10 Best Famous Curiously Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Curiously poems. This is a select list of the best famous Curiously poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Curiously poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of curiously poems.

• All Famous Curiously Poems

 1
TO think of time—of all that retrospection! 
To think of to-day, and the ages continued henceforward! 

Have you guess’d you yourself would not continue? 
Have you dreaded these earth-beetles? 
Have you fear’d the future would be nothing to you?

Is to-day nothing? Is the beginningless past nothing? 
If the future is nothing, they are just as surely nothing. 

To think that the sun rose in the east! that men and women were flexible, real, alive!
 that
 everything was alive! 
To think that you and I did not see, feel, think, nor bear our part! 
To think that we are now here, and bear our part!

2
Not a day passes—not a minute or second, without an accouchement! 
Not a day passes—not a minute or second, without a corpse! 

The dull nights go over, and the dull days also, 
The soreness of lying so much in bed goes over, 
The physician, after long putting off, gives the silent and terrible look for an answer,
The children come hurried and weeping, and the brothers and sisters are sent for, 
Medicines stand unused on the shelf—(the camphor-smell has long pervaded the rooms,) 
The faithful hand of the living does not desert the hand of the dying, 
The twitching lips press lightly on the forehead of the dying, 
The breath ceases, and the pulse of the heart ceases,
The corpse stretches on the bed, and the living look upon it, 
It is palpable as the living are palpable. 

The living look upon the corpse with their eye-sight, 
But without eye-sight lingers a different living, and looks curiously on the corpse. 

3
To think the thought of Death, merged in the thought of materials!
To think that the rivers will flow, and the snow fall, and fruits ripen, and act upon
 others as
 upon us now—yet not act upon us! 
To think of all these wonders of city and country, and others taking great interest in
 them—and we taking no interest in them! 

To think how eager we are in building our houses! 
To think others shall be just as eager, and we quite indifferent! 

(I see one building the house that serves him a few years, or seventy or eighty years at
 most,
I see one building the house that serves him longer than that.) 

Slow-moving and black lines creep over the whole earth—they never cease—they are
 the
 burial lines, 
He that was President was buried, and he that is now President shall surely be buried. 

4
A reminiscence of the vulgar fate, 
A frequent sample of the life and death of workmen,
Each after his kind: 
Cold dash of waves at the ferry-wharf—posh and ice in the river, half-frozen mud in
 the
 streets, a gray, discouraged sky overhead, the short, last daylight of Twelfth-month, 
A hearse and stages—other vehicles give place—the funeral of an old Broadway
 stage-driver, the cortege mostly drivers. 

Steady the trot to the cemetery, duly rattles the death-bell, the gate is pass’d, the
 new-dug grave is halted at, the living alight, the hearse uncloses, 
The coffin is pass’d out, lower’d and settled, the whip is laid on the coffin,
 the
 earth is swiftly shovel’d in,
The mound above is flatted with the spades—silence, 
A minute—no one moves or speaks—it is done, 
He is decently put away—is there anything more? 

He was a good fellow, free-mouth’d, quick-temper’d, not bad-looking, able to
 take his
 own part, witty, sensitive to a slight, ready with life or death for a friend, fond of
 women,
 gambled, ate hearty, drank hearty, had known what it was to be flush, grew low-spirited
 toward
 the last, sicken’d, was help’d by a contribution, died, aged forty-one
 years—and
 that was his funeral. 

Thumb extended, finger uplifted, apron, cape, gloves, strap, wet-weather clothes, whip
 carefully chosen, boss, spotter, starter, hostler, somebody loafing on you, you loafing
 on
 somebody, headway, man before and man behind, good day’s work, bad day’s work,
 pet
 stock, mean stock, first out, last out, turning-in at night;
To think that these are so much and so nigh to other drivers—and he there takes no
 interest in them! 

5
The markets, the government, the working-man’s wages—to think what account they
 are
 through our nights and days! 
To think that other working-men will make just as great account of them—yet we make
 little
 or no account! 

The vulgar and the refined—what you call sin, and what you call goodness—to
 think how
 wide a difference! 
To think the difference will still continue to others, yet we lie beyond the difference.

