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ENAM Final IDs

Terms in this set (45)

"To speak truly, few adult persons can see nature. Most persons do not see the sun. At least they have a very superficial seeing. The sun illuminates only the eye of the man, but shines into the eye and the heart of the child. The lover of nature is he whose inward and outward sense are still truly adjusted to each other; who has retained the spirit of infancy even into the era of manhood.

His intercourse with heaven and earth becomes part of his daily food. In the presence of nature a wild delight runs through the man, in spite of real sorrows. Nature says,—he is my creature, and maugre all his impertinent griefs, he shall be glad with me. Not the sun or the summer alone, but every hour and season yields its tribute of delight; for every hour and change corresponds to and authorizes a different state of the mind, from breathless noon to grimmest midnight.

Nature is a setting that fits equally well a comic or a mourning piece. In good health, the air is a cordial of incredible virtue. Crossing a bare common, in snow puddles, at twilight, under a clouded sky, without having in my thoughts any occurence of special good fortune, I have enjoyed a perfect exhilaration.

I am glad to the brink of fear. In the woods, too, a man casts of his years, as the snake his slough, and at what period soever of life is always a child. In the woods is perpetual youth. Within these plantations of God, a decorum and sanctity reign, a perennial festival is dressed, and the guest sees not how he should tire of them in a thousand years. In the woods, we return to reason and faith. There I feel that nothing can befall me in life,—no disgrace, no calamity (leaving me my eyes), which nature cannot repair.
Standing on the bare ground,—my head bathed by the blithe air and uplifted into infinite space,—all mean egotism vanishes. I become a transparent eyeball; I am nothing; I see all; the currents of the Universal Being circulate through me; I am part of parcel of God. The name of the nearest friend sounds then foreign and accidental: to be brothers, to be acquaintances, master or servant,m is then a trifle and a disturbance. I am the lover of uncontained and immortal beauty. In the wilderness, I find something more dear and connate than in streets or villages. In the tranquil landscape, man beholds somewhat as beautiful as his own nature."
"Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and joy and knowledge that pass all the art and argument of the earth; And I know that the hand of God is the elderhand of my own, And I know that the spirit of God is the eldest brother of my own, And that all the men ever born are also my brothers . . . and the women my sisters and lovers, And that a kelson of the creation is love; And limitless are leaves stiff or drooping in the fields, And brown ants in the little wells beneath them, And mossy scabs of the worm fence, and heaped stones, and elder and mullen and pokeweed. A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands; How could I answer the child? . . . I do not know what it is any more than he. I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven. Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord, A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropped, Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say Whose? Or I guess the grass is itself a child . . . the produced babe of the vegetation. Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic, And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones, Growing among black folks as among white, Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I receive them the same. And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves. Tenderly will I use you curling grass, It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men, It may be if I had known them I would have loved them; It may be you are from old people and from women, and from offspring taken soon out of their mothers' laps,"
"What is commonest and cheapest and nearest and easiest is Me, Me going in for my chances, spending for vast returns, Adorning myself to bestow myself on the first that will take me, Not asking the sky to come down to my goodwill, Scattering it freely forever.
The pure contralto sings in the organ loft,
The carpenter dresses his plank, the tongue of his foreplane whistles its wild ascending lisp,
The married and unmarried children ride home to their Thanksgiving dinner,
The pilot seizes the king-pin, he heaves down with a strong arm,
The mate stands braced in the whale-boat, lance and harpoon are ready,
The duck-shooter walks by silent and cautious stretches,
The deacons are ordain'd with cross'd hands at the altar,
The spinning-girl retreats and advances to the hum of the big wheel,
The farmer stops by the bars as he walks on a First-day loafe and looks at the oats and rye,
The lunatic is carried at last to the asylum on a confirm'd case, (He will never sleep any more as he did in the cot in his mother's bed-room;)
The jour printer with gray head and gaunt jaws works at his case, he turns his quid of tobacco while his eyes blur with the manuscript;
The malform'd limbs are tied to the surgeon's table, what is removed drops horribly in a pail;
The quadroom girl is sold at the auction-stand, the drunkard nods by the bar-room stove,
The machinist rolls up his sleeves, the policeman travels his beat, the gatekeeper marks who pass,
