A Carol Of Harvest For 1867
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
fresh-husk'd
maize.
For
the
lands,
and
for
these
passionate
days,
and
for
myself,
Now
I
awhile
return
to
thee,
O
soil
of
Autumn
fields,
Reclining
on
thy
breast,
giving
myself
to
thee,
Answering
the
pulses
of
thy
sane
and
equable
heart,
Tuning
a
verse
for
thee.
O
Earth,
that
hast
no
voice,
confide
to
me
a
voice!
O
harvest
of
my
lands!
O
boundless
summer
growths!
O
lavish,
brown,
parturient
earth!
O
infinite,
teeming
womb!
A
verse
to
seek,
to
see,
to
narrate
thee.
Ever
upon
this
stage,
Is
acted
God's
calm,
annual
drama,
Gorgeous
processions,
songs
of
birds,
Sunrise,
that
fullest
feeds
and
freshens
most
the
soul,
The
heaving
sea,
the
waves
upon
the
shore,
the
musical,
strong
waves,
The
woods,
the
stalwart
trees,
the
slender,
tapering
trees,
The
flowers,
the
grass,
the
lilliput,
countless
armies
of
the
grass,
The
heat,
the
showers,
the
measureless
pasturage's,
The
scenery
of
the
snows,
the
winds'
free
orchestra,
The
stretching,
light-hung
roof
of
clouds—the
clear
cerulean,
and
the
bulging,
silvery
fringes,
The
high
dilating
stars,
the
placid,
beckoning
stars,
The
moving
flocks
and
herds,
the
plains
and
emerald
meadows,
The
shows
of
all
the
varied
lands,
and
all
the
growths
and
products.
Fecund
America!
To-day,
Thou
art
all
over
set
in
births
and
joys!
Thou
groan'st
with
riches!
thy
wealth
clothes
thee
as
with
a
swathing
garment!
Thou
laughest
loud
with
ache
of
great
possessions!
A
myriad-twining
life,
like
interlacing
vines,
binds
all
thy
vast
demesne!
As
some
huge
ship,
freighted
to
water's
edge,
thou
ridest
into
port!
As
rain
falls
from
the
heaven,
and
vapors
rise
from
earth,
so
have
the
precious
values
fallen
upon
thee,
and
risen
out
of
thee!
Thou
envy
of
the
globe!
thou
miracle!
Thou,
bathed,
choked,
swimming
in
plenty!
Thou
lucky
Mistress
of
the
tranquil
barns!
Thou
Prairie
Dame
that
sittest
in
the
middle,
and
lookest
out
upon
thy
world,
and
lookest
East,
and
lookest
West!
Dispensatress,
that
by
a
word
givest
a
thousand
miles—that
giv'st
a
million
farms,
and
missest
nothing!
Thou
All-Acceptress—thou
Hospitable—(thou
only
art
hospitable,
as
God
is
hospitable.)
When
late
I
sang,
sad
was
my
voice;
Sad
were
the
shows
around
me,
with
deafening
noises
of
hatred,
and
smoke
of
conflict;
In
the
midst
of
the
armies,
the
Heroes,
I
stood,
Or
pass'd
with
slow
step
through
the
wounded
and
dying.
But
now
I
sing
not
War,
Nor
the
measur'd
march
of
soldiers,
nor
the
tents
of
camps,
Nor
the
regiments
hastily
coming
up,
deploying
in
line
of
battle.
No
more
the
dead
and
wounded;
No
more
the
sad,
unnatural
shows
of
War.
Ask'd
room
those
flush'd
immortal
ranks?
the
first
forth-stepping
armies?
Ask
room,
alas,
the
ghastly
ranks—the
armies
dread
that
follow'd.
(Pass—pass,
ye
proud
brigades!
So
handsome,
dress'd
in
blue—with
your
tramping,
sinewy
legs;
With
your
shoulders
young
and
strong—with
your
knapsacks
and
your
muskets;
—How
elate
I
stood
and
watch'd
you,
where,
starting
off,
you
march'd!
Pass;—then
rattle,
drums,
again!
Scream,
you
steamers
on
the
river,
out
of
whistles
loud
and
shrill,
your
salutes!
For
an
army
heaves
in
sight—O
another
gathering
army!
Swarming,
trailing
on
the
rear—O
you
dread,
accruing
army!
O
you
regiments
so
piteous,
with
your
mortal
diarrhoea!
with
your
fever!
O
my
land's
maimed
darlings!
with
the
plenteous
bloody
bandage
and
the
crutch!
Lo!
your
pallid
army
follow'd!)
But
on
these
days
of
brightness,
On
the
far-stretching
beauteous
landscape,
the
roads
and
lanes,
the
high-piled
farm-wagons,
and
the
fruits
and
barns,
Shall
the
dead
intrude?
Ah,
the
dead
to
me
mar
not—they
fit
well
in
Nature;
They
fit
very
well
in
the
landscape,
under
the
trees
and
grass,
And
along
the
edge
of
the
sky,
in
the
horizon's
far
margin.
Nor
do
I
forget
you,
departed;
Nor
in
winter
or
summer,
my
lost
ones;
But
most,
in
the
open
air,
as
now,
when
my
soul
is
rapt
and
at
peace—like
pleasing
phantoms,
Your
dear
memories,
rising,
glide
silently
by
me.
I
saw
the
day,
the
return
of
the
Heroes;
(Yet
the
Heroes
never
surpass'd,
shall
never
return;
Them,
that
day,
I
saw
not.)
