A song at the dedication of the temple.
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The Walt Whitman Archive
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The Walt Whitman Archive. O for the voices of animals—O for the swiftness and balance of fishes!
O the joy of my spirit—it is uncaged—it darts like lightning! To hear the hiss of steam, the merry shriek, the steam-whistle, the laughing locomotive! The leaves and flowers of the commonest weeds, the moist fresh stillness of the woods,. The exquisite smell of the earth at daybreak, and all through the forenoon.
The saddle, the gallop, the pressure upon the seat, the cool gurgling by the ears and hair. O the joy of the strong-brawn'd fighter, towering in the arena in perfect condition, conscious of power, thirsting to meet his opponent. O the joy of that vast elemental sympathy which only the human soul is capable of generating and emitting in steady and limitless floods. The watching, the endurance, the precious love, the anguish, the patiently yielded life.
The joy of soothing and pacifying, the joy of concord and harmony. O to have been brought up on bays, lagoons, creeks, or along the coast,. The briny and damp smell, the shore, the salt weeds exposed at low water,.
Joy Comes In The Morning…Slowly
The work of fishermen, the work of the eel-fisher and clam-fisher;. I laugh and work with them, I joke at my work like a mettlesome young man;. In winter I take my eel-basket and eel-spear and travel out on foot on the ice—I have a small axe to cut holes in the ice,.
Behold me well-clothed going gayly or returning in the afternoon, my brood of tough boys accompanying me,.
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My brood of grown and part-grown boys, who love to be with no one else so well as they love to be with me,. Another time in warm weather out in a boat, to lift the lobster-pots where they are sunk with heavy stones, I know the buoys,. O the sweetness of the Fifth-month morning upon the water as I row just before sunrise toward the buoys,. I pull the wicker pots up slantingly, the dark green lobsters are desperate with their claws as I take them out, I insert wooden pegs in the joints of their pincers,.
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I go to all the places one after another, and then row back to the shore,. There in a huge kettle of boiling water the lobsters shall be boil'd till their color becomes scarlet. Voracious, mad for the hook, near the surface, they seem to fill the water for miles;.
Another time fishing for rock-fish in Chesapeake bay, I one of the brown-faced crew;. Another time trailing for blue-fish off Paumanok, I stand with braced body,. My left foot is on the gunwale, my right arm throws far out the coils of slender rope,.
4 Great Joys That Come From Being Honest With God
In sight around me the quick veering and darting of fifty skiffs, my companions. The voyage down the St. Lawrence, the superb scenery, the steamers,. The ships sailing, the Thousand Islands, the occasional timber-raft and the raftsmen with long-reaching sweep-oars,. The little huts on the rafts, and the stream of smoke when they cook supper at evening. Foundry casting, the foundry itself, the rude high roof, the ample and shadow'd space,.
To feel the presence of a brave commanding officer—to feel his sympathy!
The Surprising Meaning of Joy Comes In The Morning
To behold his calmness—to be warm'd in the rays of his smile! To hear the crash of artillery—to see the glittering of the bayonets and musket-barrels in the sun! I feel the ship's motion under me, I feel the Atlantic breezes fan- ning me,.