Leaves of Grass Part 67

As the Greek's Signal Flame

As the Greek's signal flame, by antique records told, Rose from the hill-top, like applause and glory, Welcoming in fame some special veteran, hero, With rosy tinge reddening the land he'd served, So I aloft from Mannahatta's s.h.i.+p-fringed sh.o.r.e, Lift high a kindled brand for thee, Old Poet.

The Dismantled s.h.i.+p

In some unused lagoon, some nameless bay, On sluggish, lonesome waters, anchor'd near the sh.o.r.e, An old, dismasted, gray and batter'd s.h.i.+p, disabled, done, After free voyages to all the seas of earth, haul'd up at last and hawser'd tight, Lies rusting, mouldering.

Now Precedent Songs, Farewell

Now precedent songs, farewell-by every name farewell, (Trains of a staggering line in many a strange procession, waggons, From ups and downs-with intervals-from elder years, mid-age, or youth,) "In Cabin'd s.h.i.+ps, or Thee Old Cause or Poets to Come Or Paumanok, Song of Myself, Calamus, or Adam, Or Beat! Beat! Drums! or To the Leaven'd Soil they Trod, Or Captain! My Captain! Kosmos, Quicksand Years, or Thoughts, Thou Mother with thy Equal Brood," and many, many more unspecified, From fibre heart of mine-from throat and tongue-(My life's hot pulsing blood, The personal urge and form for me-not merely paper, automatic type and ink,) Each song of mine-each utterance in the past-having its long, long history, Of life or death, or soldier's wound, of country's loss or safety, (O heaven! what flash and started endless train of all! compared indeed to that!

What wretched shred e'en at the best of all!)

An Evening Lull

After a week of physical anguish, Unrest and pain, and feverish heat, Toward the ending day a calm and lull comes on, Three hours of peace and soothing rest of brain.

Old Age's Lambent Peaks

The touch of flame-the illuminating fire-the loftiest look at last, O'er city, pa.s.sion, sea-o'er prairie, mountain, wood-the earth itself, The airy, different, changing hues of all, in failing twilight, Objects and groups, bearings, faces, reminiscences; The calmer sight-the golden setting, clear and broad: So much i' the atmosphere, the points of view, the situations whence we scan, Bro't out by them alone-so much (perhaps the best) unreck'd before; The lights indeed from them-old age's lambent peaks.

After the Supper and Talk

After the supper and talk-after the day is done, As a friend from friends his final withdrawal prolonging, Good-bye and Good-bye with emotional lips repeating, (So hard for his hand to release those hands-no more will they meet, No more for communion of sorrow and joy, of old and young, A far-stretching journey awaits him, to return no more,) Shunning, postponing severance-seeking to ward off the last word ever so little, E'en at the exit-door turning-charges superfluous calling back- e'en as he descends the steps, Something to eke out a minute additional-shadows of nightfall deepening, Farewells, messages lessening-dimmer the forthgoer's visage and form, Soon to be lost for aye in the darkness-loth, O so loth to depart!

Garrulous to the very last.

BOOKx.x.xV. GOOD-BYE MY FANCY

Sail out for Good, Eidolon Yacht!

Heave the anchor short!

Raise main-sail and jib-steer forth, O little white-hull'd sloop, now speed on really deep waters, (I will not call it our concluding voyage, But outset and sure entrance to the truest, best, maturest;) Depart, depart from solid earth-no more returning to these sh.o.r.es, Now on for aye our infinite free venture wending, Spurning all yet tried ports, seas, hawsers, densities, gravitation, Sail out for good, eidolon yacht of me!

Lingering Last Drops

And whence and why come you?

We know not whence, (was the answer,) We only know that we drift here with the rest, That we linger'd and lagg'd-but were wafted at last, and are now here, To make the pa.s.sing shower's concluding drops.

Good-Bye My Fancy

Good-bye my fancy-(I had a word to say, But 'tis not quite the time-The best of any man's word or say, Is when its proper place arrives-and for its meaning, I keep mine till the last.)

On, on the Same, Ye Jocund Twain!

On, on the same, ye jocund twain!

My life and recitative, containing birth, youth, mid-age years, Fitful as motley-tongues of flame, inseparably twined and merged in one-combining all, My single soul-aims, confirmations, failures, joys-Nor single soul alone, I chant my nation's crucial stage, (America's, haply humanity's)- the trial great, the victory great, A strange eclairciss.e.m.e.nt of all the ma.s.ses past, the eastern world, the ancient, medieval, Here, here from wanderings, strayings, lessons, wars, defeats-here at the west a voice triumphant-justifying all, A gladsome pealing cry-a song for once of utmost pride and satisfaction; I chant from it the common bulk, the general average horde, (the best sooner than the worst)-And now I chant old age, (My verses, written first for forenoon life, and for the summer's, autumn's spread, I pa.s.s to snow-white hairs the same, and give to pulses winter-cool'd the same;) As here in careless trill, I and my recitatives, with faith and love, wafting to other work, to unknown songs, conditions, On, on ye jocund twain! continue on the same!

MY 71st Year

After surmounting three-score and ten, With all their chances, changes, losses, sorrows, My parents' deaths, the vagaries of my life, the many tearing pa.s.sions of me, the war of '63 and '4, As some old broken soldier, after a long, hot, wearying march, or haply after battle, To-day at twilight, hobbling, answering company roll-call, Here, with vital voice, Reporting yet, saluting yet the Officer over all.

Apparitions

A vague mist hanging 'round half the pages: (Sometimes how strange and clear to the soul, That all these solid things are indeed but apparitions, concepts, non-realities.)

The Pallid Wreath

Somehow I cannot let it go yet, funeral though it is, Let it remain back there on its nail suspended, With pink, blue, yellow, all blanch'd, and the white now gray and ashy, One wither'd rose put years ago for thee, dear friend; But I do not forget thee. Hast thou then faded?

Is the odor exhaled? Are the colors, vitalities, dead?

No, while memories subtly play-the past vivid as ever; For but last night I woke, and in that spectral ring saw thee, Thy smile, eyes, face, calm, silent, loving as ever: So let the wreath hang still awhile within my eye-reach, It is not yet dead to me, nor even pallid.