The singers do not beget--only the POET begets;
The singers are welcomed, understood, appear often enough--but rare has the
day been, likewise the spot, of the birth of the maker of poems;
Not every century, or every five centuries, has contained such a day, for
all its names.
The singers are welcomed, understood, appear often enough--but rare has the
day been, likewise the spot, of the birth of the maker of poems;
Not every century, or every five centuries, has contained such a day, for
all its names.
Whitman
the Lord CHRIST gazes--lo!
Hermes I--lo!
mine is
Hercules' face;
All sorrow, labour, suffering, I, tallying it, absorb in myself;
Many times have I been rejected, taunted, put in prison, and crucified--and
many times shall be again;
All the world have I given up for my dear brothers' and sisters' sake--for
the soul's sake;
Wending my way through the homes of men, rich or poor, with the kiss of
affection;
For I am affection--I am the cheer-bringing God, with hope, and all-
enclosing charity;
Conqueror yet--for before me all the armies and soldiers of the earth shall
yet bow--and all the weapons of war become impotent:
With indulgent words, as to children--with fresh and sane words, mine only;
Young and strong I pass, knowing well I am destined myself to an early
death:
But my Charity has no death--my Wisdom dies not, neither early nor late,
And my sweet Love, bequeathed here and elsewhere, never dies.
SATAN.
Aloof, dissatisfied, plotting revolt,
Comrade of criminals, brother of slaves,
Crafty, despised, a drudge, ignorant,
With sudra face and worn brow--black, but in the depths of my heart proud
as any;
Lifted, now and always, against whoever, scorning, assumes to rule me;
Morose, full of guile, full of reminiscences, brooding, with many wiles,
Though it was thought I was baffled and dispelled, and my wiles done--but
that will never be;
Defiant I SATAN still live--still utter words--in new lands duly appearing,
and old ones also;
Permanent here, from my side, warlike, equal with any, real as any,
Nor time, nor change, shall ever change me or my words.
THE SPIRIT.
Santa SPIRITA,[1] breather, life,
Beyond the light, lighter than light,
Beyond the flames of hell--joyous, leaping easily above hell;
Beyond Paradise--perfumed solely with mine own perfume;
Including all life on earth--touching, including God--including Saviour and
Satan;
Ethereal, pervading all--for, without me, what were all? what were God?
Essence of forms--life of the real identities, permanent, positive, namely
the unseen,
Life of the great round world, the sun and stars, and of man--I, the
General Soul,
Here the Square finishing, the solid, I the most solid,
Breathe my breath also through these little songs.
[Footnote 1: The reader will share my wish that Whitman had written
_sanctus spiritus_, which is right, instead of _santa spirita_, which is
methodically wrong. ]
_SONGS OF PARTING. _
_SINGERS AND POETS. _
1.
The indications and tally of time;
Perfect sanity shows the master among philosophs;
Time, always without flaw, indicates itself in parts;
What always indicates the poet is the crowd of the pleasant company of
singers, and their words;
The words of the singers are the hours or minutes of the light or dark--but
the words of the maker of poems are the general light and dark;
The maker of poems settles justice, reality, immortality,
His insight and power encircle things and the human race,
He is the glory and extract, thus far, of things and of the human race.
2.
The singers do not beget--only the POET begets;
The singers are welcomed, understood, appear often enough--but rare has the
day been, likewise the spot, of the birth of the maker of poems;
Not every century, or every five centuries, has contained such a day, for
all its names.
The singers of successive hours of centuries may have ostensible names, but
the name of each of them is one of the singers;
The name of each is eye-singer, ear-singer, head-singer,
sweet-singer, echo-singer, parlour-singer, love-singer, or something else.
3.
All this time, and at all times, wait the words of poems;
The greatness of sons is the exuding of the greatness of mothers and
fathers;
The words of poems are the tuft and final applause of science.
Divine instinct, breadth of vision, the law of reason, health, rudeness of
body, withdrawnness, gaiety, sun-tan, air-sweetness--such are some
of the words of poems.
4.
The sailor and traveller underlie the maker of poems,
The builder, geometer, chemist, anatomist, phrenologist, artist--all these
underlie the maker of poems.
5.
The words of the true poems give you more than poems,
They give you, to form for yourself, poems, religions, politics, war,
peace, behaviour, histories, essays, romances, and everything else,
They balance ranks, colours, races, creeds, and the sexes,
They do not seek beauty--they are sought,
For ever touching them, or close upon them, follows beauty, longing, fain,
love-sick.
They prepare for death--yet are they not the finish, but rather the outset,
They bring none to his or her terminus, or to be content and full;
Whom they take, they take into space, to behold the birth of stars, to
learn one of the meanings,
To launch off with absolute faith--to sweep through the ceaseless rings,
and never be quiet again.
_TO A HISTORIAN. _
You who celebrate bygones:
Who have explored the outward, the surfaces of the races--the life that has
exhibited itself;
Who have treated of man as the creature of politics, aggregates, rulers,
and priests.
I, habitue of the Alleghanies, treating man as he is in himself, in his own
rights,
Pressing the pulse of the life that has seldom exhibited itself, the great
pride of man in himself;
Chanter of Personality, outlining what is yet to be;
I project the history of the future.
