Daily Whitman

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The Sleepers

 7
  A show of the summer softness—a contact of something unseen—an
      amour of the light and air,
  I am jealous and overwhelm'd with friendliness,
  And will go gallivant with the light and air myself.

  O love and summer, you are in the dreams and in me,
  Autumn and winter are in the dreams, the farmer goes with his thrift,
  The droves and crops increase, the barns are well-fill'd.

  Elements merge in the night, ships make tacks in the dreams,
  The sailor sails, the exile returns home,
  The fugitive returns unharm'd, the immigrant is back beyond months
      and years,
  The poor Irishman lives in the simple house of his childhood with
      the well known neighbors and faces,
  They warmly welcome him, he is barefoot again, he forgets he is well off,
  The Dutchman voyages home, and the Scotchman and Welshman voyage
      home, and the native of the Mediterranean voyages home,
  To every port of England, France, Spain, enter well-fill'd ships,
  The Swiss foots it toward his hills, the Prussian goes his way, the
      Hungarian his way, and the Pole his way,
  The Swede returns, and the Dane and Norwegian return.

  The homeward bound and the outward bound,
  The beautiful lost swimmer, the ennuye, the onanist, the female that
      loves unrequited, the money-maker,
  The actor and actress, those through with their parts and those
      waiting to commence,
  The affectionate boy, the husband and wife, the voter, the nominee
      that is chosen and the nominee that has fail'd,
  The great already known and the great any time after to-day,
  The stammerer, the sick, the perfect-form'd, the homely,
  The criminal that stood in the box, the judge that sat and sentenced
      him, the fluent lawyers, the jury, the audience,
  The laugher and weeper, the dancer, the midnight widow, the red squaw,
  The consumptive, the erysipalite, the idiot, he that is wrong'd,
  The antipodes, and every one between this and them in the dark,
  I swear they are averaged now—one is no better than the other,
  The night and sleep have liken'd them and restored them.

  I swear they are all beautiful,
  Every one that sleeps is beautiful, every thing in the dim light is
      beautiful,
  The wildest and bloodiest is over, and all is peace.

  Peace is always beautiful,
  The myth of heaven indicates peace and night.

  The myth of heaven indicates the soul,
  The soul is always beautiful, it appears more or it appears less, it
      comes or it lags behind,
  It comes from its embower'd garden and looks pleasantly on itself
      and encloses the world,
  Perfect and clean the genitals previously jetting,and perfect and
      clean the womb cohering,
  The head well-grown proportion'd and plumb, and the bowels and
      joints proportion'd and plumb.

  The soul is always beautiful,
  The universe is duly in order, every thing is in its place,
  What has arrived is in its place and what waits shall be in its place,
  The twisted skull waits, the watery or rotten blood waits,
  The child of the glutton or venerealee waits long, and the child of
      the drunkard waits long, and the drunkard himself waits long,
  The sleepers that lived and died wait, the far advanced are to go on
      in their turns, and the far behind are to come on in their turns,
  The diverse shall be no less diverse, but they shall flow and unite—
      they unite now.

Posted on 04/06/2015, in literature, poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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