AH POVERTIES, WINCINGS, AND SULKY RETREATS.

Aн poverties, wincings, and sulky retreats,

Ah you foes that in conflict have overcome me,

(For what is my life or any man's life but a conflict with foes, the old, the incessant war?)

You degradations, you tussle with passions and appetites,

You smarts from dissatisfied friendships, (ah wounds the sharpest of all!)

You toil of painful and choked articulations, you meannesses, You shallow tongue-talks at tables, (my tongue the shallowest of any ;)

You broken resolutions, you racking angers, you smother'd ennuis! Ah think not you finally triumph, my real self has yet to come forth,

It shall yet march forth o'ermastering, till all lies beneath me,
It shall yet stand up the soldier of ultimate victory.

THOUGHTS.

Of public opinion,

Of a calm and cool fiat sooner or later, (how impassive! how certain and final!)

Of the President with pale face asking secretly to himself, What will the people say at last?

Of the frivolous Judge-of the corrupt Congressman, Governor,
Mayor of such as these standing helpless and exposed,
Of the mumbling and screaming priest, (soon, soon deserted,)
Of the lessening year by year of venerableness, and of the dicta
of officers, statutes, pulpits, schools,

Of the rising forever taller and stronger and broader of the intuitions of men and women, and of Self-esteem and Personality;

Of the true New World-of the Democracies resplendent en

masse,

Of the conformity of politics, armies, navies, to them,

Of the shining sun by them-of the inherent light, greater than

the rest,

Of the envelopment of all by them, and the effusion of all from them.

MEDIUMS.

THEY shall arise in the States,

They shall report Nature, laws, physiology, and happiness,
They shall illustrate Democracy and the kosmos,

They shall be alimentive, amative, perceptive,

They shall be complete women and men, their pose brawny and supple, their drink water, their blood clean and clear,

They shall fully enjoy materialism and the sight of products, they shall enjoy the sight of the beef, lumber, bread-stuffs, of Chicago the great city,

They shall train themselves to go in public to become orators and oratresses,

Strong and sweet shall their tongues be, poems and materials of poems shall come from their lives, they shall be makers

and finders,

Of them and of their works shall emerge divine conveyers, to convey gospels,

Characters, events, retrospections, shall be convey'd in gospels, trees, animals, waters, shall be convey'd,

Death, the future, the invisible faith, shall all be convey'd.

WEAVE IN, MY HARDY LIFE.

WEAVE in, weave in, my hardy life,

Weave yet a soldier strong and full for great campaigns to come, Weave in red blood, weave sinews in like ropes, the senses, sight

weave in,

Weave lasting sure, weave day and night the weft, the warp, incessant weave, tire not,

(We know not what the use O life, nor know the aim, the end, nor really aught we know,

But know the work, the need goes on and shall go on, the death-
envelop'd march of peace as well as war goes on,)
For great campaigns of peace the same the wiry threads to weave,
We know not why or what, yet weave, forever weave.

SPAIN, 1873-74

OUT of the murk of heaviest clouds,

Out of the feudal wrecks and heap'd-up skeletons of kings,
Out of that old entire European debris, the shatter'd mummeries,
Ruin'd cathedrals, crumble of palaces, tombs of priests,

Lo, Freedom's features fresh undimm'd look forth—the same immortal face looks forth;

(A glimpse as of thy Mother's face Columbia, A flash significant as of a sword,

Beaming towards thee.}

Nor think we forget thee maternal;

Lag'd'st thou so long? shall the clouds close again upon thee?
Ah, but thou hast thyself now appear'd to us— we know thee,
Thou hast given us a sure proof, the glimpse of thyself,
Thou waitest there as everywhere thy time.

BY BROAD POTOMAC'S SHORE.

By broad Potomac's shore, again old tongue,

(Still uttering, still ejaculating, canst never cease this babble?) Again old heart so gay, again to you, your sense, the full flush spring returning,

Again the freshness and the odors, again Virginia's summer sky, pellucid blue and silver,

Again the forenoon purple of the hills,

Again the deathless grass, so noiseless soft and green,

Again the blood-red roses blooming.

