Monthly Archives: September 2014

A Prayer of Saint Jerome


A Prayer of Saint Jerome for Christ’s Mercy

O Lord, show Your mercy to me and gladden my heart. I am like the man on the way to Jericho who was overtaken by robbers, wounded and left for dead. O Good Samaritan, come to my aid. I am like the sheep that went astray. O Good Shepherd, seek me out and bring me home in accord with Your will. Let me dwell in Your house all the days of my life and praise You for ever and ever with those who are there. Amen.


Today is his feast day.  He produced the first translation of the Bible into Latin directly from the original Hebrew.  As a language buff, I consider him a patron of sorts.

Daily Whitman


Song of the Broad-Axe

  The place where a great city stands is not the place of stretch'd
      wharves, docks, manufactures, deposits of produce merely,
  Nor the place of ceaseless salutes of new-comers or the
      anchor-lifters of the departing,
  Nor the place of the tallest and costliest buildings or shops
      selling goods from the rest of the earth,
  Nor the place of the best libraries and schools, nor the place where
      money is plentiest,
  Nor the place of the most numerous population.

  Where the city stands with the brawniest breed of orators and bards,
  Where the city stands that is belov'd by these, and loves them in
      return and understands them,
  Where no monuments exist to heroes but in the common words and deeds,
  Where thrift is in its place, and prudence is in its place,
  Where the men and women think lightly of the laws,
  Where the slave ceases, and the master of slaves ceases,
  Where the populace rise at once against the never-ending audacity of
      elected persons,
  Where fierce men and women pour forth as the sea to the whistle of
      death pours its sweeping and unript waves,
  Where outside authority enters always after the precedence of inside
  Where the citizen is always the head and ideal, and President,
      Mayor, Governor and what not, are agents for pay,
  Where children are taught to be laws to themselves, and to depend on
  Where equanimity is illustrated in affairs,
  Where speculations on the soul are encouraged,
  Where women walk in public processions in the streets the same as the men,
  Where they enter the public assembly and take places the same as the men;
  Where the city of the faithfulest friends stands,
  Where the city of the cleanliness of the sexes stands,
  Where the city of the healthiest fathers stands,
  Where the city of the best-bodied mothers stands,
  There the great city stands.


Daily Whitman


Song of the Broad-Axe

  Muscle and pluck forever!
  What invigorates life invigorates death,
  And the dead advance as much as the living advance,
  And the future is no more uncertain than the present,
  For the roughness of the earth and of man encloses as much as the
      delicatesse of the earth and of man,
  And nothing endures but personal qualities.

  What do you think endures?
  Do you think a great city endures?
  Or a teeming manufacturing state? or a prepared constitution? or the
      best built steamships?
  Or hotels of granite and iron? or any chef-d'oeuvres of engineering,
      forts, armaments?

  Away! these are not to be cherish'd for themselves,
  They fill their hour, the dancers dance, the musicians play for them,
  The show passes, all does well enough of course,
  All does very well till one flash of defiance.

  A great city is that which has the greatest men and women,
  If it be a few ragged huts it is still the greatest city in the
      whole world.