To think how much pleasure there is! 
Have you pleasure from looking at the sky? have you pleasure from poems? 
Do you enjoy yourself in the city? or engaged in business? or planning a nomination and
 election? or with your wife and family? 
Or with your mother and sisters? or in womanly housework? or the beautiful maternal cares?

—These also flow onward to others—you and I flow onward,
But in due time, you and I shall take less interest in them. 

Your farm, profits, crops,—to think how engross’d you are! 
To think there will still be farms, profits, crops—yet for you, of what avail? 

6
What will be, will be well—for what is, is well, 
To take interest is well, and not to take interest shall be well.

The sky continues beautiful, 
The pleasure of men with women shall never be sated, nor the pleasure of women with men,
 nor
 the pleasure from poems, 
The domestic joys, the daily housework or business, the building of houses—these are
 not
 phantasms—they have weight, form, location; 
Farms, profits, crops, markets, wages, government, are none of them phantasms, 
The difference between sin and goodness is no delusion,
The earth is not an echo—man and his life, and all the things of his life, are
 well-consider’d. 

You are not thrown to the winds—you gather certainly and safely around yourself; 
Yourself! Yourself! Yourself, forever and ever! 

7
It is not to diffuse you that you were born of your mother and father—it is to
 identify
 you; 
It is not that you should be undecided, but that you should be decided;
Something long preparing and formless is arrived and form’d in you, 
You are henceforth secure, whatever comes or goes. 

The threads that were spun are gather’d, the weft crosses the warp, the pattern is
 systematic. 

The preparations have every one been justified, 
The orchestra have sufficiently tuned their instruments—the baton has given the
 signal.

The guest that was coming—he waited long, for reasons—he is now housed, 
He is one of those who are beautiful and happy—he is one of those that to look upon
 and be
 with is enough. 

The law of the past cannot be eluded, 
The law of the present and future cannot be eluded, 
The law of the living cannot be eluded—it is eternal,
The law of promotion and transformation cannot be eluded, 
The law of heroes and good-doers cannot be eluded, 
The law of drunkards, informers, mean persons—not one iota thereof can be eluded. 

8
Slow moving and black lines go ceaselessly over the earth, 
Northerner goes carried, and Southerner goes carried, and they on the Atlantic side, and
 they
 on the Pacific, and they between, and all through the Mississippi country, and all over
 the
 earth.

The great masters and kosmos are well as they go—the heroes and good-doers are well, 
The known leaders and inventors, and the rich owners and pious and distinguish’d, may
 be
 well, 
But there is more account than that—there is strict account of all. 

The interminable hordes of the ignorant and wicked are not nothing, 
The barbarians of Africa and Asia are not nothing,
The common people of Europe are not nothing—the American aborigines are not nothing, 
The infected in the immigrant hospital are not nothing—the murderer or mean person is
 not
 nothing, 
The perpetual successions of shallow people are not nothing as they go, 
The lowest prostitute is not nothing—the mocker of religion is not nothing as he
 goes. 

9
Of and in all these things,
I have dream’d that we are not to be changed so much, nor the law of us changed, 
I have dream’d that heroes and good-doers shall be under the present and past law, 
And that murderers, drunkards, liars, shall be under the present and past law, 
For I have dream’d that the law they are under now is enough. 

If otherwise, all came but to ashes of dung,
If maggots and rats ended us, then Alarum! for we are betray’d! 
Then indeed suspicion of death. 

Do you suspect death? If I were to suspect death, I should die now, 
Do you think I could walk pleasantly and well-suited toward annihilation? 

10
Pleasantly and well-suited I walk,
Whither I walk I cannot define, but I know it is good, 
The whole universe indicates that it is good, 
The past and the present indicate that it is good. 

How beautiful and perfect are the animals! 
How perfect the earth, and the minutest thing upon it!

What is called good is perfect, and what is called bad is just as perfect, 
The vegetables and minerals are all perfect, and the imponderable fluids are perfect; 
Slowly and surely they have pass’d on to this, and slowly and surely they yet pass
 on. 

11
I swear I think now that everything without exception has an eternal Soul! 
The trees have, rooted in the ground! the weeds of the sea have! the animals!

