9
Sing on there in the swamp,
O singer bashful and tender, I hear your
notes, I hear your call,
I hear, I come presently, I understand
you,
But a moment I linger, for the lustrous
star has detain'd me,
The star my departing comrade holds
and detains me.
10
O how shall I warble myself for the
dead one there I loved?
And how shall I deck my song for the
large sweet soul that has gone?
And what shall my perfume be for the
grave of him I love?
Sea-winds blown from east and west,
Blown from the Eastern sea and blown
from the Western sea, till there
on the prairies meeting,
These and with these and the breath of
my chant,
I'll perfume the grave of him I love.
11
O what shall I hang on the chamber
walls?
And what shall the pictures be that I
hang on the walls,
To adorn the burial-house of him I
love?
Pictures of growing spring and farms
and homes,
With the Fourth-month eve at sundown,
and the gray smoke lucid and
bright,
With floods of the yellow gold of the
gorgeous, indolent, sinking sun,
burning, expanding the air,
With the fresh sweet herbage under
foot, and the pale green leaves
of the trees prolific,
In the distance the flowing glaze, the
breast of the river, with a wind-dapple
here and there,
With ranging hills on the banks, with
many a line against the sky, and
shadows,
And the city at hand with dwellings so
dense, and stacks of chimneys,
And all the scenes of life and the workshops,
and the workmen homeward
returning.
12
Lo, body and soul—this land,
My own Manhattan with spires, and
the sparkling and hurrying tides,
and the ships,
The varied and ample land, the South
and the North in the light, Ohio's
shores and flashing Missouri,
And ever the far-spreading prairies
cover'd with grass and corn.
Lo, the most excellent sun so calm and
haughty,
The violet and purple morn with just-felt
breezes,
The gentle soft-born measureless light.
The miracle spreading bathing all, the
fulfill'd noon,
The coming eve delicious, the welcome
night and the stars,
Over my cities shining all, enveloping
man and land.
13
Song on, sing on you gray-brown bird,
Sing from the swamps, the recesses,
pour your chant from the bushes,
Limitless out of the dusk, out of the
cedars and pines.
Sing on dearest brother, warble your
reedy song,
Loud human song, with voice of uttermost
woe.
O liquid and free and tender!
O wild and loose to my soul—O wondrous
singer!
You only I hear—yet the star holds me,
(but will soon depart,)
Yet the lilac with mastering odor holds
me.