Top Scientists: Role of Humans Clear; Cap On Carbon Emissions Needed to Limit Climate Change

It is extremely likely that human influence has been the dominant cause of the observed warming since the mid-20th century.

[…] Continued emissions of greenhouse gases will cause further global warming and changes in all components of the climate system…Limiting climate change will require substantial and sustained reductions of greenhouse gas emissions.

---“Climate Change 2013: The Physical Science Basis,” International Panel on Climate Control, Fifth Assessment Report (WGI AR5) (September 2013)

 

The strength of the evidence and expert opinion just keeps getting stronger. Of course, it has long been strong; it's just gone from "very likely" to "extremely likely." That equates to a 95% level of confidence as they define their terms. The International Panel on Climate Change (IPCC), established and overseen by the UN at the behest of many of its members, is the most authoritative and respected body in the world addressing issues of climate change. Periodically it selects teams from among the most accomplished and respected climate scientists in the world to perform meta-studies of the most recent climate change research and results. This, the fifth study, and first since 2007, involved 259 expert analysts, authors and reviewers from 39 countries. Every notable scientific organization, world-wide, and over 97% of all climate scientists have concurred in their work and conclusions.

A competent summary article by NBCNews.com, “Top scientists urge cap on carbon emissions to limit climate change,” by Matthew DeLuca, NBC News (Sep. 27, 2013) reviews the basic findings, increased confidence in the dominant role of we humans are playing in climate change, the implications, and the need for remedial initiatives. They also summarize the broader, longer term perspective of climate change scientists on the misplaced emphasis of climate-change deniers’ on elements of error in some projections and the recent period when air temperature averages appear not to have increased. Of course, you don’t have to be a top climate scientist to recognize that there are many other measures of increased temperatures in the oceans, at the polar caps, and many other climate change events and measures that not only confirm prior levels of confidence in climate change and mankind’s role in in it, they have increased the level of top scientist’s confidence in their conclusions.

If you find more confidence or assurance in the analysis and opinion of The Economist (as I often do across a range of issues), their most recent edition offers us another of its well balanced and well-considered Leaders essays, “Climate Science: Stubborn Things,” The Economist (October 5, 2013)

If you are interested in more layers of information, data and findings, this link (or the highlighted link, above) will take you to the full IPCC report: www.climatechange2013.org . It is long and exhaustive; even the executive summary is 36 pages long. If you are interested, I’d start with the data section about the study and participants linked on the front page. Then link to the executive study, and go deeper into the research data as you wish.

But the IPCC conclusions do not include confidence that major countries will timely act to reduce CO2 levels we continue to push into the atmosphere. So don’t expect people or their governments to react to address these problems until their effects become very personal, until the water is lapping up on their own doorsteps. But if you've been paying attention, like the IPCC scientist teams, you may have noticed that too is happening in more and more places.

 

John Boehner: His Legislative History and Legacy as Speaker

The linked NBC article is a most thoughtful and balanced treatment of John Boehner's tenure as Speaker of the House. From his history as an effective deal maker and legislator both within his party and across the aisle, to negotiator of the "grand bargain" with the President to avoid the 2011 debt ceiling disaster--then only to be abandoned in that effort and humiliated by the Tea Party conservatives, who have largely defined his captive role as Speaker ever since. But the realities and threatening implications of today's political dysfunction, largely a result of his Tea Party-dictated role as Speaker, render him an enigmatic, almost tragic figure.

Link to article above and below:
John Boehner’s legacy on the line in shutdown

No Laughing Matter, Andy, However Funny & Ironic Your Satire

WASHINGTON (The Borowitz Report)—Speaker of the House John Boehner (R-Ohio) said that he was disappointed after meeting with President Obama at the White House on Wednesday afternoon, telling reporters, “The President is stubbornly refusing to end the crisis I created.”

 

“Government is about teamwork,” Mr. Boehner continued. “I’ve done my part by putting together an entirely optional crisis that has shut down the government and will throw thousands out of work. Now it’s up to the President to do his part by ending it.”
 

---“The Borowitz Report,” (satire) by Andy Borowitz, The New Yorker (12.3.2013)

 

There is nothing to laugh about in the subject of this Borowitz piece (although I am usually a big fan). It's just that this time his satire takes on a topic too sobering and important, and his message is too true. The government shutdown was totally unnecessary, it has brought suffering to many already, and will bring suffering to many more. And Speaker Boehner, now boxed-in with the ridiculously demanding Tea Party conservatives of his base, will likely carry it forward and hold up the process of raising the debt ceiling, as well--which would do further damage to the country and the economy. And Boehner's response? The President and Senate refuse to negotiate a law of the land some of Boehner's constituents have ideological revulsion for. It's the President's and the Senate's fault.

 

And the precedent to be set? If a house of the government becomes dominated by one party--either house, either party--but the other house and the executive are of another party that earlier authored and managed to pass highly contested legislation, that law may still be at risk outside the normal legislative process. If that defeated majority party in the one house decides it really hates and wants to rescind all or parts of that particular law of the land, it merely has to threaten to stop the funding process and shut down the government. And more, if the timing is right, it could threaten to cut off the ability of the government to increase borrowing to pay existing debts. So then, all the other house and president have to do, of course, is agree to rescinding or changing the existing law, under funding duress, held hostage, so to speak, and the government can be right again. Done. That's all. It's that simple. Just threaten governmental anarchy, the one house--and give in to government anarchy, the other and the president.

 

Of course, that is not the Constitutional process by which legislation is rescinded or changed. In fact, it disrespects and disregards both the democratic and legislative process, and the rule of law. And since, in our case at hand, the Senate majority and the President rightly won't agree, it places approximately 18% of the population (a polling estimate of Tea Party supporters) in the center of an attempt to create an unprecedented and undemocratic back door to force their will over the majority even after a Congressional majority have properly, Constitutionally, passed the law.

 

Under the Constitution, to change an existing law, a new bill must be worked through, passed by both houses, and signed into law by the president, just the same way the original bill in question became law in the first place. This action by Boehner and the Tea Party conservatives is an extraordinary undermining of our legislative process and our representative democracy. Only a profoundly irresponsible and radically ideological group would be willing to risk that much damage to our system and people to get their way on a particular law they don't like. And then to blame the President and the Senate for not agreeing to change it or negotiate a partial change to it under threat of closing the Government of the United States? And more, considering denying the government needed access to additional financial resources? Boehner and the Tea Party conservatives are openly, brazenly, pursuing an unprecedented and frightening strategy of undermining our democratic legislative process of government. It needs to be recognized and called out for what it is.

