205. That Music Always Round Me



THAT music always round me, unceasing, unbeginning—yet long untaught I did not hear;       
But now the chorus I hear, and am elated;       
A tenor, strong, ascending, with power and health, with glad notes of day-break I hear,       
A soprano, at intervals, sailing buoyantly over the tops of immense waves,       
A transparent bass, shuddering lusciously under and through the universe,            5   
The triumphant tutti—the funeral wailings, with sweet flutes and violins—all these I fill myself with;       
I hear not the volumes of sound merely—I am moved by the exquisite meanings,       
I listen to the different voices winding in and out, striving, contending with fiery vehemence to excel each other in emotion;       
I do not think the performers know themselves—but now I think I begin to know them.

206. As if a Phantom Caress’d Me



AS if a phantom caress’d me,       
I thought I was not alone, walking here by the shore;       
But the one I thought was with me, as now I walk by the shore—the one I loved, that caress’d me,       
As I lean and look through the glimmering light—that one has utterly disappear’d,       
And those appear that are hateful to me, and mock me.

207. Here, Sailor



WHAT ship, puzzled at sea, cons for the true reckoning?       
Or, coming in, to avoid the bars, and follow the channel, a perfect pilot needs?       
Here, sailor! Here, ship! take aboard the most perfect pilot,       
Whom, in a little boat, putting off, and rowing, I, hailing you, offer.

208. A Noiseless Patient Spider



A NOISELESS, patient spider,       
I mark’d, where, on a little promontory, it stood, isolated;       
Mark’d how, to explore the vacant, vast surrounding,       
It launch’d forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself;       
Ever unreeling them—ever tirelessly speeding them.            5   
     
And you, O my Soul, where you stand,       
Surrounded, surrounded, in measureless oceans of space,       
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing,—seeking the spheres, to connect them;       
Till the bridge you will need, be form’d—till the ductile anchor hold;       
Till the gossamer thread you fling, catch somewhere, O my Soul.     10

209. The Last Invocation



1

AT the last, tenderly,       
From the walls of the powerful, fortress’d house,       
From the clasp of the knitted locks—from the keep of the well-closed doors,       
Let me be wafted.       
     
2

Let me glide noiselessly forth;            5   
With the key of softness unlock the locks—with a whisper,       
Set ope the doors, O Soul!       
     
3

Tenderly! be not impatient!       
(Strong is your hold, O mortal flesh!       
Strong is your hold, O love.)

210. As I Watch’d the Ploughman Ploughing



AS I watch’d the ploughman ploughing,       
Or the sower sowing in the fields—or the harvester harvesting,       
I saw there too, O life and death, your analogies:       
(Life, life is the tillage, and Death is the harvest according.)

211. Pensive and Faltering



PENSIVE and faltering,       
The words, the dead, I write;       
For living are the Dead;       
(Haply the only living, only real,       
And I the apparition—I the spectre.)            5

212. Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking



1

OUT of the cradle endlessly rocking,       
Out of the mocking-bird’s throat, the musical shuttle,       
Out of the Ninth-month midnight,       
Over the sterile sands, and the fields beyond, where the child, leaving his bed, wander’d alone, bare-headed, barefoot,       
Down from the shower’d halo,            5   
Up from the mystic play of shadows, twining and twisting as if they were alive,       
Out from the patches of briers and blackberries,       
From the memories of the bird that chanted to me,       
From your memories, sad brother—from the fitful risings and fallings I heard,       
From under that yellow half-moon, late-risen, and swollen as if with tears,     10   
From those beginning notes of sickness and love, there in the transparent mist,       
From the thousand responses of my heart, never to cease,       
From the myriad thence-arous’d words,       
From the word stronger and more delicious than any,       
From such, as now they start, the scene revisiting,     15   
As a flock, twittering, rising, or overhead passing,       
Borne hither—ere all eludes me, hurriedly,       
A man—yet by these tears a little boy again,       
Throwing myself on the sand, confronting the waves,       
I, chanter of pains and joys, uniter of here and hereafter,     20   
Taking all hints to use them—but swiftly leaping beyond them,       
A reminiscence sing.       
     
2

Once, Paumanok,       
When the snows had melted—when the lilac-scent was in the air, and the Fifth-month grass was growing,       
Up this sea-shore, in some briers,     25   
Two guests from Alabama—two together,       
And their nest, and four light-green eggs, spotted with brown,       
And every day the he-bird, to and fro, near at hand,       
And every day the she-bird, crouch’d on her nest, silent, with bright eyes,       
And every day I, a curious boy, never too close, never disturbing them,     30   
Cautiously peering, absorbing, translating.       
     