Daily Whitman


Song of the Broad-Axe

  The log at the wood-pile, the axe supported by it,
  The sylvan hut, the vine over the doorway, the space clear'd for garden,
  The irregular tapping of rain down on the leaves after the storm is lull'd,
  The walling and moaning at intervals, the thought of the sea,
  The thought of ships struck in the storm and put on their beam ends,
      and the cutting away of masts,
  The sentiment of the huge timbers of old-fashion'd houses and barns,
  The remember'd print or narrative, the voyage at a venture of men,
      families, goods,
  The disembarkation, the founding of a new city,
  The voyage of those who sought a New England and found it, the outset
  The settlements of the Arkansas, Colorado, Ottawa, Willamette,
  The slow progress, the scant fare, the axe, rifle, saddle-bags;
  The beauty of all adventurous and daring persons,
  The beauty of wood-boys and wood-men with their clear untrimm'd faces,
  The beauty of independence, departure, actions that rely on themselves,
  The American contempt for statutes and ceremonies, the boundless
      impatience of restraint,
  The loose drift of character, the inkling through random types, the
  The butcher in the slaughter-house, the hands aboard schooners and
      sloops, the raftsman, the pioneer,
  Lumbermen in their winter camp, daybreak in the woods, stripes of
      snow on the limbs of trees, the occasional snapping,
  The glad clear sound of one's own voice, the merry song, the natural
      life of the woods, the strong day's work,
  The blazing fire at night, the sweet taste of supper, the talk, the
      bed of hemlock-boughs and the bear-skin;
  The house-builder at work in cities or anywhere,
  The preparatory jointing, squaring, sawing, mortising,
  The hoist-up of beams, the push of them in their places, laying them
  Setting the studs by their tenons in the mortises according as they
      were prepared,
  The blows of mallets and hammers, the attitudes of the men, their
      curv'd limbs,
  Bending, standing, astride the beams, driving in pins, holding on by
      posts and braces,
  The hook'd arm over the plate, the other arm wielding the axe,
  The floor-men forcing the planks close to be nail'd,
  Their postures bringing their weapons downward on the bearers,
  The echoes resounding through the vacant building:
  The huge storehouse carried up in the city well under way,
  The six framing-men, two in the middle and two at each end, carefully
      bearing on their shoulders a heavy stick for a cross-beam,
  The crowded line of masons with trowels in their right hands rapidly
      laying the long side-wall, two hundred feet from front to rear,
  The flexible rise and fall of backs, the continual click of the
      trowels striking the bricks,
  The bricks one after another each laid so workmanlike in its place,
      and set with a knock of the trowel-handle,
  The piles of materials, the mortar on the mortar-boards, and the
      steady replenishing by the hod-men;
  Spar-makers in the spar-yard, the swarming row of well-grown apprentices,
  The swing of their axes on the square-hew'd log shaping it toward
      the shape of a mast,
  The brisk short crackle of the steel driven slantingly into the pine,
  The butter-color'd chips flying off in great flakes and slivers,
  The limber motion of brawny young arms and hips in easy costumes,
  The constructor of wharves, bridges, piers, bulk-heads, floats,
      stays against the sea;
  The city fireman, the fire that suddenly bursts forth in the
      close-pack'd square,
  The arriving engines, the hoarse shouts, the nimble stepping and daring,
  The strong command through the fire-trumpets, the falling in line,
      the rise and fall of the arms forcing the water,
  The slender, spasmic, blue-white jets, the bringing to bear of the
      hooks and ladders and their execution,
  The crash and cut away of connecting wood-work, or through floors
      if the fire smoulders under them,
  The crowd with their lit faces watching, the glare and dense shadows;
  The forger at his forge-furnace and the user of iron after him,
  The maker of the axe large and small, and the welder and temperer,
  The chooser breathing his breath on the cold steel and trying the
      edge with his thumb,
  The one who clean-shapes the handle and sets it firmly in the socket;
  The shadowy processions of the portraits of the past users also,
  The primal patient mechanics, the architects and engineers,
  The far-off Assyrian edifice and Mizra edifice,
  The Roman lictors preceding the consuls,
  The antique European warrior with his axe in combat,
  The uplifted arm, the clatter of blows on the helmeted head,
  The death-howl, the limpsy tumbling body, the rush of friend and foe
  The siege of revolted lieges determin'd for liberty,
  The summons to surrender, the battering at castle gates, the truce
      and parley,
  The sack of an old city in its time,
  The bursting in of mercenaries and bigots tumultuously and disorderly,
  Roar, flames, blood, drunkenness, madness,
  Goods freely rifled from houses and temples, screams of women in the
      gripe of brigands,
  Craft and thievery of camp-followers, men running, old persons despairing,
  The hell of war, the cruelties of creeds,
  The list of all executive deeds and words just or unjust,
  The power of personality just or unjust.


Quote for the Week


It’s odd but even when I was a kid, I would write about “old and other times” as though I had a lot of years behind me. Now I do, so there is a difference in the weight of memory. When you’re young, you’re still “becoming”, now at my age I am more concerned with “being”. And not too long from now I’ll be driven by “surviving”, I’m sure. I kind of miss that “becoming” stage, as most times you really don’t know what’s around the corner. Now, of course, I’ve kind of knocked on the door and heard a muffled answer. Nevertheless, I still don’t know what the voice is saying, or even what language it’s in.

