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Thoughts - 2 by Walt Whitman
Of Public Opinion;
Of a calm and cool fiat, sooner or later, (How impassive! How certain
and final!)
Of the President with pale face, asking secretly to himself, What
will the people say at last?
Of the frivolous Judge--Of the corrupt Congressman, Governor, Mayor--
Of such as these, standing helpless and exposed;
Of the mumbling and screaming priest--(soon, soon deserted;)
Of the lessening, year by year, of venerableness, and of the dicta of
officers, statutes, pulpits, schools;
Of the rising forever taller and stronger and broader, of the
intuitions of men and women, and of self-esteem, and of
personality;
--Of the New World--Of the Democracies, resplendent, en-masse;
Of the conformity of politics, armies, navies, to them and to me,
Of the shining sun by them--Of the inherent light, greater than the
rest,
Of the envelopment of all by them, and of the effusion of all from
them.
= = = = = = = = = =
An Inscription by Ambrose Bierce
A conqueror as provident as brave,
He robbed the cradle to supply the grave.
His reign laid quantities of human dust:
He fell upon the just and the unjust.
= = = = = = = = = =
The Show by Walt Whitman
My soul looked down from a vague height with Death,
As unremembering how I rose or why,
And saw a sad land, weak with sweats of dearth,
Gray, cratered like the moon with hollow woe,
And fitted with great pocks and scabs of plaques.
Across its beard, that horror of harsh wire,
There moved thin caterpillars, slowly uncoiled.
It seemed they pushed themselves to be as plugs
Of ditches, where they writhed and shrivelled, killed.
By them had slimy paths been trailed and scraped
Round myriad warts that might be little hills.
From gloom's last dregs these long-strung creatures crept,
And vanished out of dawn down hidden holes.
(And smell came up from those foul openings
As out of mouths, or deep wounds deepening.)
On dithering feet upgathered, more and more,
Brown strings towards strings of gray, with bristling spines,
All migrants from green fields, intent on mire.
Those that were gray, of more abundant spawns,
Ramped on the rest and ate them and were eaten.
I saw their bitten backs curve, loop, and straighten,
I watched those agonies curl, lift, and flatten.
Whereat, in terror what that sight might mean,
I reeled and shivered earthward like a feather.
And Death fell with me, like a deepening moan.
And He, picking a manner of worm, which half had hid
Its bruises in the earth, but crawled no further,
Showed me its feet, the feet of many men,
And the fresh-severed head of it, my head.
= = = = = = = = = =
Who Is Now Reading This? by Walt Whitman
May-be one is now reading this who knows some wrong-doing of my past
life,
Or may-be a stranger is reading this who has secretly loved me,
Or may-be one who meets all my grand assumptions and egotisms with
derision,
Or may-be one who is puzzled at me.
As if I were not puzzled at myself!
Or as if I never deride myself! (O conscience-struck! O self-
convicted!)
Or as if I do not secretly love strangers! (O tenderly, a long time,
and never avow it;)
Or as if I did not see, perfectly well, interior in myself, the stuff
of wrong-doing,
Or as if it could cease transpiring from me until it must cease.
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