3

Shine! shine! shine!       
Pour down your warmth, great Sun!       
While we bask—we two together.       
     
Two together!     35   
Winds blow South, or winds blow North,       
Day come white, or night come black,       
Home, or rivers and mountains from home,       
Singing all time, minding no time,       
While we two keep together.     40   
     
4

Till of a sudden,       
May-be kill’d, unknown to her mate,       
One forenoon the she-bird crouch’d not on the nest,       
Nor return’d that afternoon, nor the next,       
Nor ever appear’d again.     45   
     
And thenceforward, all summer, in the sound of the sea,       
And at night, under the full of the moon, in calmer weather,       
Over the hoarse surging of the sea,       
Or flitting from brier to brier by day,       
I saw, I heard at intervals, the remaining one, the he-bird,     50   
The solitary guest from Alabama.       
     
5

Blow! blow! blow!       
Blow up, sea-winds, along Paumanok’s shore!       
I wait and I wait, till you blow my mate to me.       
     
6

Yes, when the stars glisten’d,     55   
All night long, on the prong of a moss-scallop’d stake,       
Down, almost amid the slapping waves,       
Sat the lone singer, wonderful, causing tears.       
     
He call’d on his mate;       
He pour’d forth the meanings which I, of all men, know.     60   
     
Yes, my brother, I know;       
The rest might not—but I have treasur’d every note;       
For once, and more than once, dimly, down to the beach gliding,       
Silent, avoiding the moonbeams, blending myself with the shadows,       
Recalling now the obscure shapes, the echoes, the sounds and sights after their sorts,     65   
The white arms out in the breakers tirelessly tossing,       
I, with bare feet, a child, the wind wafting my hair,       
Listen’d long and long.       
     
Listen’d, to keep, to sing—now translating the notes,       
Following you, my brother.     70   
     
7

Soothe! soothe! soothe!       
Close on its wave soothes the wave behind,       
And again another behind, embracing and lapping, every one close,       
But my love soothes not me, not me.       
     
Low hangs the moon—it rose late;     75   
O it is lagging—O I think it is heavy with love, with love.       
     
O madly the sea pushes, pushes upon the land,       
With love—with love.       
     
O night! do I not see my love fluttering out there among the breakers?       
What is that little black thing I see there in the white?     80   
     
Loud! loud! loud!       
Loud I call to you, my love!       
     
High and clear I shoot my voice over the waves;       
Surely you must know who is here, is here;       
You must know who I am, my love.     85   
     
Low-hanging moon!       
What is that dusky spot in your brown yellow?       
O it is the shape, the shape of my mate!       
O moon, do not keep her from me any longer.       
     
Land! land! O land!     90   
Whichever way I turn, O I think you could give me my mate back again, if you only would;       
For I am almost sure I see her dimly whichever way I look.       
     
O rising stars!       
Perhaps the one I want so much will rise, will rise with some of you.       
     
O throat! O trembling throat!     95   
Sound clearer through the atmosphere!       
Pierce the woods, the earth;       
Somewhere listening to catch you, must be the one I want.       
     
Shake out, carols!       
Solitary here—the night’s carols!    100   
Carols of lonesome love! Death’s carols!       
Carols under that lagging, yellow, waning moon!       
O, under that moon, where she droops almost down into the sea!       
O reckless, despairing carols.       
     
But soft! sink low;    105   
Soft! let me just murmur;       
And do you wait a moment, you husky-noised sea;       
For somewhere I believe I heard my mate responding to me,       
So faint—I must be still, be still to listen;       
But not altogether still, for then she might not come immediately to me.    110   
     
Hither, my love!       
Here I am! Here!       
With this just-sustain’d note I announce myself to you;       
This gentle call is for you, my love, for you.       
     
Do not be decoy’d elsewhere!    115   
That is the whistle of the wind—it is not my voice;       
That is the fluttering, the fluttering of the spray;       
Those are the shadows of leaves.       
     
O darkness! O in vain!       
O I am very sick and sorrowful.    120   
     
O brown halo in the sky, near the moon, drooping upon the sea!       
O troubled reflection in the sea!       
O throat! O throbbing heart!       
O all—and I singing uselessly, uselessly all the night.       
     