 

The Syrian Crisis and the President's CIA Briefer - 60 Minutes Interview

Last Sunday's 60-minute episode addressed the role of the US in the Syrian civil war: what it might be, what it should be--especially with regard to a punitive US missile strike in response to Syria's broad and murderous use of chemical weapons. Interviews with Presidents Assad and Obama were instructive, but offered little new. It was the interview with Mike Morell, the recently retired No. 2 man at the CIA and a briefer/advisor on Syria to President Obama, that provided understanding of the narrow and tortuous path American policy and actions must negotiate to eventually achieve an acceptable and workable result in Syria.** We'll return to Mr. Morell's interview presently, but first some background and observations.

Many of us have supported the president's call for a time-limited missile attack on Syria, an attack that would target military infrastructure and chemical weapons stores (if they can be located), and generally weaken military capability. We agree with the importance of upholding the standing of international law, rules or norms--however characterized--banning use of chemical weapons. And the only way to uphold it is to enforce it by responding to chemical attacks with punitive measures. To allow deadly use of chemical weapons to proceed with impunity would surely increase the likelihood they would be used again--both in Syria and elsewhere.

Of course, others disagree, and argue that any punitive military response would sooner or later result in our deeper involvement in a civil war that neither our government nor people want. They fear that even a time-and-target-limited missile strike would unleash unpredictable consequences that will precipitate our slide down a slippery slope of expanded military involvement. Their concerns are worth bearing in mind; they are not without reason or merit.

And there is reasonable concern that an expanded military role for the US in Syria can only result in further complicating and damaging relationships among Syria's Middle-Eastern neighbors and their various factions, and U.S. relationships in the region. The disruptions, the instability, would likely spread ever more broadly in the region, a region where Syria's neighbors are already dealing with too many Syria-related problems. Most everyone's interests are better served by increasing stability in the region, including of course, those of the US. On that, most all agree.

The president's assurances that there will result no further military role for the US in Syria, that he would not allow it, have been largely dismissed by those folks most fearful of that very result. To the consternation of many, the president has responded by repeatedly stressing further the limited nature of the proposed missile strike to the point that many are asking whether it would be punitive or consequential in any military sense at all. He appears to be trying too hard to pacify too many camps at the same time, while not being clear about what his real policy and plans are.

Further confounding the analysis has been the complications of the parties to Syria's civil war. As repugnant and damnable as Assad and his regime's conduct have been, the rebel forces have been guilty of their own atrocities--and whether in retaliation or not, it does not help their image or sources of support. The forces making up the rebel opposition are a poorly coordinated, patchwork quilt of constructive, moderate factions and extremist factions with their own, differing aspirations. 

The majority of those Syrian freedom fighters are in the first group, those seeking a more moderate government reflecting more democratic values and real accountability to the Syrian people. But at the other extreme are radical Islamist and al Qaida-affiliated groups like the al Nusra Front and others. And although the extremist groups are reported to be a clear minority of the opposition forces, they are also reported to be by far the most effective in the field. Just below the surface, and a point sooner or later raised by many, is the concern that a victory by the rebels would only lead to a second military contest between the more moderate rebel forces and those related to Islamist or al Qaida organizations. And the reality-based fear is that the more moderate forces would lose.

So, a punitive missile attack that weakened Assad too much, enough that he would lose to the rebel opposition, ironically, would not likely produce the result most of the world was looking for. But to fail to respond militarily to the use of chemical weapons--and in the process to leave Assad too strong and continually re-armed and supported by Russia--would likely result in the eventual failure of the rebel opposition and the full reinstatement of Assad's unopposed, despotic rule. This is also not a result most of the world would embrace.

And here is where Mike Morell, the CIA's recently retired No. 2 man, offers us the background of his briefings and advice to President Obama--and helps us better understand and make sense of the president's policy and approach to the US role with regard to the Syrian crisis. If the president has at times sounded indecisive, unclear or confusing about just what his plan was--and he has--it was because he had to address a range of very fluid, dangerous and unpredictable factors. A strengthened rebel opposition (or weakened Syrian military), and a recognized stalemate in fact, appears to be the preferable goal. Why? Because--suggests Mr. Morell--that result offers the most expeditious circumstances for all parties to recognize the wisdom of a negotiated restructuring and staged transition of the Syrian political system and government, one that would better serve the interests of all Syrian people, the region, and the world. Is that a realistic process, an achievable goal? Mr. Morell appears to think so.**

This link, below, will take you to the 60-minutes interview with Mr. Morell. Seldom do we get this kind of candor and timely clarification of what a president is being advised, of what is moving his policy and animating his actions and pronouncements. Although I wish he had said more about the proposed missile strike, I found Mr. Morell's openness, directness and clarity riveting and fascinating. I think you will, too.

(And while you are there, you can access the interviews with Presidents Obama and Assad as well.)

Click on this link:
The Briefer: Ex-CIA No. 2 on Syria crisis - 60 Minutes - CBS News


[**Of course, many may think that the new proposal mediated by Syria's Russian patron, President Putin, may carry the day. Running with an off-hand comment by Secretary of State Kerry, Putin soon after announced that Syria will give up all it's chemical weapons stores for destruction if the US agrees to stand down on the threatened missile strike. With a sigh of relief, many thought this a workable solution and that it changed everything. After all, Syria's President agreed in principal, the United Nations supports the proposal, even the United States has agreed to discussions about the proposal.

But those closest to evaluation of this proposal, including President Obama, Secretary of State Kerry and experts throughout the US government, appear rightly skeptical of the purposes, approach, timing and clarity of what is being proposed. For, the more the process of discussions and negotiations can be delayed or protracted, the more it will work to both strengthen the position of Syria's Assad and make less likely the US missile strike. But the US will prudently keep all its options on the table.

And if the course of the discussions prove a dilatory or disingenuous approach by Assad, then we should be fully prepared to carry out that punitive missile strike on Syrian military targets. But if this process goes on too long without a satisfactory result, will we? Will a punitive strike, already weak on popular and political support, lose more momentum, and be more likely abandoned? If so, what does that portend for the resolution of the Syrian crisis (especially if Mr. Morell's analysis is correct)? Or what type and level of additional support to the moderate rebel forces would then be required (and can weapons provided be kept out of the hands of extremist factions)? And if not, what kind of a strike would then be needed to sufficiently weaken Assad, what scope, targets and duration? An appealing resolution could eventually and easily become a Trojan horse of further complications and challenges.]

Increased Coastal Flooding May Cost World $1 Trillion/Year by 2050 / A Denier's Declaration

They're talking about a cost of $1 trillion/year for increased coastal flooding in the world by 2050. I repeat, this is just for increased flooding of coastal areas, like New York, Miami and, of course, New Orleans, all up and down our coasts and coasts around the world. It doesn't include the additional costs for increased flooding we're already seeing in our inland areas and those elsewhere in the world.

