9
Closer yet I approach you;
What thoughts you did not have of me, I had of you—I looked out prematurely;
I considered you before you were formed in this belly.
Who could have known what should move me?
Who knows if I’m enjoying this?
Who knows what I am doing right now, while I know what of you?
It is not us both alone;
Not a few classes, or summers, or generations;
It is that each will come and go according to its whims,
From the unidentified center of it all, and in synecdoche:
Everything signifies, the smallest things, and the largest things;
An inexorable fog encircles all, and encircles the Soul for a time.
10
Now I am curious what sight could ever be more stately and admirable to me than my white-columned university,
My river and my woods, and my scallop-edg’d mountain-hills,
The finches fluttering their bodies, the black-board in the morning, and the walnut lecturn;
Curious what Gods can exceed these who stand before me, and with voices I respect question me boldly and loudly on a poem as I straighten in my seat;
Curious what is so slight that—undetected—it connects me to those beings who surround me,
Which binds me into you as you read, and pours my feeling into you.
We understand then, do we not?
What I knew, there sitting and reading, do you not know?
What this reading could teach—if you were willing to read through experience and Whitman’s wisdom, is taught, is it not?
What the push of reading could not start, is started by me personally, is it not?
11
Breathe on, bodies! Breathe with the body-tide, and learn with the tried-tide!
Stand tall, spiraled and scallop-edg’d mountains!
Delightful dews of the dawn! Dampen my ankles with your light, and the men and women generations after me;
Cross from building to building, countless crowds of students!
Stand fast, white columns of the institution!—stand fast, bricked buildings of Lexington!
Throb, tired and curious scholar-brain! throw out questions and answers!
Suspend from here forward, eternal grasp of possibility!
Survey, moon-rimmed but eager eyes, in the classroom, or the street, or party!
Sound out, voices of academics! loudly and energetically question me on my understanding!
Live, old life! Study that part that looks back on the learner!
Play the part, the part of consequential or trivial, as we decide!
Consider, you who peruse this, and Whitman together, whether we are not now looking upon you;
Fly-on, morning birds. fly backwards, or carve ripples in the clouds with your wings;
Seize even November, you hills. and earnestly hold it, till skyward eyes embrace and share it with you;
Radiate, cold morning light, from my waking face, or anyone’s face, in the reflecting windows;
Come on, newly-wakened students. Do not just pass by the blackboard, the walnut lectern.
Bustle away, you books of all disciplines. material or experiential;
Light dormant chimneys, you sun! Cast your flicker of marigold! Cast white and mellow blue over the tops of trees;
Appearances, now and hereafter, indicate what you are;
You inexorable fog, continue to encircle the soul;
In my body for me, and your body for you, be resting our sweetest liquors,
Thrive, classrooms! bring your students, bring your lectures, ample and scholarly musings;
Expand, being that which none else is perhaps more intangible;
Keep your places, objects than which none other is more steadfast.
12.
We descend upon you and all things—we capture you all;
We realize the soul only through you, you constant tangibles;
Through you color, form, presence, transcendency, identity;
Through you every picture, likeness, and all the indications and resolutions of ourselves.
You have waited, you always wait, you dumb, beautiful tutors! you neophytes!
We receive you with open minds at last, and are keen henceforward;
Not you anymore shall be a mystery to us, or resign yourselves from us;
We use you, and do not ignore you in us—we plant you permanently within us;
We measure you not—we love you—there is perfection in you;
You are a four-year eternity;
Consequential or trivial, you form these parts of our soul.
