Must we barely arrive at this
beginning
of me?
Whitman
2.
But I too announce solid things;
Science, ships, politics, cities, factories, are not nothing--they serve,
They stand for realities--all is as it should be.
3.
Then my realities;
What else is so real as mine?
Libertad, and the divine Average-Freedom to every slave on the face of the
earth,
The rapt promises and _lumine_[1] of seers--the spiritual
world--these centuries-lasting songs,
And our visions, the visions of poets, the most solid announcements of any.
For we support all,
After the rest is done and gone, we remain,
There is no final reliance but upon us;
Democracy rests finally upon us, (I, my brethren, begin it,)
And our visions sweep through eternity.
[Footnote 1: I suppose Whitman gets this odd word _lumine_, by a process of
his own, out of _illuminati_, and intends it to stand for what would be
called clairvoyance, intuition. ]
_NEARING DEPARTURE. _
1.
As nearing departure,
As the time draws nigh, glooming, a cloud,
A dread beyond, of I know not what, darkens me.
2.
I shall _go_ forth,
I shall traverse the States--but I cannot tell whither or how long;
Perhaps soon, some day or night while I am singing, my voice will suddenly
cease.
3.
O book and chant! must all then amount to but this?
Must we barely arrive at this beginning of me? . . .
And yet it is enough, O soul!
O soul! we have positively appeared--that is enough.
_POETS TO COME. _
1.
Poets to come!
Not to-day is to justify me, and Democracy, and what we are for;
But you, a new brood, native, athletic, continental, greater than before
known,
You must justify me.
2.
I but write one or two indicative words for the future,
I but advance a moment, only to wheel and hurry back in the darkness.
I am a man who, sauntering along, without fully stopping, turns a casual
look upon you, and then averts his face,
Leaving it to you to prove and define it,
Expecting the main things from you.
_CENTURIES HENCE. _
Full of life now, compact, visible,
I, forty years old the eighty-third year of the States,
To one a century hence, or any number of centuries hence,
To you, yet unborn, these seeking you.