 

I know, 2050 is out there 30-some years, but it's going to be increasing for those in-between years, too, as it works its way to something like that $1 trillion. And some experts quoted in the article linked below believe both the assumptions and the $1 trillion are too conservative. More, this is only the latest of several studies and articles I’ve seen on this.

 

To read the NBC News.com article (8.18.2013) discussing the study, click here, or on the link below:

http://www.nbcnews.com/science/increased-flooding-may-cost-world-1-trillion-2050-6C10937608

 

But, like some of you, I’ve become frustrated at the lack of response by the U.S. public and government—not to mention the deniers. We’ve observed study after study, and natural event  after natural event, each more conclusively confirming the existence and increasing impact of climate change and global warming—and the significant role played by human choices in it. After reading the article linked above, I found myself uncontrollably writing this rather sarcastic “denier’s declaration” that represents to me what global warming deniers seem to consistently say, but  consolidated into a couple paragraphs. Let’s just put it under the heading of personal catharsis. Here it is:

Of course, all we folks with common sense know there is no such thing as climate change and global warming--after all, someone is always crying wolf about something. And naturally, we keep listening closely to the TV and radio people who keep telling us the truth about that. We know all the pointy-headed scientists are smoking something. I mean, they get the rocket-to-Mars stuff right, and all the medical and technology stuff, too, but they just refuse to tell the truth about this climate change stuff. They have their own agenda.

But even if there were such a thing, and even if it were getting worse, it's not our fault. We’re Americans, and we have a right to satisfy what we think our needs and wants are at a price we can afford. We’ve earned it. And ridiculous efforts and costs to reduce environmental risk--even to avoid catastrophe--are an unnecessary and unfair burden on us. Tax someone else. We are not responsible for what we do not foresee (or later choose to ignore if it becomes an unexpected reality). We have a right to deny it, or deny responsibility for it, when it doesn't seem right or fair. And this isn’t fair.  Am I right, or am I right?

 

Doonesbury's Take: Republicans' Challenge With Women

This is the Doonesbury strip for Sunday, August 18, 2013. It can be found on the Slate site simply by Googling Doonesbury.

DOONESBURY




Okay, right up front: apologies to my Republican and conservative male friends, especially my, "...white, straight--sometimes or often angry--well-armed, evangelical" male friends. Apologies, of course, because the most effective political humor incorporates a certain amount of exaggeration, sometimes a considerable amount. But there is also enough truth in it to make the folks in question very uncomfortable, even angry. Against those criteria, this is a very effective and funny strip.

Please, all hate mail should be directed to the Doonesbury comic strip, not to me.

Replacing Ben Bernanke: Summers or Yellen? - TIME

Next January, Chairman Ben Bernanke will end his long-held and effective stewardship of the Federal Reserve, having steered us away from a depression and to recovery. And however much the economy continues to struggle back through slow growth, he deserves our gratitude for doing what the Fed reasonably could do while the Congress could agree on nothing, and did nothing.

Now President Obama must choose a replacement worthy of the continuing challenge. The two most likely choices appear to be Larry Summers and Janet Yellen, both accomplished and well qualified. But, as Rana Foroohar, Time's economics commentator ("The Curious Capitalist") explains, each brings differing strengths and some questions with their candidacy.

The author argues for the very capable Ms. Yellen, so the article (linked below) is understandably a little short on the considerable service and list of accomplishments of the highly respected, but more controversial, Mr. Summers. As for me, I need to read and think about it all some more. You might, too. But this article is as good a starting place as any. And either choice will doubtless raise some controversy and opposition in one camp or another.

Link:
Why Yellen Is a Smarter Choice for Federal Reserve Chief Than Summers - TIME

Taking Wing: Virtuosity & Vanity or Identity & Passion

I chanced upon a couple of my reflections from earlier but quite different times and circumstances. And, although they could appear conflicting, they nonetheless appeared to me to complement each other well--well enough that I placed them together among the information on my Face Book page. I thought I should do the same here.

• Like Icarus, we would fly closer to the sun, but consumed by our virtuosity and vanity, we forget we have but waxen wings to carry us there. Better we should find peace and joy in who we are, and what we can do, in the light and the life the sun provides.

• Yet, sometimes we just must do it (whatever it is), and do it with passion, because that is who we are, because it’s what we’re called to do, because it’s our journey. And we know it because it speaks to us from some unknown place at the core of our identity, and that is assurance enough. To ignore it is to become in some important way lost to who we are—and to leave a hole in the affairs of our time where we and our work were supposed to be.

Greg

"Rita" by Bebo Norman, A Favorite & Why

Greg Hudson has shared a video with you on YouTube.            "Rita," is my favorite song by Bebo Norman--and that's saying something for me--with "The Hammer Holds" running a close second. It's a poignant song about the early passing of a sister in faith. Humanly, sadly touching, yet softly assured and assuring, this is a song worth listening to. (Click on highlighted "Rita" or picture to hear song. Lyrics below.)   Bebo Norman - Rita Lyrics:                   Lay down softly in our sorrow Lay down sister to die And cover over, my sweet Father Cover over her eyes Your broken body, it cannot weather The years your youth still longs to spend So go down graceful, sleep with the angels And wake up whole again ‘Cause it was not your time; that's a useless line A fallen world took your life But the God that sometimes can't be found Will wrap Himself around you So lay down, sister, lay down Slower passing are the hours To tell this tale that takes its time But the finest moment, no man can measure Is to look your Savior in the eyes So take her tender to Your table Take her from this killing floor To taste the water that is forever Let her be thirsty no more It was not her time; that's a useless line A fallen world took her life But the God that sometimes can't be found Will wrap Himself around you So lay down, sister, lay down And the God that sometimes can't be found Will wrap Himself around you So lay down, Rita, lay down ©2013 YouTube, LLC 901 Cherry Ave, San Bruno, CA 94066

More Whitman: Leaves of Grass, Song of Myself

Following up on a recent post, and after 45 years or so, I again read Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass. Or, more accurately, I worked my way through the original and much of a few of the several revised editions. It was first self-published in 1855 as a relatively thin volume that could be carried on your person. Whitman liked the idea of that, preferring to view himself as the most readable and widely-embraced poet of Americans. And he continually reaffirmed in verse his appreciation for each and every individual composing that mottled national identity. In what he considered a special relationship between the poet and the people, he embraced them all, and assumed that if they could read or hear his poetry, they would embrace him, too—and many did.

 

The final edition (the eighth by the reckoning of some, depending on what was counted as a new edition), the "death-bed" edition, was edited by Whitman in 1892, the year of his passing at age 73. This evolving, growing work called Leaves of Grass was the work of his life, to which he continued to add poems and collections of poems, then re-edit them again and again throughout his life. What began as a small, more intimate and readable collection of 12 poems had in the end expanded to almost 400, hardly a volume routinely and conveniently carried about.

