Prev | Current Page 579 | Next

Whitman, Walt, 1819-1892

"Complete Prose Works Specimen Days and Collect, November Boughs and Goodbye My Fancy"

Anything, any place,
to escape such horrid companionship! He would travel inland--hire
himself to do hard drudgery upon some farm--work incessantly through
the wide summer days, and thus force nature to bestow oblivion upon
his senses, at least a little while now and then. He would fly on, on,
on, until amid different scenes and a new life, the old memories were
rubb'd entirely out. He would fight bravely in himself for peace of
mind. For peace he would labor and struggle--for peace he would pray!
At length after a feverish slumber of some thirty or forty minutes,
the unhappy youth, waking with a nervous start, rais'd himself in bed,
and saw the blessed daylight beginning to dawn. He felt the sweat
trickling down his naked breast; the sheet where he had lain was quite
wet with it. Dragging himself wearily, he open'd the window. Ah! that
good morning air--how it refresh'd him--how he lean'd out, and drank
in the fragrance of the blossoms below, and almost for the first time
in his life felt how beautifully indeed God had made the earth, and
that there was wonderful sweetness in mere existence. And amidst the
thousand mute mouths and eloquent eyes, which appear'd as it were to
look up and speak in every direction, he fancied so many invitations
to come among them.
Not without effort, for he was very weak, he dress'd himself, and
issued forth into the open air.
Clouds of pale gold and transparent crimson draperied the eastern sky,
but the sun, whose face gladden'd them into all that glory, was not
yet above the horizon.


Pages:
567 568 569 570 571 572 573 574 575 576 577 578 579 580 581 582 583 584 585 586 587 588 589 590 591