The young fellow drives the express-wagon, (I love him, though I do not know him;)
The half-breed straps on his light boots to compete in the race,
The western turkey-shooting draws old and young, some lean on their rifles, some sit on logs,
Out from the crowd steps the marksman, takes his position, levels his piece;
The groups of newly-come immigrants cover the wharf of levee,
As the woolly-pates hoe in the sugar-field, the overseer views them from his saddle,
The bugle calls in the ballroom, the gentlemen run for their partners, the dancers bow to each other,
The young lies awake in the cedar-roof'd garret and harks to the musical rain,
The Wolverine sets traps on the creek that helps fill the Huron,
The squaw wrapt in her yellow-hemm'd cloth is offering moccasins and bread-bags for sale,
The connoisseur peers along the exhibition gallery with half-shut eyes bent sideways,
As the deck hands make fast the steamboat the plank is thrown for the shore-going passengers,
The young sister holds out the skein while the elder sister winds it off in a ball, and stops now and then for the knots,
The on-year wife is recovering and happy having a week ago borne her first child,
The clean-hair'd Yankee girl works with her sewing-machine or in the factory or mill,
The paving man leans on his two-handed rammer, the reporter's lead flies swiftly over the note-book, the sign-painter is lettering with blue and gold,
The canal boy trots on the towpath, the book keeper counts at his desk, the shoemaker waxes his thread,
The conductor beats time for the band and all the performers follow him,
The child is baptized, the convert is making his first professions,
The regatta is spread on the bay, the race is begun, (how the white sails sparkle!)
The drover watching his drove signs out to them that would stray,
The pedler sweats with his pack on his back, (the purchaser higgling about the odd cent);
The bride unrumples her white dress, the minute-hand of the clock moves slowly,
The opium-eater reclines with rigid head and just-opened lips,
The prostitute draggles her shawl, her bonnet bobs on her tipsy and pimpled neck,
The crowd laugh at her backguard oaths, the men jeer and wink to each other,
(Miserable! I do not laugh at your oaths nor jeer you;)
The President holding a cabinet council is surrounded by the great Secretaries,
On the piazza walk three matrons stately and friendly with twined arms,
The crew of the fish-smack pack repeated layers of halibut in the hold,
The Missourian crosses the plains toting his wares and his cattle,
As the fare-collector goes through the train he gives notice by the jingling of loose change,
The floormen are laying the floor, the tinners are tinning the roof, the masons are calling for mortar,
In single file each shouldering his hod pass onward the laborers;
Seasons pursuing each other the indescribable crowd is gathered, it is the fourth of Seventh-month, (what salutes of cannon and small arms!)
Seasons pursuing each other the plougher ploughs, the mower mows, and the winter-grains falls in the ground,
Off on the lakes the pike-fisher watches and waits by the hold in the frozen surface,
The sumpts stand thick round the clearing, the squatter striked deep with his axe,
Flatboatmen make fast towards dusk near the cottonwood or pecan trees,
Coon-seekers go through the regions of the Red river or through those drained by the Tennessee, or through those of the Arkansas,
Torches shine in the dark that hangs on the Chattahooche or Altamahaw,
Patriarchs sit at supper with sons and grandsons and great-grandsons around them,
In walls of adobie, in canvas tents, rest hunters and trappers after their day's sport,
The city sleeps and the country sleeps,
The living sleep for their time, the dead sleep for their time,
The old husband sleeps by his wife and the young husband sleeps by his wife;
And these tend inward to me, and I tend outward to them,
And such as it is to be of these more or less I am,
And of these one and all I weave the song of myself."
"Is this then a touch? . . . . . quivering me to a new identity, flames and ether making a rush for my veins, treacherous tip fo me reaching and crowding to help them, my flesh and blood playing out lightning, to strike what is hardly different from myself, on all sides prurient provokers stiffening my limbs, straining the udder of my heart for its withheld drip, behaving licentious toward me, taking no denial, depriving me of my best as for a purpose, unbuttoning my clothes and holding me by the bare waist, deluding my confusion with the calm of the sunlight and pasture fields, immodestly sliding the fellow-senses away, they bribed to swap off with touch, and go and graze at the edges of me, no consideration, no regard for my draining strength or my anger, fetching the rest of the herd around t enjoy them awhile, then all uniting to stand on a headland and worry me.

The sentries desert every other part of me, they have left me helpless to a red marauder, they all come to the headland to witness and assist against me. I am given up by traitors; I talk wildly . . . . I have lost my wits . . . . I and nobody else am the greatest traitor, I went myself first to the headland . . . . my own hands carried me there.

You villain touch! What are you doing? . . . . my breath is tight in its throat; unclench your floodgates! You are too much for me. Blind loving wrestling touch! Sheathed hooded sharp toothed touch! Did it make you ache so leaving me?

