A WORD OUT OF THE SEA.
Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass, Boston, 1860–61, page 269. Later called “Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking.”
Out of the rocked cradle, Out of the mocking-bird’s throat, the musical shuttle, Out of the boy’s mother’s womb, and from the nipples of her breasts, Out of the Ninth Month midnight, Over the sterile sands, and the fields beyond, where the child, leaving his bed, wandered alone, bareheaded, barefoot, Down from the showered 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-aroused 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.
REMINISCENCE.
Once, Paumanok, When the snows had melted, 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, crouched 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 ! 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, If we two but keep together.
Till of a sudden, May-be killed, unknown to her mate, One forenoon the she-bird crouched not on the nest, Nor returned that afternoon, nor the next, Nor ever appeared 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 up sea-winds along Paumanok’s shore ; I wait and I wait, till you blow my mate to me.
Yes, when the stars glistened, 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.
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.
Low hangs the moon — it rose late, O it is lagging — O I think it is heavy with love.
O madly the sea pushes upon the land, With love — with love.
O night ! O do I not see my love fluttering out there among the breakers ? What is that little black thing I see there in the white ?
O darkness ! O in vain ! O I am very sick and sorrowful.
O past ! O joy ! In the air — in the woods — over fields, Loved ! Loved ! Loved ! Loved ! Loved ! Loved — but no more with me, We two together no more.
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 ?
Answering, the sea, Delaying not, hurrying not, Whispered me through the night, and very plainly before daybreak, Lisped to me constantly the low and delicious word Death, And again Death — ever Death, Death, Death, Hissing melodious, neither like the bird, nor like my aroused child’s heart, But edging near, as privately for me, rustling at my feet, And creeping thence steadily up to my ears, Death, Death, Death, Death, Death.
Which I do not forget, But fuse the song of two together, That was sung 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 whispered me.