–David Bowie, Livewire interview (16 June 2002); courtesy of Wikiquote.

Daily Whitman


Song of the Broad-Axe

  Welcome are all earth's lands, each for its kind,
  Welcome are lands of pine and oak,
  Welcome are lands of the lemon and fig,
  Welcome are lands of gold,
  Welcome are lands of wheat and maize, welcome those of the grape,
  Welcome are lands of sugar and rice,
  Welcome the cotton-lands, welcome those of the white potato and
      sweet potato,
  Welcome are mountains, flats, sands, forests, prairies,
  Welcome the rich borders of rivers, table-lands, openings,
  Welcome the measureless grazing-lands, welcome the teeming soil of
      orchards, flax, honey, hemp;
  Welcome just as much the other more hard-faced lands,
  Lands rich as lands of gold or wheat and fruit lands,
  Lands of mines, lands of the manly and rugged ores,
  Lands of coal, copper, lead, tin, zinc,
  Lands of iron—lands of the make of the axe.

David Bowie for the Weekend


Nothing like a little Ziggy Stardust!

Daily Whitman



Song of the Broad-Axe

  Weapon shapely, naked, wan,
  Head from the mother's bowels drawn,
  Wooded flesh and metal bone, limb only one and lip only one,
  Gray-blue leaf by red-heat grown, helve produced from a little seed sown,
  Resting the grass amid and upon,
  To be lean'd and to lean on.

  Strong shapes and attributes of strong shapes, masculine trades,
      sights and sounds.
  Long varied train of an emblem, dabs of music,
  Fingers of the organist skipping staccato over the keys of the great organ.


Daily Whitman



A Song of Joys

  O to make the most jubilant song!
  Full of music—full of manhood, womanhood, infancy!
  Full of common employments—full of grain and trees.

  O for the voices of animals—O for the swiftness and balance of fishes!
  O for the dropping of raindrops in a song!
  O for the sunshine and motion of waves in a song!

  O the joy of my spirit—it is uncaged—it darts like lightning!
  It is not enough to have this globe or a certain time,
  I will have thousands of globes and all time.

  O the engineer's joys! to go with a locomotive!
  To hear the hiss of steam, the merry shriek, the steam-whistle, the
      laughing locomotive!
  To push with resistless way and speed off in the distance.

  O the gleesome saunter over fields and hillsides!
  The leaves and flowers of the commonest weeds, the moist fresh
      stillness of the woods,
  The exquisite smell of the earth at daybreak, and all through the forenoon.

  O the horseman's and horsewoman's joys!
  The saddle, the gallop, the pressure upon the seat, the cool
      gurgling by the ears and hair.

  O the fireman's joys!
  I hear the alarm at dead of night,
  I hear bells, shouts! I pass the crowd, I run!
  The sight of the flames maddens me with pleasure.

  O the joy of the strong-brawn'd fighter, towering in the arena in
      perfect condition, conscious of power, thirsting to meet his opponent.

  O the joy of that vast elemental sympathy which only the human soul is
      capable of generating and emitting in steady and limitless floods.

  O the mother's joys!
  The watching, the endurance, the precious love, the anguish, the
      patiently yielded life.

  O the of increase, growth, recuperation,
  The joy of soothing and pacifying, the joy of concord and harmony.

  O to go back to the place where I was born,
  To hear the birds sing once more,
  To ramble about the house and barn and over the fields once more,
  And through the orchard and along the old lanes once more.

  O to have been brought up on bays, lagoons, creeks, or along the coast,
  To continue and be employ'd there all my life,
  The briny and damp smell, the shore, the salt weeds exposed at low water,
  The work of fishermen, the work of the eel-fisher and clam-fisher;
  I come with my clam-rake and spade, I come with my eel-spear,
  Is the tide out? I Join the group of clam-diggers on the flats,
  I laugh and work with them, I joke at my work like a mettlesome young man;
  In winter I take my eel-basket and eel-spear and travel out on foot
      on the ice—I have a small axe to cut holes in the ice,
  Behold me well-clothed going gayly or returning in the afternoon,
      my brood of tough boys accompanying me,
  My brood of grown and part-grown boys, who love to be with no
      one else so well as they love to be with me,
  By day to work with me, and by night to sleep with me.