 

The centerpiece, the foundation stone, of the first edition—and every edition, for that matter—was untitled, but would in later editions be titled "Song Of Myself," the original 1855 version of which ran to 62 pages in my edition of his complete works. He was self-approving, self-respecting, self-embracing, and self-indulgent, to be sure, but the references to "myself" and "self," while often used in reference to himself, were also often used to represent the broader American people and the elements of their shared American experience and identity.

 

He was candid, transparent, even unguarded in his observations and views. He was thoughtful and insightful, sometimes gritty, sometimes carnal. He accepted and embraced most all he encountered, which and whom he described and catalogued at length in his verse—and he celebrated each and all. It is the everyday American and all the everyday things they do that he most embraces, From the most respected to the least, from the most heroic to the shunned, they are all necessary to the rich, variegated national landscape and social fabric that was his America. His profound respect for his beloved President Lincoln, and the deep pain and sorrow at his loss, stands beside his nonjudgmental expression of understanding and caring for the prostitute and the unfortunate of whatever description. A humanist, he seems to me both an egalitarian democrat and libertarian, and in areas of love and sexual expression, libertine. He heralds and applauds both the life to be lived and the death that ushers in new life, and sees those cycles within each life, the journey of the soul, the laws of nature, and the eternity of existence.

 

In that way, he was a believer in God in some sense, a deist of a type that sees God in everyone and everything, and gratefully lifts it all up as worthy of the Creator. And this includes the aspects of human nature and the human condition that many of his time—and many of ours—would not at all consider worthy of public celebration. As "Song of Myself" and others of his poems lustily celebrate life in general, they also celebrate the sensuality and sexuality of human nature and experience—and they do so without qualification or apology. Quite the contrary, he gratefully and openly claims it and declares his joy at the gift of the opportunity and the experience. And almost as openly, he describes and implies strongly the range of his own sexual interest, his attractions and experience with women and men alike. He was, at the very least, an exceptionally gifted poet and fascinating man, a true American original.

 

Among other things, he apprenticed as a printer's devil, several times worked as an editor, and even served as a nurse during the civil war. In the same way, there evolved different faces and personalities to Whitman's poetry. Among the earliest of those unreservedly layering praise on Whitman and the first edition of Leaves of Grass was the estimable Ralph Waldo Emerson, one of America's most respected poets and essayists (and a favorite of mine), and a cornerstone of the transcendentalist movement. Whitman's range of work would be viewed as reflecting first the transcendentalists, then the romantics, and lastly as a leading force in the evolution of the realist movement.

 

I could not present here anything fairly representing the range of his work in the later editions of Leaves of Grass, not and expect anyone to read much of it. (Of course, those interested can always buy the book.) Still, I would like to share some of this poetry, this vision, love and experience of America that Whitman so uniquely gifts us. So I have selected substantial excerpts from "Song of Myself," hoping my choices will prove to some extent representative of that work, at least. But I must advise that even in this less ambitious enterprise, providing something at all illustrative is a lengthy read for those more accustomed to short, pithy and insightful poetic experiences. This is more epic poetry, more panoramic, more gritty and real. It might prove helpful to sample passages from the beginning, middle and end, then go on as far as your interest takes you. From a later version of "Song of Myself":

 

