Stedman and Hutchinson, comps. A Library of American Literature:
An Anthology in Eleven Volumes. 1891.
Vols. IX–XI: Literature of the Republic, Part IV., 1861–1889
From the Song of Myself: In All, Myself
By Walt Whitman (18191892)I
The pleasures of heaven are with me, and the pains of hell are with me,
The first I graft and increase upon myself, the latter I translate into a new tongue.
And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man,
And I say there is nothing greater than the mother of men.
We have had ducking and deprecating about enough,
I show that size is only development.
It is a trifle, they will more than arrive there every one, and still pass on.
I call to the earth and sea half-held by the night.
Night of south winds—night of the large few stars!
Still nodding night—mad naked summer night.
Earth of the slumbering and liquid trees!
Earth of departed sunset—earth of the mountains misty-topt!
Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon just tinged with blue!
Earth of shine and dark mottling the tide of the river!
Earth of the limpid gray of clouds brighter and clearer for my sake!
Far-swooping elbow’d earth—rich apple-blossom’d earth!
Smile, for your lover comes.
O unspeakable passionate love.