Yet I murmur, murmur on!    125   
O murmurs—you yourselves make me continue to sing, I know not why.       
     
O past! O life! O songs of joy!       
In the air—in the woods—over fields;       
Loved! loved! loved! loved! loved!       
But my love no more, no more with me!    130   
We two together no more.       
     
8

The aria sinking;       
All else continuing—the stars shining,       
The winds blowing—the notes of the bird continuous echoing,       
With angry moans the fierce old mother incessantly moaning,    135   
On the sands of Paumanok’s shore, gray and rustling;       
The yellow half-moon enlarged, sagging down, drooping, the face of the sea almost touching;       
The boy extatic—with his bare feet the waves, with his hair the atmosphere dallying,       
The love in the heart long pent, now loose, now at last tumultuously bursting,       
The aria’s meaning, the ears, the Soul, swiftly depositing,    140   
The strange tears down the cheeks coursing,       
The colloquy there—the trio—each uttering,       
The undertone—the savage old mother, incessantly crying,       
To the boy’s Soul’s questions sullenly timing—some drown’d secret hissing,       
To the outsetting bard of love.    145   
     
9

Demon or bird! (said the boy’s soul,)       
Is it indeed toward your mate you sing? or is it mostly to me?       
For I, that was a child, my tongue’s use sleeping,       
Now I have heard you,       
Now in a moment I know what I am for—I awake,    150   
And already a thousand singers—a thousand songs, clearer, louder and more sorrowful than yours,       
A thousand warbling echoes have started to life within me,       
Never to die.       
     
O you singer, solitary, singing by yourself—projecting me;       
O solitary me, listening—nevermore shall I cease perpetuating you;    155   
Never more shall I escape, never more the reverberations,       
Never more the cries of unsatisfied love be absent from me,       
Never again leave me to be the peaceful child I was before what there, in the night,       
By the sea, under the yellow and sagging moon,       
The messenger there arous’d—the fire, the sweet hell within,    160   
The unknown want, the destiny of me.       
     
O give me the clew! (it lurks in the night here somewhere;)       
O if I am to have so much, let me have more!       
O a word! O what is my destination? (I fear it is henceforth chaos;)       
O how joys, dreads, convolutions, human shapes, and all shapes, spring as from graves around me!    165   
O phantoms! you cover all the land and all the sea!       
O I cannot see in the dimness whether you smile or frown upon me;       
O vapor, a look, a word! O well-beloved!       
O you dear women’s and men’s phantoms!       
     
A word then, (for I will conquer it,)    170   
The word final, superior to all,       
Subtle, sent up—what is it?—I listen;       
Are you whispering it, and have been all the time, you sea-waves?       
Is that it from your liquid rims and wet sands?       
     
10

Whereto answering, the sea,    175   
Delaying not, hurrying not,       
Whisper’d me through the night, and very plainly before day-break,       
Lisp’d to me the low and delicious word DEATH;       
And again Death—ever Death, Death, Death,       
Hissing melodious, neither like the bird, nor like my arous’d child’s heart,    180   
But edging near, as privately for me, rustling at my feet,       
Creeping thence steadily up to my ears, and laving me softly all over,       
Death, Death, Death, Death, Death.       
     
Which I do not forget,       
But fuse the song of my dusky demon and brother,    185   
That he sang to me in the moonlight on Paumanok’s gray beach,       
With the thousand responsive songs, at random,       
My own songs, awaked from that hour;       
And with them the key, the word up from the waves,       
The word of the sweetest song, and all songs,    190   
That strong and delicious word which, creeping to my feet,       
The sea whisper’d me.

213. Elemental Drifts



1

ELEMENTAL drifts!       
How I wish I could impress others as you have just been impressing me!       
     
As I ebb’d with an ebb of the ocean of life,       
As I wended the shores I know,       
As I walk’d where the ripples continually wash you, Paumanok,            5   
Where they rustle up, hoarse and sibilant,       
Where the fierce old mother endlessly cries for her castaways,       
I, musing, late in the autumn day, gazing off southward,       
Alone, held by this eternal Self of me, out of the pride of which I utter my poems,       
Was seiz’d by the spirit that trails in the lines underfoot,     10   
In the rim, the sediment, that stands for all the water and all the land of the globe.       
     