Perfume this book of mine O blood-red roses!

Give me of you O spring, before I close, to put between its pages!

O forenoon purple of the hills, before I close, of you!

O deathless grass, of you!

FROM FAR DAKOTA'S CAÑONS.

FROM far Dakota's cañons,

June 25, 1876.

Lands of the wild ravine, the dusky Sioux, the lonesome stretch,

the silence,

Haply to-day a mournful wail, haply a trumpet-note for heroes.

The battle-bulletin,

The Indian ambuscade, the craft, the fatal environment,

The cavalry companies fighting to the last in sternest heroism,
In the midst of their little circle, with their slaughter'd horses for

breastworks,

The fall of Custer and all his officers and men.

Continues yet the old, old legend of our race,
The loftiest of life upheld by death,
The ancient banner perfectly maintain'd,
O lesson opportune, O how I welcome thee !

As sitting in dark days,

Lone, sulky, through the time's thick murk looking in vain for light, for hope,

From unsuspected parts a fierce and momentary proof,

(The sun there at the centre though conceal'd,

Electric life forever at the centre,)

Breaks forth a lightning flash.

Thou of the tawny flowing hair in battle,

I erewhile saw, with erect head, pressing ever in front, bearing a bright sword in thy hand,

Now ending well in death the splendid fever of thy deeds,

(I bring no dirge for it or thee, I bring a glad triumphal sonnet,)
Desperate and glorious, aye in defeat most desperate, most glorious,
After thy many battles in which never yielding up a gun or a color,
Leaving behind thee a memory sweet to soldiers,
Thou yieldest up thyself.

OLD WAR-DREAMS.

IN midnight sleep of many a face of anguish,

Of the look at first of the mortally wounded, (of that indescribable look,)

Of the dead on their backs with arms extended wide,

I dream, I dream, I dream.

Of scenes of Nature, fields and mountains,

Of skies so beauteous after a storm, and at night the moon so unearthly bright,

Shining sweetly, shining down, where we dig the trenches and gather the heaps,

I dream, I dream, I dream.

Long have they pass'd, faces and trenches and fields,

Where through the carnage I moved with a callous composure, or away from the fallen,

THICK-SPRINKLED BUNTING.

THICK-SPRINKLED bunting! flag of stars!

Long yet your road, fateful flag-long yet your road, and lined

with bloody death,

For the prize I see at issue at last is the world,

All its ships and shores I see interwoven with your threads greedy

banner;

Dream'd again the flags of kings, highest borne, to flaunt unrival'd? O hasten flag of man O with sure and steady step, passing

highest flags of kings,

Walk supreme to the heavens mighty symbol-run up above them all,

Flag of stars! thick-sprinkled bunting!

WHAT BEST I SEE IN THEE.

To U. S. G. return'd from his World's Tour.

WHAT best I see in thee,

Is not that where thou mov'st down history's great highways,
Ever undimm'd by time shoots warlike victory's dazzle,

Or that thou sat'st where Washington sat, ruling the land in peace, Or thou the man whom feudal Europe feted, venerable Asia swarm'd upon,

Who walk'd with kings with even pace the round world's promenade;

But that in foreign lands, in all thy walks with kings,

Those prairie sovereigns of the West, Kansas, Missouri, Illinois, Ohio's, Indiana's millions, comrades, farmers, soldiers, all to the

front,

Invisibly with thee walking with kings with even pace the round world's promenade,

Were all so justified.

SPIRIT THAT FORM'D THIS SCENE.

Written in Platte Cañon, Colorado.

SPIRIT that form'd this scenę,

These tumbled rock-piles grim and red,

These reckless heaven-ambitious peaks,

These gorges, turbulent-clear streams, this naked freshness,
These formless wild arrays, for reasons of their own,
I know thee, savage spirit—we have communed together,
Mine too such wild arrays, for reasons of their own;
Was't charged against my chants they had forgotten art?
To fuse within themselves its rules precise and delicatesse?
The lyrist's measur'd beat, the wrought-out temple's grace —
column and polish'd arch forgot?

But thou that revelest here — spirit that form'd this scene,
They have remember'd thee.