Parting tracked by arriving . . . . perpetual payment of the perpetual loan, rich showering rain, and recompense richer afterward. Sprouts take and accumulate . . . . stand by the curb prolific and vital, landscapes projected masculine full-sized and golden."
"I understand the large hearts of heroes, the courage of present times and all times; how the skipper saw the crowded and rudderless wreck of the steamship, and death chasing it up and down the storm, how he knuckled tight and gave not back one inch, and was faithful of days and faithful of nights, and chalked in large letters on a board, be of good cheer, we will not desert you; how he saved the drifting company at last, how the lank loose-gowned women looked when boated from the side of their prepared graves, how the silent old-faced infants, and the lifted sick, and the sharp-lipped unshaved men; all this I swallow and it tastes good . . . . I like it well, and it becomes mine, I am the man . . . . I suffered . . . . I was there.

The disdain and calmness of martyrs, the mother condemned for a witch and burnt with dry wood, and her children grazing on, the hounded slave that flags in the race and leans by the fence, blowing and covered with sweat, the twinges that sting like needles his legs and neck, the murderous buckshot and the bullets, all these I feel or am.

I am the hounded slave . . . . I wince at the bite of the dogs, hell and despair are upon me . . . . crack and again crack the marksmen, I clutch the rails of the fence . . . . my gore dribs thinned with the ooze of my skin, I fall on the weeds and stones, the riders spur their unwilling horses and haul close, they taunt my dizzy ears . . . . they beat me violently over the head with their whip-stocks.

Agonies are one of my changes of garments; I do not ask the wounded person how he feels . . . . I myself become the wounded person, my hurt turns livid upon me as I lean on a cane and observe. I am the mashed fireman with breast bone broken . . . . tumbling walls buried me in their debris, heat and smoke I inspired . . . . I heard the yelling shouts of my comrades, I hear the distant click of their picks and shovels; they have cleared the beams away . . . . they tenderly lift me forth."
"I tell not the fall of Alamo . . . . not one escaped to tell the fall of Alamo, the hundred and fifty are dumb yet at Alamo.

Hear now the tale of a jet black sunrise, hear of the murder in cold blood of four hundred and twelve young men.

Retreating they had formed in a hollow square with their baggage for breastworks, nine hundred lives out of the surrounding enemy's nine times their number was the price they took in advance. Their colonel was wounded and their ammunition gone, they treated for an honorable capitulation, received writing and seal, gave up their arms, and marched back prisoners of war.

They were the glory of the race of rangers, matchless with a horse, a rifle, a song, a supper or a courtship, large, turbulent, brave, handsome, generous, proud and affectionate, bearded, sunburnt, dressed in the free costume of hunters, not a single one over thirty years of age.

The second Sunday morning they were brought out in squads and massacred . . . . it was beautiful early summer, the work commenced about five o'clock and was over by eight.

None obeyed the command to kneel, some made a mad and helpless rush . . . . some stood start and straight, a few fell at once, shot in the temple or the heart . . . . the living and dead lay together, the maimed and mangled dug in the dirt . . . . the newcomers saw them there; some half-killed attempted to crawl away, these were dispatched with bayonets or battered with the blunts of muskets; a youth not seventeen years old seized his assassin till two more came to release him, the three were all torn, and covered with the boy's blood."
"Our foe was no skulk in his ship, I tell you, His was the English pluck, and there is no tougher or truer, and never was, and never will be; Along the lowered eve he came, horribly raking us. We closed with him . . . the yards entangled . . . the cannon touched, My captain lashed fast with his own hands. We had received some eighteen-pound shots under the water, On our lower-gun-deck two large pieces had burst at the first fire, killing all around and blowing up overhead. Ten o'clock at night, and the full moon shining and the leaks on the gain, and five feet of water reported, The master-at-arms losing the prisoners confined in the after-hold to give them a chance for themselves. The transit to and from the magazine was now stopped by the sentinels, They saw so many strange faces they did not know whom to trust. Our frigate was afire . . . the other asked if we demanded quarters? if our colors were struck and the fighting done? I laughed content when I heard the voice of my little captain, We have not struck, he composedly cried, We have just begun our part of the fighting. Only three guns were in use, One was directed by the captain himself against the enemy's mainmast, Two well-served with grape and canister silenced his musketry and cleared his decks. The tops alone seconded the fire of this little battery, especially the maintop, They all held out bravely during the whole of the action. Not a moment's cease, The leaks gained fast on the pumps . . . the fire eat toward the powder-magazine, One of the pumps was shot away . . . it was generally thought we were sinking.

