The Indications
1 THE indications, and tally of time;
Perfect sanity shows the master among philosophs;
Time, always without flaw, indicates itself in parts;
What always indicates the poet, is the crowd of the
pleasant company of singers, and their words;
The words of the singers are the hours or minutes of
the light or dark—but the words of the maker
of poems are the general light and dark;
The maker of poems settles justice, reality, immor–
tality,
His insight and power encircle things and the human
race,
He is the glory and extract, thus far, of things, and
of the human race.
2 The singers do not beget—only the POET begets;
The singers are welcom’d, understood, appear often
enough—but rare has the day been, likewise
the spot, of the birth of the maker of poems,
Not every century, or every five centuries, has con–
tain’d such a day, for all its names.
3 The singers of successive hours of centuries may
have ostensible names, but the name of each of
them is one of the singers,
The name of each is, eye-singer, ear—singer, head—
singer, sweet-singer, echo-singer, parlor-singer,
love-singer, or something else.
4 All this time, and at all times, wait the words of
poems;
The greatness of sons is the exuding of the greatness
of mothers and fathers,
The words of poems are the tuft and final applause of
science.
5 Divine instinct, breadth of vision, the law of rea–
son, health, rudeness of body, withdrawnness,
gayety, sun-tan, air-sweetness—such are some
of the words of poems.
6 The sailor and traveler underlie the maker of poems,
The builder, geometer, chemist, anatomist, phrenolo–
gist, artist—all these underlie the maker of
poems.
7 The words of the true poems give you more than
poems,
They give you to form for yourself, poems, religions,
politics, war, peace, behavior, histories, essays,
romances, and everything else,
They balance ranks, colors, races, creeds, and the
sexes,
They do not seek beauty—they are sought,
Forever touching them, or close upon them, follows
beauty, longing, fain, love-sick.
8 They prepare for death—yet are they not the finish,
but rather the outset,
They bring none to his or her terminus, or to be con–
tent and full;
Whom they take, they take into space, to behold the
birth of stars, to behold one of the meanings,
To launch off with absolute faith—to sweep through
the ceaseless rings, and never be quiet again.
Leaves of Grass
Altre opere di Walt Whitman...
