Walt Whitman. 1819–1892
Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking
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OUT of the cradle endlessly rocking, |
Out of the mocking-bird’s throat, the musical shuttle, |
Out of the Ninth-month midnight, |
Over the sterile sands, and the fields beyond, where the child, leaving his bed, wander’d alone, bare-headed, barefoot, |
Down from the shower’d halo, |
Up from the mystic play of shadows, twining and twisting as if they were alive, |
Out from the patches of briers and blackberries, |
From the memories of the bird that chanted to me, |
From your memories, sad brother—from the fitful risings and fallings I heard, |
From under that yellow half-moon, late-risen, and swollen as if with tears, |
From those beginning notes of sickness and love, there in the transparent mist, |
From the thousand responses of my heart, never to cease, |
From the myriad thence-arous’d words, |
From the word stronger and more delicious than any, |
From such, as now they start, the scene revisiting, |
As a flock, twittering, rising, or overhead passing, |
Borne hither—ere all eludes me, hurriedly, |
A man—yet by these tears a little boy again, |
Throwing myself on the sand, confronting the waves, |
I, chanter of pains and joys, uniter of here and hereafter, |
Taking all hints to use them—but swiftly leaping beyond them, |
A reminiscence sing. |
Once, Paumanok, |
When the snows had melted—when the lilac-scent was in the air, and the Fifth-month grass was growing, |
Up this sea-shore, in some briers, |
Two guests from Alabama—two together, |
And their nest, and four light-green eggs, spotted with brown, |
And every day the he-bird, to and fro, near at hand, |
And every day the she-bird, crouch’d on her nest, silent, with bright eyes, |
And every day I, a curious boy, never too close, never disturbing them, |
Cautiously peering, absorbing, translating. |
Shine! shine! shine! |
Pour down your warmth, great Sun! |
While we bask—we two together. |
Two together! |
Winds blow South, or winds blow North, |
Day come white, or night come black, |
Home, or rivers and mountains from home, |
Singing all time, minding no time, |
While we two keep together. |
Till of a sudden, |
May-be kill’d, unknown to her mate, |
One forenoon the she-bird crouch’d not on the nest, |
Nor return’d that afternoon, nor the next, |
Nor ever appear’d again. |
And thenceforward, all summer, in the sound of the sea, |
And at night, under the full of the moon, in calmer weather, |
Over the hoarse surging of the sea, |
Or flitting from brier to brier by day, |
I saw, I heard at intervals, the remaining one, the he-bird, |
The solitary guest from Alabama. |
Blow! blow! blow! |
Blow up, sea-winds, along Paumanok’s shore! |
I wait and I wait, till you blow my mate to me. |
Yes, when the stars glisten’d, |
All night long, on the prong of a moss-scallop’d stake, |
Down, almost amid the slapping waves, |
Sat the lone singer, wonderful, causing tears. |
He call’d on his mate; |
He pour’d forth the meanings which I, of all men, know. |
Yes, my brother, I know; |
The rest might not—but I have treasur’d every note; |
For once, and more than once, dimly, down to the beach gliding, |
Silent, avoiding the moonbeams, blending myself with the shadows, |
Recalling now the obscure shapes, the echoes, the sounds and sights after their sorts, |
The white arms out in the breakers tirelessly tossing, |
I, with bare feet, a child, the wind wafting my hair, |
Listen’d long and long. |
Listen’d, to keep, to sing—now translating the notes, |
Following you, my brother. |
Soothe! soothe! soothe! |
Close on its wave soothes the wave behind, |
And again another behind, embracing and lapping, every one close, |
But my love soothes not me, not me. |
Low hangs the moon—it rose late; |
O it is lagging—O I think it is heavy with love, with love. |
O madly the sea pushes, pushes upon the land, |
With love—with love. |
O night! do I not see my love fluttering out there among the breakers? |
What is that little black thing I see there in the white? |
Loud! loud! loud! |
Loud I call to you, my love! |
High and clear I shoot my voice over the waves; |
Surely you must know who is here, is here; |
You must know who I am, my love. |
Low-hanging moon! |
What is that dusky spot in your brown yellow? |
O it is the shape, the shape of my mate! |
O moon, do not keep her from me any longer. |
Land! land! O land! |
Whichever way I turn, O I think you could give me my mate back again, if you only would; |
For I am almost sure I see her dimly whichever way I look. |
O rising stars! |
Perhaps the one I want so much will rise, will rise with some of you. |
O throat! O trembling throat! |
Sound clearer through the atmosphere! |