Fascinated, my eyes, reverting from the south, dropt, to follow those slender winrows,       
Chaff, straw, splinters of wood, weeds, and the sea-gluten,       
Scum, scales from shining rocks, leaves of salt-lettuce, left by the tide:       
Miles walking, the sound of breaking waves the other side of me,     15   
Paumanok, there and then, as I thought the old thought of likenesses,       
These you presented to me, you fish-shaped island,       
As I wended the shores I know,       
As I walk’d with that eternal Self of me, seeking types.       
     
2

As I wend to the shores I know not,     20   
As I list to the dirge, the voices of men and women wreck’d,       
As I inhale the impalpable breezes that set in upon me,       
As the ocean so mysterious rolls toward me closer and closer,       
I, too, but signify, at the utmost, a little wash’d-up drift,       
A few sands and dead leaves to gather,     25   
Gather, and merge myself as part of the sands and drift.       
     
O baffled, balk’d, bent to the very earth,       
Oppress’d with myself that I have dared to open my mouth,       
Aware now, that, amid all that blab whose echoes recoil upon me, I have not once had the least idea who or what I am,       
But that before all my insolent poems the real ME stands yet untouch’d, untold, altogether unreach’d,     30   
Withdrawn far, mocking me with mock-congratulatory signs and bows,       
With peals of distant ironical laughter at every word I have written,       
Pointing in silence to these songs, and then to the sand beneath.       
     
Now I perceive I have not understood anything—not a single object—and that no man ever can.       
     
I perceive Nature, here in sight of the sea, is taking advantage of me, to dart upon me, and sting me,     35   
Because I have dared to open my mouth, to sing at all.       
     
3

You oceans both! I close with you;       
We murmur alike reproachfully, rolling our sands and drift, knowing not why,       
These little shreds indeed, standing for you and me and all.       
     
You friable shore, with trails of debris!     40   
You fish-shaped island! I take what is underfoot;       
What is yours is mine, my father.       
     
I too Paumanok,       
I too have bubbled up, floated the measureless float, and been wash’d on your shores;       
I too am but a trail of drift and debris,     45   
I too leave little wrecks upon you, you fish-shaped island.       
     
I throw myself upon your breast, my father,       
I cling to you so that you cannot unloose me,       
I hold you so firm, till you answer me something.       
     
Kiss me, my father,     50   
Touch me with your lips, as I touch those I love,       
Breathe to me, while I hold you close, the secret of the murmuring I envy.       
     
4

Ebb, ocean of life, (the flow will return,)       
Cease not your moaning, you fierce old mother,       
Endlessly cry for your castaways—but fear not, deny not me,     55   
Rustle not up so hoarse and angry against my feet, as I touch you, or gather from you.       
     
I mean tenderly by you and all,       
I gather for myself, and for this phantom, looking down where we lead, and following me and mine.       
     
Me and mine!       
We, loose winrows, little corpses,     60   
Froth, snowy white, and bubbles,       
(See! from my dead lips the ooze exuding at last!       
See—the prismatic colors, glistening and rolling!)       
Tufts of straw, sands, fragments,       
Buoy’d hither from many moods, one contradicting another,     65   
From the storm, the long calm, the darkness, the swell;       
Musing, pondering, a breath, a briny tear, a dab of liquid or soil;       
Up just as much out of fathomless workings fermented and thrown;       
A limp blossom or two, torn, just as much over waves floating, drifted at random;       
Just as much for us that sobbing dirge of Nature;     70   
Just as much, whence we come, that blare of the cloud-trumpets;       
We, capricious, brought hither, we know not whence, spread out before you,       
You, up there, walking or sitting,       
Whoever you are—we too lie in drifts at your feet.

214. Tears



TEARS! tears! tears!       
In the night, in solitude, tears;       
On the white shore dripping, dripping, suck’d in by the sand;       
Tears—not a star shining—all dark and desolate;       
Moist tears from the eyes of a muffled head:            5   
—O who is that ghost?—that form in the dark, with tears?       
What shapeless lump is that, bent, crouch’d there on the sand?       
Streaming tears—sobbing tears—throes, choked with wild cries;       
O storm, embodied, rising, careering, with swift steps along the beach;       
O wild and dismal night storm, with wind! O belching and desperate!     10   
O shade, so sedate and decorous by day, with calm countenance and regulated pace;       
But away, at night, as you fly, none looking—O then the unloosen’d ocean,       
Of tears! tears! tears!