I swear I think there is nothing but immortality! 
That the exquisite scheme is for it, and the nebulous float is for it, and the cohering is
 for
 it; 
And all preparation is for it! and identity is for it! and life and materials are
 altogether
 for it

 1
OVER the western sea, hither from Niphon come, 
Courteous, the swart-cheek’d two-sworded envoys, 
Leaning back in their open barouches, bare-headed, impassive, 
Ride to-day through Manhattan. 

Libertad!
I do not know whether others behold what I behold, 
In the procession, along with the nobles of Asia, the errand-bearers, 
Bringing up the rear, hovering above, around, or in the ranks marching; 
But I will sing you a song of what I behold, Libertad. 

2
When million-footed Manhattan, unpent, descends to her pavements;
When the thunder-cracking guns arouse me with the proud roar I love; 
When the round-mouth’d guns, out of the smoke and smell I love, spit their salutes; 
When the fire-flashing guns have fully alerted me—when heaven-clouds canopy my city with a
 delicate thin haze; 
When, gorgeous, the countless straight stems, the forests at the wharves, thicken with
 colors;

When every ship, richly drest, carries her flag at the peak;
When pennants trail, and street-festoons hang from the windows; 
When Broadway is entirely given up to foot-passengers and foot-standers—when the mass is
 densest;

When the façades of the houses are alive with people—when eyes gaze, riveted, tens of
 thousands
 at a time; 
When the guests from the islands advance—when the pageant moves forward, visible; 
When the summons is made—when the answer that waited thousands of years, answers;
I too, arising, answering, descend to the pavements, merge with the crowd, and gaze with
 them.


3
Superb-faced Manhattan! 
Comrade Americanos!—to us, then, at last, the Orient comes. 

To us, my city, 
Where our tall-topt marble and iron beauties range on opposite sides—to walk in the space
 between,
To-day our Antipodes comes. 

The Originatress comes, 
The nest of languages, the bequeather of poems, the race of eld, 
Florid with blood, pensive, rapt with musings, hot with passion, 
Sultry with perfume, with ample and flowing garments,
With sunburnt visage, with intense soul and glittering eyes, 
The race of Brahma comes! 

4
See, my cantabile! these, and more, are flashing to us from the procession; 
As it moves, changing, a kaleidoscope divine it moves, changing, before us. 

For not the envoys, nor the tann’d Japanee from his island only;
Lithe and silent, the Hindoo appears—the Asiatic continent itself appears—the Past, the
 dead, 
The murky night morning of wonder and fable, inscrutable, 
The envelop’d mysteries, the old and unknown hive-bees, 
The North—the sweltering South—eastern Assyria—the Hebrews—the Ancient of Ancients, 
Vast desolated cities—the gliding Present—all of these, and more, are in the
 pageant-procession.

Geography, the world, is in it; 
The Great Sea, the brood of islands, Polynesia, the coast beyond; 
The coast you, henceforth, are facing—you Libertad! from your Western golden shores 
The countries there, with their populations—the millions en-masse, are curiously here; 
The swarming market places—the temples, with idols ranged along the sides, or at the
 end—bonze,
 brahmin, and lama;
The mandarin, farmer, merchant, mechanic, and fisherman; 
The singing-girl and the dancing-girl—the ecstatic person—the secluded Emperors, 
Confucius himself—the great poets and heroes—the warriors, the castes, all, 
Trooping up, crowding from all directions—from the Altay mountains, 
From Thibet—from the four winding and far-flowing rivers of China,
From the Southern peninsulas, and the demi-continental islands—from Malaysia; 
These, and whatever belongs to them, palpable, show forth to me, and are seiz’d by me, 
And I am seiz’d by them, and friendlily held by them, 
Till, as here, them all I chant, Libertad! for themselves and for you. 

5
For I too, raising my voice, join the ranks of this pageant;
I am the chanter—I chant aloud over the pageant; 
I chant the world on my Western Sea; 
I chant, copious, the islands beyond, thick as stars in the sky; 
I chant the new empire, grander than any before—As in a vision it comes to me; 
I chant America, the Mistress—I chant a greater supremacy;
I chant, projected, a thousand blooming cities yet, in time, on those groups of
 sea-islands; 
I chant my sail-ships and steam-ships threading the archipelagoes; 
I chant my stars and stripes fluttering in the wind; 
I chant commerce opening, the sleep of ages having done its work—races, reborn, refresh’d;

Lives, works, resumed—The object I know not—but the old, the Asiatic, renew’d, as it must
 be,
Commencing from this day, surrounded by the world. 