Song of Myself By Walt Whitman (1819–1892)   1 I celebrate myself, and sing myself, And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.   I loafe and invite my soul, I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.   My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air, Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same, I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin, Hoping to cease not till death.   Creeds and schools in abeyance, Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten, I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard, Nature without check with original energy.       *     *     *     *     *   A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms, The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag, The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields and hill-sides, The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising from bed and meeting      the sun.   Have you reckon'd a thousand acres much? have you reckon'd the earth much? Have you practis'd so long to learn to read? Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?   Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems, You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions of suns left,) You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of      the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books, You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me, You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self.        *     *     *     *     * 3 I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the beginning and the end, But I do not talk of the beginning or the end.   There was never any more inception than there is now, Nor any more youth or age than there is now, And will never be any more perfection than there is now, Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.   Urge and urge and urge, Always the procreant urge of the world.   Out of the dimness opposite equals advance, always substance and increase, always      sex, Always a knit of identity, always distinction, always a breed of life.   To elaborate is no avail, learn'd and unlearn'd feel that it is so.   Sure as the most certain sure, plumb in the uprights, well entretied, braced in the      beams, Stout as a horse, affectionate, haughty, electrical, I and this mystery here we stand.     *     *     *     *     * 4 Trippers and askers surround me, People I meet, the effect upon me of my early life or the ward and city I live in, or      the nation, The latest dates, discoveries, inventions, societies, authors old and new, My dinner, dress, associates, looks, compliments, dues, The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman I love, The sickness of one of my folks or of myself, or ill-doing or loss or lack of money, or      depressions or exaltations, Battles, the horrors of fratricidal war, the fever of doubtful news, the fitful events; These come to me days and nights and go from me again, But they are not the Me myself.   Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am, Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary, Looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest, Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next, Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it….   5 I believe in you my soul, the other I am must not abase itself to you, And you must not be abased to the other. […] Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and knowledge that pass all the      argument of the earth, And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own, And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own, And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women my sisters and      lovers, And that a kelson of the creation is love, And limitless are leaves stiff or drooping in the fields, And brown ants in the little wells beneath them, And mossy scabs of the worm fence, heap'd stones, elder, mullein and poke-weed.       *     *     *     *     * 6 A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands; How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he.   I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven.   Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord, A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt, Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark,      and say Whose?   Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation.   Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic, And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones, Growing among black folks as among white, Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I receive them the      same.   And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.      *     *     *     *     * 7 Has any one supposed it lucky to be born? I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I know it.   I pass death with the dying and birth with the new-wash'd babe, and am not      contain'd between my hat and boots, And peruse manifold objects, no two alike and every one good, The earth good and the stars good, and their adjuncts all good.   I am not an earth nor an adjunct of an earth, I am the mate and companion of people, all just as immortal and fathomless as      myself, (They do not know how immortal, but I know.)   Every kind for itself and its own, for me mine male and female, For me those that have been boys and that love women, For me the man that is proud and feels how it stings to be slighted, For me the sweet-heart and the old maid, for me mothers and the mothers of      mothers, For me lips that have smiled, eyes that have shed tears, For me children and the begetters of children.   Undrape! you are not guilty to me, nor stale nor discarded, I see through the broadcloth and gingham whether or no, And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot be shaken away.       *     *     *     *     * 8 The little one sleeps in its cradle, I lift the gauze and look a long time, and silently brush away flies with my hand.   The youngster and the red-faced girl turn aside up the bushy hill, I peeringly view them from the top.   The suicide sprawls on the bloody floor of the bedroom, I witness the corpse with its dabbled hair, I note where the pistol has fallen.   The blab of the pave, tires of carts, sluff of boot-soles, talk of the promenaders, The heavy omnibus, the driver with his interrogating thumb, the clank of the shod      horses on the granite floor, The snow-sleighs, clinking, shouted jokes, pelts of snow-balls, The hurrahs for popular favorites, the fury of rous'd mobs, The flap of the curtain'd litter, a sick man inside borne to the hospital, The meeting of enemies, the sudden oath, the blows and fall, The excited crowd, the policeman with his star quickly working his passage to the      centre of the crowd, The impassive stones that receive and return so many echoes, What groans of over-fed or half-starv'd who fall sunstruck or in fits, What exclamations of women taken suddenly who hurry home and give birth to      babes, What living and buried speech is always vibrating here, what howls restrain'd by      decorum, Arrests of criminals, slights, adulterous offers made, acceptances, rejections with      convex lips, I mind them or the show or resonance of them—I come and I depart.         *     *     *     *     *   The Yankee clipper is under her sky-sails, she cuts the sparkle and scud, My eyes settle the land, I bend at her prow or shout joyously from the deck.   The boatmen and clam-diggers arose early and stopt for me, I tuck'd my trowser-ends in my boots and went and had a good time; You should have been with us that day round the chowder-kettle.   I saw the marriage of the trapper in the open air in the far west, the bride was a      red girl, Her father and his friends sat near cross-legged and dumbly smoking, they had      moccasins to their feet and large thick blankets hanging from their shoulders, On a bank lounged the trapper, he was drest mostly in skins, his luxuriant beard      and curls protected his neck, he held his bride by the hand, She had long eyelashes, her head was bare, her coarse straight locks descended      upon her voluptuous limbs and reach'd to her feet.   The runaway slave came to my house and stopt outside, I heard his motions crackling the twigs of the woodpile, Through the swung half-door of the kitchen I saw him limpsy and weak, And went where he sat on a log and led him in and assured him, And brought water and fill'd a tub for his sweated body and bruis'd feet, And gave him a room that enter'd from my own, and gave him some coarse      clean clothes, And remember perfectly well his revolving eyes and his awkwardness, And remember putting plasters on the galls of his neck and ankles; He staid with me a week before he was recuperated and pass'd north, I had him sit next me at table, my fire-lock lean'd in the corner.   11 Twenty-eight young men bathe by the shore, Twenty-eight young men and all so friendly; Twenty-eight years of womanly life and all so lonesome.   She owns the fine house by the rise of the bank, She hides handsome and richly drest aft the blinds of the window.   Which of the young men does she like the best? Ah the homeliest of them is beautiful to her.   Where are you off to, lady? for I see you, You splash in the water there, yet stay stock still in your room.   Dancing and laughing along the beach came the twenty-ninth bather, The rest did not see her, but she saw them and loved them.   