  Another time in warm weather out in a boat, to lift the lobster-pots
      where they are sunk with heavy stones, (I know the buoys,)
  O the sweetness of the Fifth-month morning upon the water as I row
      just before sunrise toward the buoys,
  I pull the wicker pots up slantingly, the dark green lobsters are
      desperate with their claws as I take them out, I insert
      wooden pegs in the 'oints of their pincers,

  I go to all the places one after another, and then row back to the shore,
  There in a huge kettle of boiling water the lobsters shall be boil'd
      till their color becomes scarlet.

  Another time mackerel-taking,
  Voracious, mad for the hook, near the surface, they seem to fill the
      water for miles;
  Another time fishing for rock-fish in Chesapeake bay, I one of the
      brown-faced crew;
  Another time trailing for blue-fish off Paumanok, I stand with braced body,
  My left foot is on the gunwale, my right arm throws far out the
      coils of slender rope,
  In sight around me the quick veering and darting of fifty skiffs, my

  O boating on the rivers,
  The voyage down the St. Lawrence, the superb scenery, the steamers,
  The ships sailing, the Thousand Islands, the occasional timber-raft
      and the raftsmen with long-reaching sweep-oars,
  The little huts on the rafts, and the stream of smoke when they cook
      supper at evening.

  (O something pernicious and dread!
  Something far away from a puny and pious life!
  Something unproved! something in a trance!
  Something escaped from the anchorage and driving free.)

  O to work in mines, or forging iron,
  Foundry casting, the foundry itself, the rude high roof, the ample
      and shadow'd space,
  The furnace, the hot liquid pour'd out and running.

  O to resume the joys of the soldier!
  To feel the presence of a brave commanding officer—to feel his sympathy!
  To behold his calmness—to be warm'd in the rays of his smile!
  To go to battle—to hear the bugles play and the drums beat!
  To hear the crash of artillery—to see the glittering of the bayonets
      and musket-barrels in the sun!

  To see men fall and die and not complain!
  To taste the savage taste of blood—to be so devilish!
  To gloat so over the wounds and deaths of the enemy.

  O the whaleman's joys! O I cruise my old cruise again!
  I feel the ship's motion under me, I feel the Atlantic breezes fanning me,
  I hear the cry again sent down from the mast-head, There—she blows!
  Again I spring up the rigging to look with the rest—we descend,
      wild with excitement,
  I leap in the lower'd boat, we row toward our prey where he lies,
  We approach stealthy and silent, I see the mountainous mass,
      lethargic, basking,
  I see the harpooneer standing up, I see the weapon dart from his
      vigorous arm;
  O swift again far out in the ocean the wounded whale, settling,
      running to windward, tows me,
  Again I see him rise to breathe, we row close again,
  I see a lance driven through his side, press'd deep, turn'd in the wound,
  Again we back off, I see him settle again, the life is leaving him fast,
  As he rises he spouts blood, I see him swim in circles narrower and
      narrower, swiftly cutting the water—I see him die,
  He gives one convulsive leap in the centre of the circle, and then
      falls flat and still in the bloody foam.

  O the old manhood of me, my noblest joy of all!
  My children and grand-children, my white hair and beard,
  My largeness, calmness, majesty, out of the long stretch of my life.

  O ripen'd joy of womanhood! O happiness at last!
  I am more than eighty years of age, I am the most venerable mother,
  How clear is my mind—how all people draw nigh to me!
  What attractions are these beyond any before? what bloom more
      than the bloom of youth?
  What beauty is this that descends upon me and rises out of me?

  O the orator's joys!
  To inflate the chest, to roll the thunder of the voice out from the
      ribs and throat,
  To make the people rage, weep, hate, desire, with yourself,
  To lead America—to quell America with a great tongue.

  O the joy of my soul leaning pois'd on itself, receiving identity through
      materials and loving them, observing characters and absorbing them,
  My soul vibrated back to me from them, from sight, hearing, touch,
      reason, articulation, comparison, memory, and the like,
  The real life of my senses and flesh transcending my senses and flesh,
  My body done with materials, my sight done with my material eyes,
  Proved to me this day beyond cavil that it is not my material eyes
      which finally see,
  Nor my material body which finally loves, walks, laughs, shouts,
      embraces, procreates.