6
And you, Libertad of the world! 
You shall sit in the middle, well-pois’d, thousands of years; 
As to-day, from one side, the nobles of Asia come to you; 
As to-morrow, from the other side, the Queen of England sends her eldest son to you.

7
The sign is reversing, the orb is enclosed, 
The ring is circled, the journey is done; 
The box-lid is but perceptibly open’d—nevertheless the perfume pours copiously out of the
 whole
 box. 

8
Young Libertad! 
With the venerable Asia, the all-mother,
Be considerate with her, now and ever, hot Libertad—for you are all; 
Bend your proud neck to the long-off mother, now sending messages over the archipelagoes
 to
 you; 
Bend your proud neck low for once, young Libertad. 

9
Were the children straying westward so long? so wide the tramping? 
Were the precedent dim ages debouching westward from Paradise so long?
Were the centuries steadily footing it that way, all the while unknown, for you, for
 reasons? 

They are justified—they are accomplish’d—they shall now be turn’d the other way also, to
 travel toward you thence; 
They shall now also march obediently eastward, for your sake, Libertad.

 Boanerges Blitzen, servant of the Queen,
Is a dismal failure -- is a Might-have-been.
In a luckless moment he discovered men
Rise to high position through a ready pen.

Boanerges Blitzen argued therefore -- "I,
With the selfsame weapon, can attain as high."
Only he did not possess when he made the trial,
Wicked wit of C-lv-n, irony of L--l.

[Men who spar with Government need, to back their blows,
Something more than ordinary journalistic prose.]

Never young Civilian's prospects were so bright,
Till an Indian paper found that he could write:
Never young Civilian's prospects were so dark,
When the wretched Blitzen wrote to make his mark.

Certainly he scored it, bold, and black, and firm,
In that Indian paper -- made his seniors squirm,
Quated office scandals, wrote the tactless truth --
Was there ever known a more misguided youth?

When the Rag he wrote for praised his plucky game,
Boanerges Blitzen felt that this was Fame;
When the men he wrote of shook their heads and swore,
Boanerges Blitzen only wrote the more:

Posed as Young Ithuriel, resolute and grim,
Till he found promotion didn't come to him;
Till he found that reprimands weekly were his lot,
And his many Districts curiously hot.

Till he found his furlough strangely hard to win,
Boanerges Blitzen didn't care to pin:
Then it seemed to dawn on him something wasn't right --
Boanerges Blitzen put it down to "spite";

Languished in a District desolate and dry;
Watched the Local Government yearly pass him by;
Wondered where the hitch was; called it most unfair.
 . . . . .
That was seven years ago -- and he still is there!

 THERE was a child went forth every day; 
And the first object he look’d upon, that object he became; 
And that object became part of him for the day, or a certain part of the day, or for many
 years, or
 stretching cycles of years. 

The early lilacs became part of this child, 
And grass, and white and red morning-glories, and white and red clover, and the song of
 the
 phoebe-bird,
And the Third-month lambs, and the sow’s pink-faint litter, and the mare’s foal,
 and
 the
 cow’s calf, 
And the noisy brood of the barn-yard, or by the mire of the pond-side, 
And the fish suspending themselves so curiously below there—and the beautiful curious
 liquid, 
And the water-plants with their graceful flat heads—all became part of him. 

The field-sprouts of Fourth-month and Fifth-month became part of him;
Winter-grain sprouts, and those of the light-yellow corn, and the esculent roots of the
 garden,

And the apple-trees cover’d with blossoms, and the fruit afterward, and wood-berries,
 and
 the
 commonest weeds by the road; 
And the old drunkard staggering home from the out-house of the tavern, whence he had
 lately
 risen, 
And the school-mistress that pass’d on her way to the school, 
And the friendly boys that pass’d—and the quarrelsome boys,
And the tidy and fresh-cheek’d girls—and the barefoot ***** boy and girl, 
And all the changes of city and country, wherever he went. 