The beards of the young men glisten'd with wet, it ran from their long hair, Little streams pass'd all over their bodies.   An unseen hand also pass'd over their bodies, It descended tremblingly from their temples and ribs.   The young men float on their backs, their white bellies bulge to the sun, they do      not ask who seizes fast to them, They do not know who puffs and declines with pendant and bending arch, They do not think whom they souse with spray.   12 The butcher-boy puts off his killing-clothes, or sharpens his knife at the stall in      the market, I loiter enjoying his repartee and his shuffle and break-down.   Blacksmiths with grimed and hairy chests environ the anvil, Each has his main-sledge, they are all out, there is a great heat in the fire.   From the cinder-strew'd threshold I follow their movements, The lithe sheer of their waists plays even with their massive arms, Overhand the hammers swing, overhand so slow, overhand so sure, They do not hasten, each man hits in his place.   13 The negro holds firmly the reins of his four horses, the block swags underneath      on its tied-over chain, The negro that drives the long dray of the stone-yard, steady and tall he stands      pois'd on one leg on the string-piece, His blue shirt exposes his ample neck and breast and loosens over his hip-band, His glance is calm and commanding, he tosses the slouch of his hat away from his      forehead, The sun falls on his crispy hair and mustache, falls on the black of his polish'd and      perfect limbs.   I behold the picturesque giant and love him, and I do not stop there, I go with the team also.   In me the caresser of life wherever moving, backward as well as forward sluing, To niches aside and junior bending, not a person or object missing, Absorbing all to myself and for this song.        *     *     *     *     * 14 The wild gander leads his flock through the cool night, Ya-honk he says, and sounds it down to me like an invitation, The pert may suppose it meaningless, but I listening close, Find its purpose and place up there toward the wintry sky.   The sharp-hoof'd moose of the north, the cat on the house-sill, the chickadee,      the prairie-dog, The litter of the grunting sow as they tug at her teats, The brood of the turkey-hen and she with her half-spread wings, I see in them and myself the same old law.   The press of my foot to the earth springs a hundred affections, They scorn the best I can do to relate them.   I am enamour'd of growing out-doors, Of men that live among cattle or taste of the ocean or woods, Of the builders and steerers of ships and the wielders of axes and mauls, and the      drivers of horses, I can eat and sleep with them week in and week out.   What is commonest, cheapest, nearest, easiest, is Me, Me going in for my chances, spending for vast returns, Adorning myself to bestow myself on the first that will take me, Not asking the sky to come down to my good will, Scattering it freely forever.   15 The pure contralto sings in the organ loft, The carpenter dresses his plank, the tongue of his foreplane whistles its wild      ascending lisp, The married and unmarried children ride home to their Thanksgiving dinner, The pilot seizes the king-pin, he heaves down with a strong arm, The mate stands braced in the whale-boat, lance and harpoon are ready,   The duck-shooter walks by silent and cautious stretches, The deacons are ordain'd with cross'd hands at the altar, The spinning-girl retreats and advances to the hum of the big wheel, The farmer stops by the bars as he walks on a First-day loafe and looks at the oats      and rye, The lunatic is carried at last to the asylum a confirm'd case, (He will never sleep any more as he did in the cot in his mother's bed-room;) The jour printer with gray head and gaunt jaws works at his case, He turns his quid of tobacco while his eyes blurr with the manuscript; The malform'd limbs are tied to the surgeon's table, What is removed drops horribly in a pail; The quadroon girl is sold at the auction-stand, the drunkard nods by the bar-room      stove, The machinist rolls up his sleeves, the policeman travels his beat, the gate-keeper      marks who pass, The young fellow drives the express-wagon, (I love him, though I do not know him;) The half-breed straps on his light boots to compete in the race, The western turkey-shooting draws old and young, some lean on their rifles, some sit      on logs, Out from the crowd steps the marksman, takes his position, levels his piece; The groups of newly-come immigrants cover the wharf or levee, As the woolly-pates hoe in the sugar-field, the overseer views them from his saddle, The bugle calls in the ball-room, the gentlemen run for their partners, the dancers      bow to each other, The youth lies awake in the cedar-roof'd garret and harks to the musical rain, The Wolverine sets traps on the creek that helps fill the Huron, The squaw wrapt in her yellow-hemm'd cloth is offering moccasins and bead-bags      for sale, The connoisseur peers along the exhibition-gallery with half-shut eyes bent sideways, As the deck-hands make fast the steamboat the plank is thrown for the shore-going      passengers, The young sister holds out the skein while the elder sister winds it off in a ball, and      stops now and then for the knots, The one-year wife is recovering and happy having a week ago borne her first child, The clean-hair'd Yankee girl works with her sewing-machine or in the factory or mill, The paving-man leans on his two-handed rammer, the reporter's lead flies swiftly over      the note-book, the sign-painter is lettering with blue and gold, The canal boy trots on the tow-path, the book-keeper counts at his desk, the      shoemaker waxes his thread, The conductor beats time for the band and all the performers follow him, The child is baptized, the convert is making his first professions, The regatta is spread on the bay, the race is begun, (how the white sails sparkle!) The drover watching his drove sings out to them that would stray, The pedler sweats with his pack on his back, (the purchaser higgling about the      odd cent;) The bride unrumples her white dress, the minute-hand of the clock moves slowly, The opium-eater reclines with rigid head and just-open'd lips, The prostitute draggles her shawl, her bonnet bobs on her tipsy and pimpled neck, The crowd laugh at her blackguard oaths, the men jeer and wink to each other, (Miserable! I do not laugh at your oaths nor jeer you;) The President holding a cabinet council is surrounded by the great Secretaries, On the piazza walk three matrons stately and friendly with twined arms, The crew of the fish-smack pack repeated layers of halibut in the hold, The Missourian crosses the plains toting his wares and his cattle, As the fare-collector goes through the train he gives notice by the jingling of      loose change, The floor-men are laying the floor, the tinners are tinning the roof, the masons are      calling for mortar, In single file each shouldering his hod pass onward the laborers; Seasons pursuing each other the indescribable crowd is gather'd, it is the fourth of      Seventh-month, (what salutes of cannon and small arms!) Seasons pursuing each other the plougher ploughs, the mower mows, and the      winter-grain falls in the ground; Off on the lakes the pike-fisher watches and waits by the hole in the frozen surface, The stumps stand thick round the clearing, the squatter strikes deep with his axe, Flatboatmen make fast towards dusk near the cotton-wood or pecan-trees, Coon-seekers go through the regions of the Red river or through those drain'd by the      Tennessee, or through those of the Arkansas, Torches shine in the dark that hangs on the Chattahooche or Altamahaw,   Patriarchs sit at supper with sons and grandsons and great-grandsons around them, In walls of adobie, in canvas tents, rest hunters and trappers after their day's sport, The city sleeps and the country sleeps, The living sleep for their time, the dead sleep for their time, The old husband sleeps by his wife and the young husband sleeps by his wife; And these tend inward to me, and I tend outward to them, And such as it is to be of these more or less I am, And of these one and all I weave the song of myself.       *     *     *     *     * 16 I am of old and young, of the foolish as much as the wise, Regardless of others, ever regardful of others, Maternal as well as paternal, a child as well as a man, Stuff'd with the stuff that is coarse and stuff'd with the stuff that is fine, One of the Nation of many nations, the smallest the same and the largest the same, A Southerner soon as a Northerner, a planter nonchalant and hospitable down by the      Oconee I live, A Yankee bound my own way ready for trade, my joints the limberest joints on earth      and the sternest joints on earth, A Kentuckian walking the vale of the Elkhorn in my deer-skin leggings, a Louisianian      or Georgian, A boatman over lakes or bays or along coasts, a Hoosier, Badger, Buckeye; At home on Kanadian snow-shoes or up in the bush, or with fishermen off      Newfoundland, At home in the fleet of ice-boats, sailing with the rest and tacking, At home on the hills of Vermont or in the woods of Maine, or the Texan ranch, Comrade of Californians, comrade of free North-Westerners, (loving their big      proportions,) Comrade of raftsmen and coalmen, comrade of all who shake hands and welcome      to drink and meat, A learner with the simplest, a teacher of the thoughtfullest, A novice beginning yet experient of myriads of seasons, Of every hue and caste am I, of every rank and religion, A farmer, mechanic, artist, gentleman, sailor, quaker, Prisoner, fancy-man, rowdy, lawyer, physician, priest.   