
free, open air,
And love and faith, like scented roses blooming.
The Dead Emperor
To-day, with bending head and eyes, thou, too, Columbia,
Less for the mighty crown laid low in sorrow — less for the Emperor,
Thy true condolence breathest, sendest out o’er many a salt sea mile,
Mourning a good old man — a faithful shepherd, patriot.
As the Greek’s Signal Flame
As the Greek’s signal flame, by antique records told,
Rose from the hill-top, like applause and glory,
Welcoming in fame some special veteran, hero,
With rosy tinge reddening the land he’d served,
So I aloft from Mannahatta’s ship-fringed shore,
Lift high a kindled brand for thee, Old Poet.
The Dismantled Ship
In some unused lagoon, some nameless bay,
On sluggish, lonesome waters, anchor’d near the shore,
An old, dismasted, gray and batter’d ship, disabled, done,
After free voyages to all the seas of earth, haul’d up at last and
hawser’d tight,
Lies rusting, mouldering.
Now Precedent Songs, Farewell
Now precedent songs, farewell — by every name farewell,
(Trains of a staggering line in many a strange procession, waggons,
From ups and downs — with intervals — from elder years, mid-age, or youth,)
“In Cabin’d Ships, or Thee Old Cause or Poets to Come
Or Paumanok, Song of Myself, Calamus, or Adam,
Or Beat! Beat! Drums! or To the Leaven’d Soil they Trod,
Or Captain! My Captain! Kosmos, Quicksand Years, or Thoughts,
Thou Mother with thy Equal Brood,” and many, many more unspecified,
From fibre heart of mine — from throat and tongue — (My life’s hot
pulsing blood,
The personal urge and form for me — not merely paper, automatic type
and ink,)
Each song of mine — each utterance in the past — having its long,