His own parents, 
He that had father’d him, and she that had conceiv’d him in her womb, and
 birth’d
 him, 
They gave this child more of themselves than that;
They gave him afterward every day—they became part of him. 

The mother at home, quietly placing the dishes on the supper-table; 
The mother with mild words—clean her cap and gown, a wholesome odor falling off her
 person
 and
 clothes as she walks by; 
The father, strong, self-sufficient, manly, mean, anger’d, unjust; 
The blow, the quick loud word, the tight bargain, the crafty lure,
The family usages, the language, the company, the furniture—the yearning and swelling
 heart, 
Affection that will not be gainsay’d—the sense of what is real—the thought
 if,
 after
 all, it should prove unreal, 
The doubts of day-time and the doubts of night-time—the curious whether and how, 
Whether that which appears so is so, or is it all flashes and specks? 
Men and women crowding fast in the streets—if they are not flashes and specks, what
 are
 they?
The streets themselves, and the façades of houses, and goods in the windows, 
Vehicles, teams, the heavy-plank’d wharves—the huge crossing at the ferries, 
The village on the highland, seen from afar at sunset—the river between, 
Shadows, aureola and mist, the light falling on roofs and gables of white or brown, three
 miles
 off,

The schooner near by, sleepily dropping down the tide—the little boat
 slack-tow’d
 astern,
The hurrying tumbling waves, quick-broken crests, slapping, 
The strata of color’d clouds, the long bar of maroon-tint, away solitary by
 itself—the
 spread of purity it lies motionless in, 
The horizon’s edge, the flying sea-crow, the fragrance of salt marsh and shore mud; 
These became part of that child who went forth every day, and who now goes, and will
 always go
 forth
 every day.

 NATIONS ten thousand years before These States, and many times ten thousand years before
 These
 States; 
Garner’d clusters of ages, that men and women like us grew up and travel’d their
 course, and pass’d on; 
What vast-built cities—what orderly republics—what pastoral tribes and nomads; 
What histories, rulers, heroes, perhaps transcending all others; 
What laws, customs, wealth, arts, traditions;
What sort of marriage—what costumes—what physiology and phrenology; 
What of liberty and slavery among them—what they thought of death and the soul; 
Who were witty and wise—who beautiful and poetic—who brutish and
 undevelop’d; 
Not a mark, not a record remains—And yet all remains. 

O I know that those men and women were not for nothing, any more than we are for nothing;
I know that they belong to the scheme of the world every bit as much as we now belong to
 it,
 and as all will henceforth belong to it. 

Afar they stand—yet near to me they stand, 
Some with oval countenances, learn’d and calm, 
Some naked and savage—Some like huge collections of insects, 
Some in tents—herdsmen, patriarchs, tribes, horsemen,
Some prowling through woods—Some living peaceably on farms, laboring, reaping,
 filling
 barns, 
Some traversing paved avenues, amid temples, palaces, factories, libraries, shows, courts,
 theatres, wonderful monuments. 

Are those billions of men really gone? 
Are those women of the old experience of the earth gone? 
Do their lives, cities, arts, rest only with us?
Did they achieve nothing for good, for themselves? 

I believe of all those billions of men and women that fill’d the unnamed lands, every
 one
 exists this hour, here or elsewhere, invisible to us, in exact proportion to what he or
 she
 grew from in life, and out of what he or she did, felt, became, loved, sinn’d, in
 life. 

I believe that was not the end of those nations, or any person of them, any more than this
 shall be the end of my nation, or of me; 
Of their languages, governments, marriage, literature, products, games, wars, manners,
 crimes,
 prisons, slaves, heroes, poets, I suspect their results curiously await in the yet unseen
 world—counterparts of what accrued to them in the seen world. 
I suspect I shall meet them there,
I suspect I shall there find each old particular of those unnamed lands.

 Pray why are you so bare, so bare, 
Oh, bough of the old oak-tree;
And why, when I go through the shade you throw,
Runs a shudder over me?
My leaves were green as the best, I trow,
And sap ran free in my veins,
But I say in the moonlight dim and weird
A guiltless victim's pains.

