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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=535039" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Leaves Of Grass. A Carol Of Harvest For 1867</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">A SONG of the good green grass!<br> A song no more of the city streets;<br> A song of farms--a song of the soil of fields.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> A song with the smell of sun-dried hay, where the nimble pitchers<br> handle the pitch-fork;<br> A song tasting of new wheat, and of fresh-husk'd maize.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> For the lands, and for these passionate days, and for myself,<br> Now I awhile return to thee, O soil of Autumn fields,<br> Reclining on thy breast, giving myself to thee,<br> Answering the pulses of thy sane and equable heart,<br> Tuning a verse for thee.   10</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> O Earth, that hast no voice, confide to me a voice!<br> O harvest of my lands! O boundless summer growths!<br> O lavish, brown, parturient earth! O infinite, teeming womb!<br> A verse to seek, to see, to narrate thee.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> Ever upon this stage,<br> Is acted God's calm, annual drama,<br> Gorgeous processions, songs of birds,<br> Sunrise, that fullest feeds and freshens most the soul,<br> The heaving sea, the waves upon the shore, the musical, strong waves,<br> The woods, the stalwart trees, the slender, tapering trees, 20<br> The flowers, the grass, the lilliput, countless armies of the grass,<br> The heat, the showers, the measureless pasturages,<br> The scenery of the snows, the winds' free orchestra,<br> The stretching, light-hung roof of clouds--the clear cerulean, and<br> the bulging, silvery fringes,<br> The high dilating stars, the placid, beckoning stars,<br> The moving flocks and herds, the plains and emerald meadows,<br> The shows of all the varied lands, and all the growths and products.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> Fecund America! To-day,<br> Thou art all over set in births and joys!<br> Thou groan'st with riches! thy wealth clothes thee as with a swathing<br> garment!    30<br> Thou laughest loud with ache of great possessions!<br> A myriad-twining life, like interlacing vines, binds all thy vast<br> demesne!<br> As some huge ship, freighted to water's edge, thou ridest into port!<br> As rain falls from the heaven, and vapors rise from earth, so have<br> the precious values fallen upon thee, and risen out of thee!<br> Thou envy of the globe! thou miracle!<br> Thou, bathed, choked, swimming in plenty!<br> Thou lucky Mistress of the tranquil barns!<br> Thou Prairie Dame that sittest in the middle, and lookest out upon<br> thy world, and lookest East, and lookest West!<br> Dispensatress, that by a word givest a thousand miles--that giv'st a<br> million farms, and missest nothing!<br> Thou All-Acceptress--thou Hospitable--(thou only art hospitable, as<br> God is hospitable.)   40</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> When late I sang, sad was my voice;<br> Sad were the shows around me, with deafening noises of hatred, and<br> smoke of conflict;<br> In the midst of the armies, the Heroes, I stood,<br> Or pass'd with slow step through the wounded and dying.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> But now I sing not War,<br> Nor the measur'd march of soldiers, nor the tents of camps,<br> Nor the regiments hastily coming up, deploying in line of battle.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> No more the dead and wounded;<br> No more the sad, unnatural shows of War.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Ask'd room those flush'd immortal ranks? the first forth-stepping<br> armies?    50<br> Ask room, alas, the ghastly ranks--the armies dread that follow'd.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> (Pass--pass, ye proud brigades!<br> So handsome, dress'd in blue--with your tramping, sinewy legs;<br> With your shoulders young and strong--with your knapsacks and your<br> muskets;<br> --How elate I stood and watch'd you, where, starting off, you<br> march'd!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Pass;--then rattle, drums, again!<br> Scream, you steamers on the river, out of whistles loud and shrill,<br> your salutes!<br> For an army heaves in sight--O another gathering army!<br> Swarming, trailing on the rear--O you dread, accruing army!<br> O you regiments so piteous, with your mortal diarrhoea! with your<br> fever!    60<br> O my land's maimed darlings! with the plenteous bloody bandage and<br> the crutch!<br> Lo! your pallid army follow'd!)</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> But on these days of brightness,<br> On the far-stretching beauteous landscape, the roads and lanes, the<br> high-piled farm-wagons, and the fruits and barns,<br> Shall the dead intrude?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Ah, the dead to me mar not--they fit well in Nature;<br> They fit very well in the landscape, under the trees and grass,<br> And along the edge of the sky, in the horizon's far margin.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Nor do I forget you, departed;<br> Nor in winter or summer, my lost ones;  70<br> But most, in the open air, as now, when my soul is rapt and at<br> peace--like pleasing phantoms,<br> Your dear memories, rising, glide silently by me.