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Year Of Meteors, 1859 '60

Walt Whitman 1819 (West Hills) – 1892 (Camden)


  YEAR of meteors! brooding year!
  I would bind in words retrospective, some of your deeds and signs;
  I would sing your contest for the 19th Presidentiad;
  I would sing how an old man, tall, with white hair, mounted the
  scaffold in Virginia;
  (I was at hand--silent I stood, with teeth shut close--I watch'd;
  I stood very near you, old man, when cool and indifferent, but
  trembling with age and your unheal'd wounds, you mounted the
  scaffold;)
  --I would sing in my copious song your census returns of The States,
  The tables of population and products--I would sing of your ships and
  their cargoes,
  The proud black ships of Manhattan, arriving, some fill'd with
  immigrants, some from the isthmus with cargoes of gold;
  Songs thereof would I sing--to all that hitherward comes would I
  welcome give; 10
  And you would I sing, fair stripling! welcome to you from me, sweet
  boy of England!
  Remember you surging Manhattan's crowds, as you pass'd with your
  cortege of nobles?
  There in the crowds stood I, and singled you out with attachment;
  I know not why, but I loved you... (and so go forth little song,
  Far over sea speed like an arrow, carrying my love all folded,
  And find in his palace the youth I love, and drop these lines at his
  feet;)
  --Nor forget I to sing of the wonder, the ship as she swam up my bay,
  Well-shaped and stately the Great Eastern swam up my bay, she was 600
  feet long,
  Her, moving swiftly, surrounded by myriads of small craft, I forget
  not to sing;
  --Nor the comet that came unannounced out of the north, flaring in
  heaven; 20
  Nor the strange huge meteor procession, dazzling and clear, shooting
  over our heads,
  (A moment, a moment long, it sail'd its balls of unearthly light over
  our heads,
  Then departed, dropt in the night, and was gone;)
  --Of such, and fitful as they, I sing--with gleams from them would I
  gleam and patch these chants;
  Your chants, O year all mottled with evil and good! year of
  forebodings! year of the youth I love!
  Year of comets and meteors transient and strange!--lo! even here, one
  equally transient and strange!
  As I flit through you hastily, soon to fall and be gone, what is this
  book,
  What am I myself but one of your meteors?

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Submitted on May 13, 2011

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Walt Whitman

Walter "Walt" Whitman was an American poet, essayist and journalist. more…

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