Prev | Current Page 823 | Next

Whitman, Walt, 1819-1892

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

Sorrows and disappointments
cease--there is no more borrowing trouble in advance. A man realizes
the venerable myth--he is a god walking the earth, he sees new
eligibilities, powers and beauties everywhere; he himself has a
new eyesight and hearing. The play of the body in motion takes a
previously unknown grace. Merely _to move_ is then a happiness,
a pleasure--to breathe, to see, is also. All the beforehand
gratifications, drink, spirits, coffee, grease, stimulants, mixtures,
late hours, luxuries, deeds of the night, seem as vexatious dreams,
and now the awakening;--many fall into their natural places,
whole-some, conveying diviner joys.
What I append--Health, old style--I have long treasur'd--found
originally in some scrap-book fifty years ago--a favorite of mine (but
quite a glaring contrast to my present bodily state:)
On a high rock above the vast abyss,
Whose solid base tumultuous waters lave;
Whose airy high-top balmy breezes kiss,
Fresh from the white foam of the circling wave--
There ruddy HEALTH, in rude majestic state,
His clust'ring forelock combatting the winds--
Bares to each season's change his breast elate,
And still fresh vigor from th' encounter finds;
With mighty mind to every fortune braced,
To every climate each corporeal power,
And high-proof heart, impenetrably cased,
He mocks the quick transitions of the hour.
Now could he hug bleak Zembla's bolted snow,
Now to Arabia's heated deserts turn,
Yet bids the biting blast more fiercely blow,
The scorching sun without abatement burn.


Pages:
811 812 813 814 815 816 817 818 819 820 821 822 823 824 825 826 827 828 829 830 831 832 833 834 835