It is no small matter, this round and delicious globe, moving so exactly in its...o...b..t for ever and ever, without one jolt, or the untruth of a single second; I do not think it was made in six days, nor in ten thousand years, nor ten billions of years, Nor planned and built one thing after another, as an architect plans and builds a house.
I do not think seventy years is the time of a man or woman, Nor that seventy millions of years is the time of a man or woman, Nor that years will ever stop the existence of me, or any one else.
3.
Is it wonderful that I should be immortal? as every one is immortal; I know it is wonderful--but my eyesight is equally wonderful, and how I was conceived in my mother"s womb is equally wonderful; And pa.s.sed from a babe, in the creeping trance of a couple of summers and winters, to articulate and walk--All this is equally wonderful.
And that my Soul embraces you this hour, and we affect each other without ever seeing each other, and never perhaps to see each other, is every bit as wonderful.
And that I can think such thoughts as these is just as wonderful; And that I can remind you, and you think them and know them to be true, is just as wonderful.
And that the moon spins round the earth, and on with the earth, is equally wonderful; And that they balance themselves with the sun and stars is equally wonderful.
_MIRACLES._
1.
What shall I give? and which are my miracles?
2.
Realism is mine--my miracles--Take freely, Take without end--I offer them to you wherever your feet can carry you or your eyes reach.
3.
Why! who makes much of a miracle?
As to me, I know of nothing else but miracles, Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan, Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky, Or wade with naked feet along the beach, just in the edge of the water, Or stand under trees in the woods, Or talk by day with any one I love--or sleep in the bed at night with any one I love, Or sit at the table at dinner with my mother, Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car, Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive, of a summer forenoon, Or animals feeding in the fields, Or birds--or the wonderfulness of insects in the air, Or the wonderfulness of the sundown--or of stars shining so quiet and bright, Or the exquisite, delicate, thin curve of the new moon in spring; Or whether I go among those I like best, and that like me best--mechanics, boatmen, farmers, Or among the savans--or to the _soiree_--or to the opera.
Or stand a long while looking at the movements of machinery, Or behold children at their sports, Or the admirable sight of the perfect old man, or the perfect old woman, Or the sick in hospitals, or the dead carried to burial, Or my own eyes and figure in the gla.s.s; These, with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles, The whole referring--yet each distinct and in its place.
4.
To me, every hour of the light and dark is a miracle, Every inch of s.p.a.ce is a miracle, Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same, Every cubic foot of the interior swarms with the same; Every spear of gra.s.s--the frames, limbs, organs, of men and women, and all that concerns them, All these to me are unspeakably perfect miracles.
To me the sea is a continual miracle; The fishes that swim--the rocks--the motion of the waves--the ships, with men in them, What stranger miracles are there?
_VISAGES._
Of the visages of things--And of piercing through to the accepted h.e.l.ls beneath.
Of ugliness--To me there is just as much in it as there is in beauty--And now the ugliness of human beings is acceptable to me.
Of detected persons--To me, detected persons are not, in any respect, worse than undetected persons--and are not in any respect worse than I am myself.
Of criminals--To me, any judge, or any juror, is equally criminal--and any reputable person is also--and the President is also.
_THE DARK SIDE._
I sit and look out upon all the sorrows of the world, and upon all oppression and shame; I hear secret convulsive sobs from young men, at anguish with themselves, remorseful after deeds done; I see, in low life, the mother misused by her children, dying, neglected, gaunt, desperate; I see the wife misused by her husband--I see the treacherous seducer of young women; I mark the ranklings of jealousy and unrequited love, attempted to be hid-- I see these sights on the earth; I see the workings of battle, pestilence, tyranny--I see martyrs and prisoners; I observe a famine at sea--I observe the sailors casting lots who shall be killed, to preserve the lives of the rest; I observe the slights and degradations cast by arrogant persons upon labourers, the poor, and upon negroes, and the like; All these--all the meanness and agony without end, I, sitting, look out upon; See, hear, and am silent.
_MUSIC._
I heard you, solemn-sweet pipes of the organ, as last Sunday morn I pa.s.sed the church; Winds of autumn!--as I walked the woods at dusk, I heard your long-stretched sighs, up above, so mournful; I heard the perfect Italian tenor, singing at the opera--I heard the soprano in the midst of the quartette singing.
--Heart of my love! you too I heard, murmuring low, through one of the wrists around my head; Heard the pulse of you, when all was still, ringing little bells last night under my ear.
_WHEREFORE?_
O me! O life!--of the questions of these recurring; Of the endless trains of the faithless--of cities filled with the foolish; Of myself for ever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?) Of eyes that vainly crave the light--of the objects mean--of the struggle ever renewed; Of the poor results of all--of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me; Of the empty and useless years of the rest--with the rest me intertwined; The question, O me! so sad, recurring--What good amid these, O me, O life?
_ANSWER_.
That you are here--that life exists, and ident.i.ty; That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.
_QUESTIONABLE._
As I lay with my head in your lap, camerado, The confession I made I resume--what I said to you and the open air I resume.
I know I am restless, and make others so; I know my words are weapons, full of danger, full of death; (Indeed I am myself the real soldier; It is not he, there, with his bayonet, and not the red-striped artilleryman;) For I confront peace, security, and all the settled laws, to unsettle them; I am more resolute because all have denied me than I could ever have been had all accepted me; I heed not, and have never heeded, either experience, cautions, majorities, nor ridicule; And the threat of what is called h.e.l.l is little or nothing to me; And the lure of what is called heaven is little or nothing to me.
--Dear camerado! I confess I have urged you onward with me, and still urge you, without the least idea what is our destination, Or whether we shall be victorious, or utterly quelled and defeated.
_SONG AT SUNSET._
1.
Splendour of ended day, floating and filling me!