_FIT AUDIENCE. _
1.
Whoever you are, holding me now in hand,
Without one thing, all will be useless:
I give you fair warning, before you attempt me further,
I am not what you supposed, but far different.
Hercules' face;
All sorrow, labour, suffering, I, tallying it, absorb in myself;
Many times have I been rejected, taunted, put in prison, and crucified--and
many times shall be again;
All the world have I given up for my dear brothers' and sisters' sake--for
the soul's sake;
Wending my way through the homes of men, rich or poor, with the kiss of
affection;
For I am affection--I am the cheer-bringing God, with hope, and all-
enclosing charity;
Conqueror yet--for before me all the armies and soldiers of the earth shall
yet bow--and all the weapons of war become impotent:
With indulgent words, as to children--with fresh and sane words, mine only;
Young and strong I pass, knowing well I am destined myself to an early
death:
But my Charity has no death--my Wisdom dies not, neither early nor late,
And my sweet Love, bequeathed here and elsewhere, never dies.
SATAN.
Aloof, dissatisfied, plotting revolt,
Comrade of criminals, brother of slaves,
Crafty, despised, a drudge, ignorant,
With sudra face and worn brow--black, but in the depths of my heart proud
as any;
Lifted, now and always, against whoever, scorning, assumes to rule me;
Morose, full of guile, full of reminiscences, brooding, with many wiles,
Though it was thought I was baffled and dispelled, and my wiles done--but
that will never be;
Defiant I SATAN still live--still utter words--in new lands duly appearing,
and old ones also;
Permanent here, from my side, warlike, equal with any, real as any,
Nor time, nor change, shall ever change me or my words.
THE SPIRIT.
Santa SPIRITA,[1] breather, life,
Beyond the light, lighter than light,
Beyond the flames of hell--joyous, leaping easily above hell;
Beyond Paradise--perfumed solely with mine own perfume;
Including all life on earth--touching, including God--including Saviour and
Satan;
Ethereal, pervading all--for, without me, what were all? what were God?
Essence of forms--life of the real identities, permanent, positive, namely
the unseen,
Life of the great round world, the sun and stars, and of man--I, the
General Soul,
Here the Square finishing, the solid, I the most solid,
Breathe my breath also through these little songs.
[Footnote 1: The reader will share my wish that Whitman had written
_sanctus spiritus_, which is right, instead of _santa spirita_, which is
methodically wrong. ]
_SONGS OF PARTING. _
_SINGERS AND POETS. _
1.
The indications and tally of time;
Perfect sanity shows the master among philosophs;
Time, always without flaw, indicates itself in parts;
What always indicates the poet is the crowd of the pleasant company of
singers, and their words;
The words of the singers are the hours or minutes of the light or dark--but
the words of the maker of poems are the general light and dark;
The maker of poems settles justice, reality, immortality,
His insight and power encircle things and the human race,
He is the glory and extract, thus far, of things and of the human race.
2.
The singers do not beget--only the POET begets;
The singers are welcomed, understood, appear often enough--but rare has the
day been, likewise the spot, of the birth of the maker of poems;
Not every century, or every five centuries, has contained such a day, for
all its names.
The singers of successive hours of centuries may have ostensible names, but
the name of each of them is one of the singers;
The name of each is eye-singer, ear-singer, head-singer,
sweet-singer, echo-singer, parlour-singer, love-singer, or something else.
3.
All this time, and at all times, wait the words of poems;
The greatness of sons is the exuding of the greatness of mothers and
fathers;
The words of poems are the tuft and final applause of science.
Divine instinct, breadth of vision, the law of reason, health, rudeness of
body, withdrawnness, gaiety, sun-tan, air-sweetness--such are some
of the words of poems.
4.
The sailor and traveller underlie the maker of poems,
The builder, geometer, chemist, anatomist, phrenologist, artist--all these
underlie the maker of poems.
5.
The words of the true poems give you more than poems,
They give you, to form for yourself, poems, religions, politics, war,
peace, behaviour, histories, essays, romances, and everything else,
They balance ranks, colours, races, creeds, and the sexes,
They do not seek beauty--they are sought,
For ever touching them, or close upon them, follows beauty, longing, fain,
love-sick.
They prepare for death--yet are they not the finish, but rather the outset,
They bring none to his or her terminus, or to be content and full;
Whom they take, they take into space, to behold the birth of stars, to
learn one of the meanings,
To launch off with absolute faith--to sweep through the ceaseless rings,
and never be quiet again.
_TO A HISTORIAN. _
You who celebrate bygones:
Who have explored the outward, the surfaces of the races--the life that has
exhibited itself;
Who have treated of man as the creature of politics, aggregates, rulers,
and priests.
I, habitue of the Alleghanies, treating man as he is in himself, in his own
rights,
Pressing the pulse of the life that has seldom exhibited itself, the great
pride of man in himself;
Chanter of Personality, outlining what is yet to be;
I project the history of the future.
_FIT AUDIENCE. _
1.
Whoever you are, holding me now in hand,
Without one thing, all will be useless:
I give you fair warning, before you attempt me further,
I am not what you supposed, but far different.