  O the farmer's joys!
  Ohioan's, Illinoisian's, Wisconsinese', Kanadian's, Iowan's,
      Kansian's, Missourian's, Oregonese' joys!
  To rise at peep of day and pass forth nimbly to work,
  To plough land in the fall for winter-sown crops,
  To plough land in the spring for maize,
  To train orchards, to graft the trees, to gather apples in the fall.

  O to bathe in the swimming-bath, or in a good place along shore,
  To splash the water! to walk ankle-deep, or race naked along the shore.

  O to realize space!
  The plenteousness of all, that there are no bounds,
  To emerge and be of the sky, of the sun and moon and flying
      clouds, as one with them.

  O the joy a manly self-hood!
  To be servile to none, to defer to none, not to any tyrant known or unknown,
  To walk with erect carriage, a step springy and elastic,
  To look with calm gaze or with a flashing eye,
  To speak with a full and sonorous voice out of a broad chest,
  To confront with your personality all the other personalities of the earth.

  Knowist thou the excellent joys of youth?
  Joys of the dear companions and of the merry word and laughing face?
  Joy of the glad light-beaming day, joy of the wide-breath'd games?
  Joy of sweet music, joy of the lighted ball-room and the dancers?
  Joy of the plenteous dinner, strong carouse and drinking?

  Yet O my soul supreme!
  Knowist thou the joys of pensive thought?
  Joys of the free and lonesome heart, the tender, gloomy heart?
  Joys of the solitary walk, the spirit bow'd yet proud, the suffering
      and the struggle?
  The agonistic throes, the ecstasies, joys of the solemn musings day
      or night?
  Joys of the thought of Death, the great spheres Time and Space?
  Prophetic joys of better, loftier love's ideals, the divine wife,
      the sweet, eternal, perfect comrade?
  Joys all thine own undying one, joys worthy thee O soul.

  O while I live to be the ruler of life, not a slave,
  To meet life as a powerful conqueror,
  No fumes, no ennui, no more complaints or scornful criticisms,
  To these proud laws of the air, the water and the ground, proving
      my interior soul impregnable,
  And nothing exterior shall ever take command of me.

  For not life's joys alone I sing, repeating—the joy of death!
  The beautiful touch of Death, soothing and benumbing a few moments,
      for reasons,
  Myself discharging my excrementitious body to be burn'd, or render'd
      to powder, or buried,
  My real body doubtless left to me for other spheres,
  My voided body nothing more to me, returning to the purifications,
      further offices, eternal uses of the earth.

  O to attract by more than attraction!
  How it is I know not—yet behold! the something which obeys none
      of the rest,
  It is offensive, never defensive—yet how magnetic it draws.

  O to struggle against great odds, to meet enemies undaunted!
  To be entirely alone with them, to find how much one can stand!
  To look strife, torture, prison, popular odium, face to face!
  To mount the scaffold, to advance to the muzzles of guns with
      perfect nonchalance!
  To be indeed a God!

  O to sail to sea in a ship!
  To leave this steady unendurable land,
  To leave the tiresome sameness of the streets, the sidewalks and the
  To leave you O you solid motionless land, and entering a ship,
  To sail and sail and sail!

  O to have life henceforth a poem of new joys!
  To dance, clap hands, exult, shout, skip, leap, roll on, float on!
  To be a sailor of the world bound for all ports,
  A ship itself, (see indeed these sails I spread to the sun and air,)
  A swift and swelling ship full of rich words, full of joys.