I resist any thing better than my own diversity, Breathe the air but leave plenty after me, And am not stuck up, and am in my place.   (The moth and the fish-eggs are in their place, The bright suns I see and the dark suns I cannot see are in their place, The palpable is in its place and the impalpable is in its place.)           *     *     *     *     *   In all people I see myself, none more and not one a barley-corn less, And the good or bad I say of myself I say of them. […] I know I am solid and sound, To me the converging objects of the universe perpetually flow, All are written to me, and I must get what the writing means. […] I know I am august, I do not trouble my spirit to vindicate itself or be understood, I see that the elementary laws never apologize, (I reckon I behave no prouder than the level I plant my house by, after all.)   I exist as I am, that is enough, If no other in the world be aware I sit content, And if each and all be aware I sit content.   One world is aware and by far the largest to me, and that is myself, And whether I come to my own to-day or in ten thousand or ten million years, I can cheerfully take it now, or with equal cheerfulness I can wait.   My foothold is tenon'd and mortis'd in granite, I laugh at what you call dissolution, And I know the amplitude of time.       *     *     *     *     * 21 I am the poet of the Body and I am the poet of the Soul, The pleasures of heaven are with me and the pains of hell are with me, The first I graft and increase upon myself, the latter I translate into a new tongue.   I am the poet of the woman the same as the man, And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man, And I say there is nothing greater than the mother of men.   I chant the chant of dilation or pride, We have had ducking and deprecating about enough, I show that size is only development.   Have you outstript the rest? are you the President? It is a trifle, they will more than arrive there every one, and still pass on.   I am he that walks with the tender and growing night, I call to the earth and sea half-held by the night.   Press close bare-bosom'd night—press close magnetic nourishing night! Night of south winds—night of the large few stars! Still nodding night—mad naked summer night.   Smile O voluptuous cool-breath'd earth! Earth of the slumbering and liquid trees! Earth of departed sunset—earth of the mountains misty-topt! Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon just tinged with blue! Earth of shine and dark mottling the tide of the river! Earth of the limpid gray of clouds brighter and clearer for my sake! Far-swooping elbow'd earth—rich apple-blossom'd earth! Smile, for your lover comes.   Prodigal, you have given me love—therefore I to you give love! O unspeakable passionate love.        *     *     *     *     * 23 Endless unfolding of words of ages! And mine a word of the modern, the word En-Masse.   A word of the faith that never balks, Here or henceforward it is all the same to me, I accept Time absolutely.   It alone is without flaw, it alone rounds and completes all, That mystic baffling wonder alone completes all.   I accept Reality and dare not question it, Materialism first and last imbuing.   Hurrah for positive science! long live exact demonstration! Fetch stonecrop mixt with cedar and branches of lilac, This is the lexicographer, this the chemist, this made a grammar of the old      cartouches, These mariners put the ship through dangerous unknown seas. This is the geologist, this works with the scalpel, and this is a mathematician.   Gentlemen, to you the first honors always! Your facts are useful, and yet they are not my dwelling, I but enter by them to an area of my dwelling.       *     *     *     *     * 24 Walt Whitman, a kosmos, of Manhattan the son, Turbulent, fleshy, sensual, eating, drinking and breeding, No sentimentalist, no stander above men and women or apart from them, No more modest than immodest.   Unscrew the locks from the doors! Unscrew the doors themselves from their jambs!   Whoever degrades another degrades me, And whatever is done or said returns at last to me.   Through me the afflatus surging and surging, through me the current and index.   I speak the pass-word primeval, I give the sign of democracy, By God! I will accept nothing which all cannot have their counterpart of on the      same terms.   Through me many long dumb voices, Voices of the interminable generations of prisoners and slaves, Voices of the diseas'd and despairing and of thieves and dwarfs, Voices of cycles of preparation and accretion, And of the threads that connect the stars, and of wombs and of the father-stuff, And of the rights of them the others are down upon, Of the deform'd, trivial, flat, foolish, despised, Fog in the air, beetles rolling balls of dung.   Through me forbidden voices, Voices of sexes and lusts, voices veil'd and I remove the veil, Voices indecent by me clarified and transfigur'd.   I do not press my fingers across my mouth, I keep as delicate around the bowels as around the head and heart, Copulation is no more rank to me than death is.   I believe in the flesh and the appetites, Seeing, hearing, feeling, are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle.       *     *     *     *     * 26 Now I will do nothing but listen, To accrue what I hear into this song, to let sounds contribute toward it.   I hear bravuras of birds, bustle of growing wheat, gossip of flames, clack of sticks      cooking my meals, I hear the sound I love, the sound of the human voice, I hear all sounds running together, combined, fused or following, Sounds of the city and sounds out of the city, sounds of the day and night, Talkative young ones to those that like them, the loud laugh of work-people at their      meals, The angry base of disjointed friendship, the faint tones of the sick, The judge with hands tight to the desk, his pallid lips pronouncing a      death-sentence, The heave'e'yo of stevedores unlading ships by the wharves, the refrain of the      anchor-lifters, The ring of alarm-bells, the cry of fire, the whirr of swift-streaking engines and      hose-carts with premonitory tinkles and color'd lights, The steam whistle, the solid roll of the train of approaching cars, The slow march play'd at the head of the association marching two and two, (They go to guard some corpse, the flag-tops are draped with black muslin.)   I hear the violoncello, ('tis the young man's heart's complaint,) I hear the key'd cornet, it glides quickly in through my ears, It shakes mad-sweet pangs through my belly and breast.   I hear the chorus, it is a grand opera, Ah this indeed is music—this suits me.       *     *     *     *     * 30 All truths wait in all things, They neither hasten their own delivery nor resist it, They do not need the obstetric forceps of the surgeon, The insignificant is as big to me as any, (What is less or more than a touch?)   Logic and sermons never convince, The damp of the night drives deeper into my soul.   (Only what proves itself to every man and woman is so, Only what nobody denies is so.)…   A minute and a drop of me settle my brain, I believe the soggy clods shall become lovers and lamps, And a compend of compends is the meat of a man or woman, And a summit and flower there is the feeling they have for each other, And they are to branch boundlessly out of that lesson until it becomes omnific, And until one and all shall delight us, and we them.   31 I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars, And the pismire is equally perfect, and a grain of sand, and the egg of the wren, And the tree-toad is a chef-d'œuvre for the highest, And the running blackberry would adorn the parlors of heaven, And the narrowest hinge in my hand puts to scorn all machinery, And the cow crunching with depress'd head surpasses any statue, And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels.   I find I incorporate gneiss, coal, long-threaded moss, fruits, grains, esculent roots, And am stucco'd with quadrupeds and birds all over, And have distanced what is behind me for good reasons, But call any thing back again when I desire it.       *     *     *     *     *   I understand the large hearts of heroes, The courage of present times and all times, How the skipper saw the crowded and rudderless wreck of the steam-ship, and      Death chasing it up and down the storm, How he knuckled tight and gave not back an inch, and was faithful of days and      faithful of nights, And chalk'd in large letters on a board, Be of good cheer, we will not desert you; How he follow'd with them and tack'd with them three days and would not give      it up, How he saved the drifting company at last, How the lank loose-gown'd women look'd when boated from the side of their      prepared graves, How the silent old-faced infants and the lifted sick, and the sharp-lipp'd unshaved      men; All this I swallow, it tastes good, I like it well, it becomes mine, I am the man, I suffer'd, I was there.   The disdain and calmness of martyrs, The mother of old, condemn'd for a witch, burnt with dry wood, her children      gazing on, The hounded slave that flags in the race, leans by the fence, blowing, cover'd      with sweat, The twinges that sting like needles his legs and neck, the murderous buckshot and t      he bullets, All these I feel or am.   