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gideon wagner - walt whitman - a carol of harvest for 1867 lyrics

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 voicе!
o harvest of my lands! o boundless summer growths!
o lavish, brown, parturiеnt 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 pasturages
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 bl++dy 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 cl+sters 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, bl++dy 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 h++rd 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

- gideon wagner lyrics

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