Serene stood the little captain, he was not hurried . . . . his voice was neither high nor low, his eyes gave more light to us than our battle-lanterns.

Toward twelve at night, there in the beams of the moon they surrendered to us.

Stretched and still lay the midnight, two great hulls motionless on the breast of the darkness, our vessel riddled and slowly sinking. . . . preparations to pass to the one we had conquered, the captain on the quarter deck coldly giving his orders through a countenance white as a sheet, nearby the corpse of the child that served in the cabin, the dead face of an old salt with long white hair and carefully curled whiskers, the flames spite of all that could be done flickering aloft and below, the husky voices of the two or three officers yet fit for duty, formless stacks of bodies and bodies by themselves. . . . dabs of flesh upon the masts and spars, the cut of cordage and dangle of rigging . . . . the slight shock of the soothe of waves, black and impassive guns, and litter of powder-parcels, and the strong scent, delicate sniffs of the seabreeze . . . . smells of sedgy grass and fields by the shore . . . . death-messages given in charge to survivors, the hiss of the surgeon's knife and the gnawing teeth of his saw, the wheeze, the cluck, the swash of falling blood . . . . the short wild scream, the long dull tapering groan, these so . . . . these irretrievable."
"Magnifying and applying come I, outbidding at the start the old cautious hucksters, the most they offer for mankind and eternity less than a spirit of my seminal wet, taking myself the exact dimensions of Jehovah and laying them away, lithographing Kronos and Zeus his son, and Hercules his grandson, buying drafts of Osiris and Isis and Belus and Brahma and Adonai, in my portfolio placing Manito loose, and Allah on a leaf, and the crucifix engraved, with Odin, and the hideous-faced Mexitli, and all idols and images

honestly taking them all for what they are worth, and not a cent more, admitting they were alive and did the work of their day, admitting they bore mites as for unfledged birds who have now to rise and fly and sing for themselves, accepting the rough deific sketches to fill out better in myself . . . . bestowing them freely on each man and woman I see,

Discovering as much or more in a framer framing a house, putting higher claims for him there with his rolled-up sleeves, driving the mallet and chisel; not objecting to special revelations . . . . considering a curl of smoke or a hair on the back of my hand as curious as any revelation; those ahold of fire-engines and hook-and-ladder ropes more to me than the gods of the antique wars, minding their voices peal through the crash of destruction, their brawny limbs passing safe over charred alths . . . .

By the mechanic's wife with her babe at her nipple interceding for every person born; three scythes at harvest whizzing in a row from three lusty angels with shirts bagged out at their waists; the snag-toothed hostler with red hair redeeming sins past and to come, selling all he possesses and traveling on foot to fee lawyers for his brother and sit by him while he is tried for forgery: what was strewn in the amplest strewing the square rod about me, and not filling the square rod then;

the bull and the bug never worshipped half enough, dung and dirt more admirable than was dreamed, the supernatural of no account . . . . myself waiting my time to be one of the supremes, the day getting ready for me when I shall do as much good as the best, and be as prodigious, guessing when I am it will not tickle me much to receive puffs out of pulpit or print;

by my life-lumps! becoming already a creator! Putting myself here and now to the ambushed womb of the shadows!"
"Sit awhile wayfarer, Here are biscuits to eat and here is milk to drink, But as soon as you sleep and renew yourself in sweet clothes I will certainly kiss you with my goodbye kiss and open the gate for your egress hence. Long enough have you dreamed contemptible contemptible dreams, Now I wash the gum from your eyes, You must habit yourself to the dazzle of the light and of every moment of your life Long have you timidly waded, holding a plank by the shore, Now I will you to be a bold swimmer, To jump off in the midst of the sea, and rise again and nod to me and shout, and laughingly dash with your hair.

I am the teacher of athletes, he that by me spreads a wider breast than my own proves the width of my own, he most honors my style who learns under it to destroy the teacher.

The boy I love, the same becomes a man not through derived power but in his own right, wicked, rather than virtuous out of conformity or fear, fond of his sweetheart, relishing well his steak, unrequited love or a slight cutting him worse than a wound cuts, first rate to ride, to fight, to hit the bull's eye, to sail a skiff, to sing a song or play on the banjo, preferring scars and faces pitted with smallpox over all latherers and those that keep out of the sun.

I teach straying from me, yet who can stray from me? I follow you whoever you are from the present hour; my words itch at your ears till you understand them. I do not say these things for a dollar, or to fill up the time while I wait for a boat; it is you talking just as much as myself . . . . I act as the tongue of you, it was tied in your mouth . . . . in mine it begins to be loosened."