Daily Whitman



Our Old Feuillage

  Always our old feuillage!
  Always Florida's green peninsula—always the priceless delta of
      Louisiana—always the cotton-fields of Alabama and Texas,
  Always California's golden hills and hollows, and the silver
      mountains of New Mexico—always soft-breath'd Cuba,
  Always the vast slope drain'd by the Southern sea, inseparable with
      the slopes drain'd by the Eastern and Western seas,
  The area the eighty-third year of these States, the three and a half
      millions of square miles,
  The eighteen thousand miles of sea-coast and bay-coast on the main,
      the thirty thousand miles of river navigation,
  The seven millions of distinct families and the same number of dwellings—
      always these, and more, branching forth into numberless branches,
  Always the free range and diversity—always the continent of Democracy;
  Always the prairies, pastures, forests, vast cities, travelers,
      Kanada, the snows;
  Always these compact lands tied at the hips with the belt stringing
      the huge oval lakes;
  Always the West with strong native persons, the increasing density there,
      the habitans, friendly, threatening, ironical, scorning invaders;
  All sights, South, North, East—all deeds, promiscuously done at all times,
  All characters, movements, growths, a few noticed, myriads unnoticed,
  Through Mannahatta's streets I walking, these things gathering,
  On interior rivers by night in the glare of pine knots, steamboats
      wooding up,
  Sunlight by day on the valley of the Susquehanna, and on the valleys
      of the Potomac and Rappahannock, and the valleys of the Roanoke
      and Delaware,
  In their northerly wilds beasts of prey haunting the Adirondacks the
      hills, or lapping the Saginaw waters to drink,
  In a lonesome inlet a sheldrake lost from the flock, sitting on the
      water rocking silently,
  In farmers' barns oxen in the stable, their harvest labor done, they
      rest standing, they are too tired,
  Afar on arctic ice the she-walrus lying drowsily while her cubs play around,
  The hawk sailing where men have not yet sail'd, the farthest polar
      sea, ripply, crystalline, open, beyond the floes,
  White drift spooning ahead where the ship in the tempest dashes,
  On solid land what is done in cities as the bells strike midnight together,
  In primitive woods the sounds there also sounding, the howl of the
      wolf, the scream of the panther, and the hoarse bellow of the elk,
  In winter beneath the hard blue ice of Moosehead lake, in summer
      visible through the clear waters, the great trout swimming,
  In lower latitudes in warmer air in the Carolinas the large black
      buzzard floating slowly high beyond the tree tops,
  Below, the red cedar festoon'd with tylandria, the pines and
      cypresses growing out of the white sand that spreads far and flat,
  Rude boats descending the big Pedee, climbing plants, parasites with
      color'd flowers and berries enveloping huge trees,
  The waving drapery on the live-oak trailing long and low,
      noiselessly waved by the wind,
  The camp of Georgia wagoners just after dark, the supper-fires and
      the cooking and eating by whites and negroes,
  Thirty or forty great wagons, the mules, cattle, horses, feeding
      from troughs,
  The shadows, gleams, up under the leaves of the old sycamore-trees,
      the flames with the black smoke from the pitch-pine curling and rising;
  Southern fishermen fishing, the sounds and inlets of North
      Carolina's coast, the shad-fishery and the herring-fishery, the
      large sweep-seines, the windlasses on shore work'd by horses, the
      clearing, curing, and packing-houses;
  Deep in the forest in piney woods turpentine dropping from the
      incisions in the trees, there are the turpentine works,
  There are the negroes at work in good health, the ground in all
      directions is cover'd with pine straw;
  In Tennessee and Kentucky slaves busy in the coalings, at the forge,
      by the furnace-blaze, or at the corn-shucking,
  In Virginia, the planter's son returning after a long absence,
      joyfully welcom'd and kiss'd by the aged mulatto nurse,
  On rivers boatmen safely moor'd at nightfall in their boats under
      shelter of high banks,
  Some of the younger men dance to the sound of the banjo or fiddle,
      others sit on the gunwale smoking and talking;
  Late in the afternoon the mocking-bird, the American mimic, singing
      in the Great Dismal Swamp,
  There are the greenish waters, the resinous odor, the plenteous
      moss, the cypress-tree, and the juniper-tree;
  Northward, young men of Mannahatta, the target company from an
      excursion returning home at evening, the musket-muzzles all
      bear bunches of flowers presented by women;
  Children at play, or on his father's lap a young boy fallen asleep,
      (how his lips move! how he smiles in his sleep!)