I am the hounded slave, I wince at the bite of the dogs, Hell and despair are upon me, crack and again crack the marksmen, I clutch the rails of the fence, my gore dribs, thinn'd with the ooze of my skin, I fall on the weeds and stones, The riders spur their unwilling horses, haul close, Taunt my dizzy ears and beat me violently over the head with whip-stocks.   Agonies are one of my changes of garments, I do not ask the wounded person how he feels, I myself become the wounded person, My hurts turn livid upon me as I lean on a cane and observe.       *     *     *     *     *   'Tis the tale of the murder in cold blood of four hundred and twelve young men.   Retreating they had form'd in a hollow square with their baggage for breastworks, Nine hundred lives out of the surrounding enemy's, nine times their number, was      the price they took in advance, Their colonel was wounded and their ammunition gone, They treated for an honorable capitulation, receiv'd writing and seal, gave up their      arms and march'd back prisoners of war.   They were the glory of the race of rangers, Matchless with horse, rifle, song, supper, courtship, Large, turbulent, generous, handsome, proud, and affectionate, Bearded, sunburnt, drest in the free costume of hunters, Not a single one over thirty years of age.   The second First-day morning they were brought out in squads and massacred, it      was beautiful early summer, The work commenced about five o'clock and was over by eight.   None obey'd the command to kneel, Some made a mad and helpless rush, some stood stark and straight, A few fell at once, shot in the temple or heart, the living and dead lay together, The maim'd and mangled dug in the dirt, the new-comers saw them there, Some half-kill'd attempted to crawl away, These were despatch'd with bayonets or batter'd with the blunts of muskets, A youth not seventeen years old seiz'd his assassin till two more came to release      him, The three were all torn and cover'd with the boy's blood.   At eleven o'clock began the burning of the bodies; That is the tale of the murder of the four hundred and twelve young men.       *     *     *     *     * 36 Stretch'd and still lies the midnight, Two great hulls motionless on the breast of the darkness, Our vessel riddled and slowly sinking, preparations to pass to the one we have      conquer'd, The captain on the quarter-deck coldly giving his orders through a countenance      white as a sheet, Near by the corpse of the child that serv'd in the cabin, The dead face of an old salt with long white hair and carefully curl'd whiskers, The flames spite of all that can be done flickering aloft and below, The husky voices of the two or three officers yet fit for duty, Formless stacks of bodies and bodies by themselves, dabs of flesh upon the masts      and spars, Cut of cordage, dangle of rigging, slight shock of the soothe of waves, Black and impassive guns, litter of powder-parcels, strong scent, A few large stars overhead, silent and mournful shining, Delicate sniffs of sea-breeze, smells of sedgy grass and fields by the shore,      death-messages given in charge to survivors, The hiss of the surgeon's knife, the gnawing teeth of his saw, Wheeze, cluck, swash of falling blood, short wild scream, and long, dull, tapering      groan, These so, these irretrievable.   37 You laggards there on guard! look to your arms! In at the conquer'd doors they crowd! I am possess'd! Embody all presences outlaw'd or suffering, See myself in prison shaped like another man, And feel the dull unintermitted pain.   For me the keepers of convicts shoulder their carbines and keep watch, It is I let out in the morning and barr'd at night.   Not a mutineer walks handcuff'd to jail but I am handcuff'd to him and walk by       his side, (I am less the jolly one there, and more the silent one with sweat on my      twitching lips.)   Not a youngster is taken for larceny but I go up too, and am tried and sentenced.   Not a cholera patient lies at the last gasp but I also lie at the last gasp, My face is ash-color'd, my sinews gnarl, away from me people retreat.   Askers embody themselves in me and I am embodied in them, I project my hat, sit shame-faced, and beg.       *     *     *     *     *   This is the city and I am one of the citizens, Whatever interests the rest interests me, politics, wars, markets, newspapers,      schools, The mayor and councils, banks, tariffs, steamships, factories, stocks, stores,      real estate and personal estate.   The little plentiful manikins skipping around in collars and tail'd coats, I am aware who they are, (they are positively not worms or fleas,) I acknowledge the duplicates of myself, the weakest and shallowest is deathless      with me, What I do and say the same waits for them, Every thought that flounders in me the same flounders in them.   I know perfectly well my own egotism, Know my omnivorous lines and must not write any less, And would fetch you whoever you are flush with myself.   Not words of routine this song of mine, But abruptly to question, to leap beyond yet nearer bring; This printed and bound book—but the printer and the printing-office boy? The well-taken photographs—but your wife or friend close and solid in      your arms? The black ship mail'd with iron, her mighty guns in her turrets—but the pluck      of the captain and engineers? In the houses the dishes and fare and furniture—but the host and hostess, and      the look out of their eyes? The sky up there—yet here or next door, or across the way? The saints and sages in history—but you yourself? Sermons, creeds, theology—but the fathomless human brain, And what is reason? and what is love? and what is life?       *     *     *     *     *   And I say to mankind, Be not curious about God, For I who am curious about each am not curious about God, (No array of terms can say how much I am at peace about God and about death.)   I hear and behold God in every object, yet understand God not in the least, Nor do I understand who there can be more wonderful than myself.   Why should I wish to see God better than this day? I see something of God each hour of the twenty-four, and each moment then, In the faces of men and women I see God, and in my own face in the glass, I find letters from God dropt in the street, and every one is sign'd by God's name, And I leave them where they are, for I know that wheresoe'er I go, Others will punctually come for ever and ever.   49 And as to you Death, and you bitter hug of mortality, it is idle to try to alarm me.   To his work without flinching the accoucheur comes, I see the elder-hand pressing receiving supporting, I recline by the sills of the exquisite flexible doors, And mark the outlet, and mark the relief and escape.   And as to you Corpse I think you are good manure, but that does not offend me, I smell the white roses sweet-scented and growing, I reach to the leafy lips, I reach to the polish'd breasts of melons.   And as to you Life I reckon you are the leavings of many deaths, (No doubt I have died myself ten thousand times before.)   I hear you whispering there O stars of heaven, O suns—O grass of graves—O perpetual transfers and promotions, If you do not say any thing how can I say any thing?   Of the turbid pool that lies in the autumn forest, Of the moon that descends the steeps of the soughing twilight, Toss, sparkles of day and dusk—toss on the black stems that decay in the muck, Toss to the moaning gibberish of the dry limbs.   I ascend from the moon, I ascend from the night, I perceive that the ghastly glimmer is noonday sunbeams reflected, And debouch to the steady and central from the offspring great or small.   50 There is that in me—I do not know what it is—but I know it is in me.       *     *     *    *     *   Do you see O my brothers and sisters? It is not chaos or death—it is form, union, plan—it is eternal life—it is Happiness.   51 The past and present wilt—I have fill'd them, emptied them, And proceed to fill my next fold of the future.   Listener up there! what have you to confide to me? Look in my face while I snuff the sidle of evening, (Talk honestly, no one else hears you, and I stay only a minute longer.)   Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself, (I am large, I contain multitudes.)   I concentrate toward them that are nigh, I wait on the door-slab.   Who has done his day's work? who will soonest be through with his supper? Who wishes to walk with me?   Will you speak before I am gone? will you prove already too late?   52 The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains of my gab and      my loitering.   I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable, I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.   The last scud of day holds back for me, It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow'd wilds, It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.   I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun, I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.   I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love, If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.   You will hardly know who I am or what I mean, But I shall be good health to you nevertheless, And filter and fibre your blood.   Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged, Missing me one place search another, I stop somewhere waiting for you.