Pierce the woods, the earth; |
Somewhere listening to catch you, must be the one I want. |
Shake out, carols! |
Solitary here—the night’s carols! |
Carols of lonesome love! Death’s carols! |
Carols under that lagging, yellow, waning moon! |
O, under that moon, where she droops almost down into the sea! |
O reckless, despairing carols. |
But soft! sink low; |
Soft! let me just murmur; |
And do you wait a moment, you husky-noised sea; |
For somewhere I believe I heard my mate responding to me, |
So faint—I must be still, be still to listen; |
But not altogether still, for then she might not come immediately to me. |
Hither, my love! |
Here I am! Here! |
With this just-sustain’d note I announce myself to you; |
This gentle call is for you, my love, for you. |
Do not be decoy’d elsewhere! |
That is the whistle of the wind—it is not my voice; |
That is the fluttering, the fluttering of the spray; |
Those are the shadows of leaves. |
O darkness! O in vain! |
O I am very sick and sorrowful. |
O brown halo in the sky, near the moon, drooping upon the sea! |
O troubled reflection in the sea! |
O throat! O throbbing heart! |
O all—and I singing uselessly, uselessly all the night. |
Yet I murmur, murmur on! |
O murmurs—you yourselves make me continue to sing, I know not why. |
O past! O life! O songs of joy! |
In the air—in the woods—over fields; |
Loved! loved! loved! loved! loved! |
But my love no more, no more with me! |
We two together no more. |
The aria sinking; |
All else continuing—the stars shining, |
The winds blowing—the notes of the bird continuous echoing, |
With angry moans the fierce old mother incessantly moaning, |
On the sands of Paumanok’s shore, gray and rustling; |
The yellow half-moon enlarged, sagging down, drooping, the face of the sea almost touching; |
The boy extatic—with his bare feet the waves, with his hair the atmosphere dallying, |
The love in the heart long pent, now loose, now at last tumultuously bursting, |
The aria’s meaning, the ears, the Soul, swiftly depositing, |
The strange tears down the cheeks coursing, |
The colloquy there—the trio—each uttering, |
The undertone—the savage old mother, incessantly crying, |
To the boy’s Soul’s questions sullenly timing—some drown’d secret hissing, |
To the outsetting bard of love. |
Demon or bird! (said the boy’s soul,) |
Is it indeed toward your mate you sing? or is it mostly to me? |
For I, that was a child, my tongue’s use sleeping, |
Now I have heard you, |
Now in a moment I know what I am for—I awake, |
And already a thousand singers—a thousand songs, clearer, louder and more sorrowful than yours, |
A thousand warbling echoes have started to life within me, |
Never to die. |
O you singer, solitary, singing by yourself—projecting me; |
O solitary me, listening—nevermore shall I cease perpetuating you; |
Never more shall I escape, never more the reverberations, |
Never more the cries of unsatisfied love be absent from me, |
Never again leave me to be the peaceful child I was before what there, in the night, |
By the sea, under the yellow and sagging moon, |
The messenger there arous’d—the fire, the sweet hell within, |
The unknown want, the destiny of me. |
O give me the clew! (it lurks in the night here somewhere;) |
O if I am to have so much, let me have more! |
O a word! O what is my destination? (I fear it is henceforth chaos;) |
O how joys, dreads, convolutions, human shapes, and all shapes, spring as from graves around me! |
O phantoms! you cover all the land and all the sea! |
O I cannot see in the dimness whether you smile or frown upon me; |
O vapor, a look, a word! O well-beloved! |
O you dear women’s and men’s phantoms! |
A word then, (for I will conquer it,) |
The word final, superior to all, |
Subtle, sent up—what is it?—I listen; |
Are you whispering it, and have been all the time, you sea-waves? |
Is that it from your liquid rims and wet sands? |
Whereto answering, the sea, |
Delaying not, hurrying not, |
Whisper’d me through the night, and very plainly before day-break, |
Lisp’d to me the low and delicious word DEATH; |
And again Death—ever Death, Death, Death, |
Hissing melodious, neither like the bird, nor like my arous’d child’s heart, |
But edging near, as privately for me, rustling at my feet, |
Creeping thence steadily up to my ears, and laving me softly all over, |
Death, Death, Death, Death, Death. |
Which I do not forget, |
But fuse the song of my dusky demon and brother, |
That he sang to me in the moonlight on Paumanok’s gray beach, |
With the thousand responsive songs, at random, |
My own songs, awaked from that hour; |
And with them the key, the word up from the waves, |
The word of the sweetest song, and all songs, |
That strong and delicious word which, creeping to my feet, |
The sea whisper’d me. |