  The scout riding on horseback over the plains west of the
      Mississippi, he ascends a knoll and sweeps his eyes around;
  California life, the miner, bearded, dress'd in his rude costume,
      the stanch California friendship, the sweet air, the graves one
      in passing meets solitary just aside the horse-path;
  Down in Texas the cotton-field, the negro-cabins, drivers driving
      mules or oxen before rude carts, cotton bales piled on banks
      and wharves;
  Encircling all, vast-darting up and wide, the American Soul, with
      equal hemispheres, one Love, one Dilation or Pride;
  In arriere the peace-talk with the Iroquois the aborigines, the
      calumet, the pipe of good-will, arbitration, and indorsement,
  The sachem blowing the smoke first toward the sun and then toward
      the earth,
  The drama of the scalp-dance enacted with painted faces and guttural
  The setting out of the war-party, the long and stealthy march,
  The single file, the swinging hatchets, the surprise and slaughter
      of enemies;
  All the acts, scenes, ways, persons, attitudes of these States,
      reminiscences, institutions,
  All these States compact, every square mile of these States without
      excepting a particle;
  Me pleas'd, rambling in lanes and country fields, Paumanok's fields,
  Observing the spiral flight of two little yellow butterflies
      shuffling between each other, ascending high in the air,
  The darting swallow, the destroyer of insects, the fall traveler
      southward but returning northward early in the spring,
  The country boy at the close of the day driving the herd of cows and
      shouting to them as they loiter to browse by the roadside,
  The city wharf, Boston, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Charleston, New
      Orleans, San Francisco,
  The departing ships when the sailors heave at the capstan;
  Evening—me in my room—the setting sun,
  The setting summer sun shining in my open window, showing the
      swarm of flies, suspended, balancing in the air in the centre
      of the room, darting athwart, up and down, casting swift
      shadows in specks on the opposite wall where the shine is;
  The athletic American matron speaking in public to crowds of listeners,
  Males, females, immigrants, combinations, the copiousness, the
      individuality of the States, each for itself—the moneymakers,
  Factories, machinery, the mechanical forces, the windlass, lever,
      pulley, all certainties,
  The certainty of space, increase, freedom, futurity,
  In space the sporades, the scatter'd islands, the stars—on the firm
      earth, the lands, my lands,
  O lands! all so dear to me—what you are, (whatever it is,) I putting it
      at random in these songs, become a part of that, whatever it is,
  Southward there, I screaming, with wings slow flapping, with the
      myriads of gulls wintering along the coasts of Florida,
  Otherways there atwixt the banks of the Arkansaw, the Rio Grande,
      the Nueces, the Brazos, the Tombigbee, the Red River, the
      Saskatchawan or the Osage, I with the spring waters laughing
      and skipping and running,
  Northward, on the sands, on some shallow bay of Paumanok, I with
      parties of snowy herons wading in the wet to seek worms and
      aquatic plants,
  Retreating, triumphantly twittering, the king-bird, from piercing
      the crow with its bill, for amusement—and I triumphantly twittering,
  The migrating flock of wild geese alighting in autumn to refresh
      themselves, the body of the flock feed, the sentinels outside
      move around with erect heads watching, and are from time to time
      reliev'd by other sentinels—and I feeding and taking turns
      with the rest,
  In Kanadian forests the moose, large as an ox, corner'd by hunters,
      rising desperately on his hind-feet, and plunging with his
      fore-feet, the hoofs as sharp as knives—and I, plunging at the
      hunters, corner'd and desperate,
  In the Mannahatta, streets, piers, shipping, store-houses, and the
      countless workmen working in the shops,
  And I too of the Mannahatta, singing thereof—and no less in myself
      than the whole of the Mannahatta in itself,
  Singing the song of These, my ever-united lands—my body no more
      inevitably united, part to part, and made out of a thousand
      diverse contributions one identity, any more than my lands
      are inevitably united and made ONE IDENTITY;
  Nativities, climates, the grass of the great pastoral Plains,
  Cities, labors, death, animals, products, war, good and evil—these me,
  These affording, in all their particulars, the old feuillage to me
      and to America, how can I do less than pass the clew of the union
      of them, to afford the like to you?
  Whoever you are! how can I but offer you divine leaves, that you
      also be eligible as I am?
  How can I but as here chanting, invite you for yourself to collect
      bouquets of the incomparable feuillage of these States?