WALT WHITMAN.
THE MIRACLES OF NATURE.
[From Leaves of Grass.]
To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,
Every inch of space 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.
* * * * * * * *
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?
* * * * * * * *
I was thinking the day most splendid,
till I saw what the not-day exhibited;
I was thinking this globe enough,
till there tumbled upon me myriads of other globes;
O, how plainly I see now that this life cannot exhibit
all to me—as the day cannot;
O, I see that I am to wait for what will be exhibited by death.
* * * * * * * *
O Death!
O, the beautiful touch of Death, soothing and benumbing
a few moments, for reasons.
* * * * * * * *
The earth never tires,
The earth is rude, silent, incomprehensible at first—
Nature is rude and incomprehensible at first;
Be not discouraged—keep on—there are divine things,
well enveloped;
I swear to you there are divine things more beautiful
than words can tell.
O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN!
O captain! my captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart!
Leave you not the little spot
Where on the deck my captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O captain! my captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills;
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
O captain! dear father!
This arm I push beneath you;
It is some dream that on the deck
You've fallen cold and dead.
My captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
But the ship, the ship is anchored safe, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with silent tread,
Walk the spot my captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.