I
saw
the
interminable
Corps—I
saw
the
processions
of
armies,
I
saw
them
approaching,
defiling
by,
with
divisions,
Streaming
northward,
their
work
done,
camping
awhile
in
clusters
of
mighty
camps.
No
holiday
soldiers!—youthful,
yet
veterans;
Worn,
swart,
handsome,
strong,
of
the
stock
of
homestead
and
workshop,
Harden'd
of
many
a
long
campaign
and
sweaty
march,
Inured
on
many
a
hard-fought,
bloody
field.
A
pause—the
armies
wait;
A
million
flush'd,
embattled
conquerors
wait;
The
world,
too,
waits—then,
soft
as
breaking
night,
and
sure
as
dawn,
They
melt—they
disappear.
Exult,
indeed,
O
lands!
victorious
lands!
Not
there
your
victory,
on
those
red,
shuddering
fields;
But
here
and
hence
your
victory.
Melt,
melt
away,
ye
armies!
disperse,
ye
blue-clad
soldiers!
Resolve
ye
back
again—give
up,
for
good,
your
deadly
arms;
Other
the
arms,
the
fields
henceforth
for
you,
or
South
or
North,
or
East
or
West,
With
saner
wars—sweet
wars—life-giving
wars.
Loud,
O
my
throat,
and
clear,
O
soul!
The
season
of
thanks,
and
the
voice
of
full-yielding;
The
chant
of
joy
and
power
for
boundless
fertility.
All
till'd
and
untill'd
fields
expand
before
me;
I
see
the
true
arenas
of
my
race—or
first,
or
last,
Man's
innocent
and
strong
arenas.
I
see
the
Heroes
at
other
toils;
I
see,
well-wielded
in
their
hands,
the
better
weapons.
I
see
where
America,
Mother
of
All,
Well-pleased,
with
full-spanning
eye,
gazes
forth,
dwells
long,
And
counts
the
varied
gathering
of
the
products.
Busy
the
far,
the
sunlit
panorama;
Prairie,
orchard,
and
yellow
grain
of
the
North,
Cotton
and
rice
of
the
South,
and
Louisianian
cane;
Open,
unseeded
fallows,
rich
fields
of
clover
and
timothy,
Kine
and
horses
feeding,
and
droves
of
sheep
and
swine,
And
many
a
stately
river
flowing,
and
many
a
jocund
brook,
And
healthy
uplands
with
their
herby-perfumed
breezes,
And
the
good
green
grass—that
delicate
miracle,
the
ever-recurring
grass.
Toil
on,
Heroes!
harvest
the
products!
Not
alone
on
those
warlike
fields,
the
Mother
of
All,
With
dilated
form
and
lambent
eyes,
watch'd
you.
Toil
on,
Heroes!
toil
well!
Handle
the
weapons
well!
The
Mother
of
All—yet
here,
as
ever,
she
watches
you.
Well-pleased,
America,
thou
beholdest,
Over
the
fields
of
the
West,
those
crawling
monsters,
The
human-divine
inventions,
the
labor-saving
implements:
Beholdest,
moving
in
every
direction,
imbued
as
with
life,
the
revolving
hay-rakes,
The
steam-power
reaping-machines,
and
the
horse-power
machines,
The
engines,
thrashers
of
grain,
and
cleaners
of
grain,
well
separating
the
straw—the
nimble
work
of
the
patent
pitch-fork;
Beholdest
the
newer
saw-mill,
the
southern
cotton-gin,
and
the
rice-
cleanser.
Beneath
thy
look,
O
Maternal,
With
these,
and
else,
and
with
their
own
strong
hands,
the
Heroes
harvest.
All
gather,
and
all
harvest;
(Yet
but
for
thee,
O
Powerful!
not
a
scythe
might
swing,
as
now,
in
security;
Not
a
maize-stalk
dangle,
as
now,
its
silken
tassels
in
peace.)
Under
Thee
only
they
harvest—even
but
a
wisp
of
hay,
under
thy
great
face,
only;
Harvest
the
wheat
of
Ohio,
Illinois,
Wisconsin—every
barbed
spear,
under
thee;
Harvest
the
maize
of
Missouri,
Kentucky,
Tennessee—each
ear
in
its
light-green
sheath,
Gather
the
hay
to
its
myriad
mows,
in
the
odorous,
tranquil
barns,
Oats
to
their
bins—the
white
potato,
the
buckwheat
of
Michigan,
to
theirs;
Gather
the
cotton
in
Mississippi
or
Alabama—dig
and
hoard
the
golden,
the
sweet
potato
of
Georgia
and
the
Carolinas,
Clip
the
wool
of
California
or
Pennsylvania,
Cut
the
flax
in
the
Middle
States,
or
hemp,
or
tobacco
in
the
Borders,
Pick
the
pea
and
the
bean,
or
pull
apples
from
the
trees,
or
bunches
of
grapes
from
the
vines,
Or
aught
that
ripens
in
all
These
States,
or
North
or
South,
Under
the
beaming
sun,
and
under
Thee.
Walt Whitman
Walt Whitman, (born May 31, 1819, West Hills, Long Island, New York, U.S.—died March 26, 1892, Camden, New Jersey), American poet, journalist, and essayist whose verse collection Leaves of Grass, first published in 1855, is a landmark in the history of American literature. Walt Whitman’s poetry was innovative for its verse style and for the way it challenged traditional narratives. He championed the individual soul over social conventions, presenting himself as a rough and free spirit. His poetry has continued to resonate with new generations of Americans, and he is considered a symbol of American democracy.