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Literature/English Heritage:
Leaves of Grass
51-THE
WORLD BELOW THE BRINE
The world
below the brine,
Forests at
the bottom of the sea, the branches and leaves,
Sea-lettuce, vast lichens, strange flowers and seeds, the
thick tangle openings, and pink turf,
Different
colors, pale gray and green, purple, white, and gold, the
play of light through the water,
Dumb
swimmers there among the rocks, coral, gluten, grass,
rushes, and the aliment of the swimmers,
Sluggish
existences grazing there suspended, or slowly crawling close
to the bottom,
The
sperm-whale at the surface blowing air and spray, or
disporting with his flukes,
The
leaden-eyed shark, the walrus, the turtle, the hairy
sea-leopard, and the sting-ray,
Passions
there, wars, pursuits, tribes, sight in those ocean-depths,
breathing that thick-breathing air, as so many do,
The change
thence to the sight here, and to the subtle air breathed by
beings like us who walk this sphere,
The change
onward from ours to that of beings who walk other spheres.
52-ON THE
BEACH AT NIGHT ALONE
On the
beach at night alone,
As the old
mother sways her to and fro singing her husky song,
As I watch
the bright stars shining, I think a thought of the clef of
the universes and of the future.
A vast
similitude interlocks all,
All
spheres, grown, ungrown, small, large, suns, moons, planets,
All
distances of place however wide,
All
distances of time, all inanimate forms,
All souls,
all living bodies though they be ever so different, or in
different worlds,
All
gaseous, watery, vegetable, mineral processes, the fishes,
the brutes,
All
nations, colors, barbarisms, civilizations, languages,
All
identities that have existed or may exist on this globe, or
any globe,
All lives
and deaths, all of the past, present, future,
This vast
similitude spans them, and always has spann’d,
And shall
forever span them and compactly hold and enclose them.
53-PATROLING BARNEGAT
Wild, wild
the storm, and the sea high running,
Steady the
roar of the gale, with incessant undertone muttering,
Shouts of
demoniac laughter fitfully piercing and pealing,
Waves, air,
midnight, their savagest trinity lashing,
Out in the
shadows there milk-white combs careering,
On beachy
slush and sand spirts of snow fierce slanting,
Where
through the murk the easterly death-wind breasting,
Through
cutting swirl and spray watchful and firm advancing,
(That in
the distance! is that a wreck? is the red signal flaring?)
Slush and
sand of the beach tireless till daylight wending,
Steadily,
slowly, through hoarse roar never remitting,
Along the
midnight edge by those milk-white combs careering,
A group of
dim, weird forms, struggling, the night confronting,
That savage
trinity warily watching.
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