SONG FOR ALL SEAS, ALL SHIPS

To-day a rude brief recitative,

Of ships sailing the seas, each with its special flag or shipsignal,

Of unnamed heroes in the ships of waves spreading and spreading far as the eye can reach,

Of dashing spray, and the winds piping and blowing,
And out of these a chant for the sailors of all nations,
Fitful, like a surge.

Of sea-captains young or old, and the mates, and of all intrepid sailors,

Of the few, very choice, taciturn, whom fate can never surprise nor death dismay,

Pick'd sparingly without noise by thee, old ocean, chosen by thee,

Thou sea that pickest and cullest the race in time, and unitest nations,

Suckled by thee, old husky nurse, embodying thee,

Indomitable, untamed as thee.

(Ever the heroes on water or on land, by ones or twos appearing,

Ever the stock preserv'd and never lost, though rare, enough for seed preserv'd.)

Flaunt out,

sea, your separate flags of nations! Flaunt out visible as ever the various ship-signals! But do you reserve especially for yourself and for the soul of man one flag above all the rest,

A spiritual woven signal for all nations, emblem of man elate above death,

Token of all brave captains and all intrepid sailors and mates, And all that went down doing their duty,

Reminiscent of them, twined from all intrepid captains

young or old,

A pennant universal, subtly waving all time, o'er all brave

sailors,

All seas, all ships.

Walt Whitman

THANKS IN OLD AGE

Thanks in old age — thanks ere I go,

For health, the midday sun, the impalpable air — for life, mere life,

For precious ever-lingering memories, (of you my mother dear you, father - you, brothers, sisters, friends,) For all my days not those of

war the same,

alone peace

the days of

For gentle words, caresses, gifts from foreign lands, For shelter, wine and meat- for sweet appreciation, (You distant, dim unknown — or young or old

unspecified, readers belov'd,

We never met, and ne'er shall meet

embrace, long, close and long;)

countless,

and yet our souls

For beings, groups, love, deeds, words, books - for colors,

forms,

For all the brave strong men-devoted, hardy men-who've forward sprung in freedom's help, all years, all lands,

For braver, stronger, more devoted men

ere I go, to life's war's chosen ones,

The cannoneers of song and thought

(a special laurel

the great artillerists

the foremost leaders, captains of the soul:)

As soldier from an ended war return'das traveler out of myriads, to the long procession retrospective,

Thanks - joyful thanks! — a soldier's, traveler's thanks. - Walt Whitman

ANIMALS

FROM Song of Myself

I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid · and self-contain'd;

I stand and look at them long and long.

They do not sweat and whine about their condition;

They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins; They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God; Not one is dissatisfied - not one is demented with the mania of owning things;

Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago;

Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth.
-Walt Whitman

A TEMPEST 1

An awful tempest mashed the air,
The clouds were gaunt and few;
A black, as of a spectre's cloak,
Hid heaven and earth from view.

The creatures chuckled on the roofs

And whistled in the air,

And shook their fists and gnashed their teeth,

And swung their frenzied hair.

The morning lit, the birds arose;
The monster's faded eyes

Turned slowly to his native coast,
And peace was Paradise!

Emily Dickinson

1 Copyright by Little, Brown and Company.

THE RAILWAY TRAIN1

I like to see it lap the miles,
And lick the valleys up,

And stop to feed itself at tanks;
And then, prodigious, step

Around a pile of mountains,
And, supercilious, peer

In shanties by the sides of roads;
And then a quarry pare

To fit its sides, and crawl between,
Complaining all the while

In horrid, hooting stanza;
Then chase itself down hill

And neigh like Boanerges;
Then, punctual as a star,

Stop docile and omnipotent

At its own stable door.

Emily Dickinson

THE SNAKE 1

A narrow fellow in the grass

Occasionally rides;

You may have met him, did you not?

His notice sudden is.

The grass divides as with a comb,

A spotted shaft is seen;

And then it closes at your feet

And opens further on.

1 Copyright by Little, Brown and Company.

He likes a boggy acre,

A floor too cool for corn.

Yet when a child, and barefoot,
I more than once, at morn,

Have passed, I thought, a whip-lash
Unbraiding in the sun,—
When, stooping to secure it,
It wrinkled, and was gone.

Several of nature's people
I know, and they know me;
I feel for them a transport
Of cordiality;

But never met this fellow,
Attended or alone,

Without a tighter breathing,

And zero at the bone.

Emily Dickinson

SUCCESS 1

Success is counted sweetest
By those who ne'er succeed.
To comprehend a nectar
Requires sorest need.

Not one of all the purple host
Who took the flag to-day
Can tell the definition,

So clear, of victory,

1 Copyright by Little, Brown and Company.