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> I saw the day, the return of the Heroes;<br> (Yet the Heroes never surpass'd, shall never return;<br> Them, that day, I saw not.)</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> I saw the interminable Corps--I saw the processions of armies,<br> I saw them approaching, defiling by, with divisions,<br> Streaming northward, their work done, camping awhile in clusters of<br> mighty camps.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> No holiday soldiers!--youthful, yet veterans;<br> Worn, swart, handsome, strong, of the stock of homestead and<br> workshop,<br> Harden'd of many a long campaign and sweaty march,  80<br> Inured on many a hard-fought, bloody field.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> A pause--the armies wait;<br> A million flush'd, embattled conquerors wait;<br> The world, too, waits--then, soft as breaking night, and sure as<br> dawn,<br> They melt--they disappear.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Exult, indeed, O lands! victorious lands!<br> Not there your victory, on those red, shuddering fields;<br> But here and hence your victory.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Melt, melt away, ye armies! disperse, ye blue-clad soldiers!<br> Resolve ye back again--give up, for good, your deadly arms; 90<br> Other the arms, the fields henceforth for you, or South or North, or<br> East or West,<br> With saner wars--sweet wars--life-giving wars.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> Loud, O my throat, and clear, O soul!<br> The season of thanks, and the voice of full-yielding;<br> The chant of joy and power for boundless fertility.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> All till'd and untill'd fields expand before me;<br> I see the true arenas of my race--or first, or last,<br> Man's innocent and strong arenas.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> I see the Heroes at other toils;<br> I see, well-wielded in their hands, the better weapons. 100</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> I see where America, Mother of All,<br> Well-pleased, with full-spanning eye, gazes forth, dwells long,<br> And counts the varied gathering of the products.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Busy the far, the sunlit panorama;<br> Prairie, orchard, and yellow grain of the North,<br> Cotton and rice of the South, and Louisianian cane;<br> Open, unseeded fallows, rich fields of clover and timothy,<br> Kine and horses feeding, and droves of sheep and swine,<br> And many a stately river flowing, and many a jocund brook,<br> And healthy uplands with their herby-perfumed breezes, 110<br> And the good green grass--that delicate miracle, the ever-recurring<br> grass.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> Toil on, Heroes! harvest the products!<br> Not alone on those warlike fields, the Mother of All,<br> With dilated form and lambent eyes, watch'd you.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Toil on, Heroes! toil well! Handle the weapons well!<br> The Mother of All--yet here, as ever, she watches you.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Well-pleased, America, thou beholdest,<br> Over the fields of the West, those crawling monsters,<br> The human-divine inventions, the labor-saving implements:<br> Beholdest, moving in every direction, imbued as with life, the<br> revolving hay-rakes,   120<br> The steam-power reaping-machines, and the horse-power machines,<br> The engines, thrashers of grain, and cleaners of grain, well<br> separating the straw--the nimble work of the patent pitch-fork;<br> Beholdest the newer saw-mill, the southern cotton-gin, and the rice-<br> cleanser.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Beneath thy look, O Maternal,<br> With these, and else, and with their own strong hands, the Heroes<br> harvest.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> All gather, and all harvest;<br> (Yet but for thee, O Powerful! not a scythe might swing, as now, in<br> security;<br> Not a maize-stalk dangle, as now, its silken tassels in peace.)</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> Under Thee only they harvest--even but a wisp of hay, under thy great<br> face, only;<br> Harvest the wheat of Ohio, Illinois, Wisconsin--every barbed spear,<br> under thee;    130<br> Harvest the maize of Missouri, Kentucky, Tennessee--each ear in its<br> light-green sheath,<br> Gather the hay to its myriad mows, in the odorous, tranquil barns,<br> Oats to their bins--the white potato, the buckwheat of Michigan, to<br> theirs;<br> Gather the cotton in Mississippi or Alabama--dig and hoard the<br> golden, the sweet potato of Georgia and the Carolinas,<br> Clip the wool of California or Pennsylvania,<br> Cut the flax in the Middle States, or hemp, or tobacco in the<br> Borders,<br> Pick the pea and the bean, or pull apples from the trees, or bunches<br> of grapes from the vines,<br> Or aught that ripens in all These States, or North or South,<br> Under the beaming sun, and under Thee.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Walt+Whitman">Walt Whitman</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=535039" data-title="Leaves Of Grass. A Carol Of Harvest For 1867 de Walt Whitman" data-description="A SONG of the good green grass!
 A song no more of the city streets;
 A song of farms--a song of the soil of fields.

 A song with the smell of sun-dried hay, where the nimble pitchers
 handle the pitch-fork;
 A song tasting of new wheat, and of f..."></div>
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