WALT WHITMAN.
Reading edition
THE MIRACLES OF NATURE.
[From Leaves of Grass.]
To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle, Every inch of space is a miracle, Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same, Every cubic foot of the interior swarms with the same.
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To me the sea is a continual miracle, The fishes that swim—the rocks—the motion of the waves—the ships with men in them, What stranger miracles are there?
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I was thinking the day most splendid, till I saw what the not-day exhibited; I was thinking this globe enough, till there tumbled upon me myriads of other globes; O, how plainly I see now that this life cannot exhibit all to me—as the day cannot; O, I see that I am to wait for what will be exhibited by death.
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O Death! O, the beautiful touch of Death, soothing and benumbing a few moments, for reasons.
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The earth never tires, The earth is rude, silent, incomprehensible at first— Nature is rude and incomprehensible at first; Be not discouraged—keep on—there are divine things, well enveloped; I swear to you there are divine things more beautiful than words can tell.
O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN!
O captain! my captain! our fearful trip is done; The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won; The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring: But O heart! heart! heart! Leave you not the little spot Where on the deck my captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.
O captain! my captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills; For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding; For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; O captain! dear father! This arm I push beneath you; It is some dream that on the deck You've fallen cold and dead.
My captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still; My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will; But the ship, the ship is anchored safe, its voyage closed and done; From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells! But I, with silent tread, Walk the spot my captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.