They'd charged him with the old, old crime,
And set him fast in jail:
Oh, why does the dog howl all night long,
And why does the night wind wail?
He prayed his prayer and he swore his oath,
And he raised his hand to the sky;
But the beat of hoofs smote on his ear,
And the steady tread drew nigh.

Who is it rides by night, by night,
Over the moonlit road?
And what is the spur that keeps the pace,
What is the galling goad?
And now they beat at the prison door,
"Ho, keeper, do not stay!
We are friends of him whom you hold within,
And we fain would take him away
"From those who ride fast on our heels
With mind to do him wrong;
They have no care for his innocence,
And the rope they bear is long."

They have fooled the jailer with lying words,
They have fooled the man with lies;
The bolts unbar, the locks are drawn,
And the great door open flies.

Now they have taken him from the jail,
And hard and fast they ride,
And the leader laughs low down in his throat,
As they halt my trunk beside.

Oh, the judge, he wore a mask of black,
And the doctor one of white,
And the minister, with his oldest son,
Was curiously bedight.

Oh, foolish man, why weep you now?
'Tis but a little space,
And the time will come when these shall dread
The mem'ry of your face.

I feel the rope against my bark,
And the weight of him in my grain,
I feel in the throe of his final woe
The touch of my own last pain.

And never more shall leaves come forth
On the bough that bears the ban;
I am burned with dread, I am dried and dead,
From the curse of a guiltless man.

And ever the judge rides by, rides by,
And goes to hunt the deer,
And ever another rides his soul
In the guise of a mortal fear.

And ever the man he rides me hard,
And never a night stays he;
For I feel his curse as a haunted bough,
On the trunk of a haunted tree.

 They hurried here, as soon as you had died,
Their faces damp with haste and sympathy,
And pressed my hand in theirs, and smoothed my knee,
And clicked their tongues, and watched me, mournful-eyed.
Gently they told me of that Other Side-
How, even then, you waited there for me,
And what ecstatic meeting ours would be.
Moved by the lovely tale, they broke, and cried.

And when I smiled, they told me I was brave,
And they rejoiced that I was comforted,
And left to tell of all the help they gave.
But I had smiled to think how you, the dead,
So curiously preoccupied and grave,
Would laugh, could you have heard the things they said.

 Head to limp head, the sunk-eyed wounded scanned
Yesterday's Mail; the casualties (typed small)
And (large) Vast Booty from our Latest Haul.
Also, they read of Cheap Homes, not yet planned;
For, said the paper, "When this war is done
The men's first instinct will be making homes.
Meanwhile their foremost need is aerodromes,
It being certain war has just begun.
Peace would do wrong to our undying dead, --
The sons we offered might regret they died
If we got nothing lasting in their stead.
We must be solidly indemnified.
Though all be worthy Victory which all bought,
We rulers sitting in this ancient spot
Would wrong our very selves if we forgot
The greatest glory will be theirs who fought,
Who kept this nation in integrity."
Nation? -- The half-limbed readers did not chafe
But smiled at one another curiously
Like secret men who know their secret safe.
This is the thing they know and never speak,
That England one by one had fled to France
(Not many elsewhere now save under France).
Pictures of these broad smiles appear each week,
And people in whose voice real feeling rings
Say: How they smile! They're happy now, poor things.


23rd September 1918.

 1
WITH antecedents; 
With my fathers and mothers, and the accumulations of past ages; 
With all which, had it not been, I would not now be here, as I am: 
With Egypt, India, Phenicia, Greece and Rome; 
With the Kelt, the Scandinavian, the Alb, and the Saxon;
With antique maritime ventures,—with laws, artizanship, wars and journeys; 
With the poet, the skald, the saga, the myth, and the oracle; 
With the sale of slaves—with enthusiasts—with the troubadour, the crusader, and
 the
 monk; 
With those old continents whence we have come to this new continent; 
With the fading kingdoms and kings over there;
With the fading religions and priests; 
With the small shores we look back to from our own large and present shores; 
With countless years drawing themselves onward, and arrived at these years; 
You and Me arrived—America arrived, and making this year; 
This year! sending itself ahead countless years to come.

2
O but it is not the years—it is I—it is You; 
We touch all laws, and tally all antecedents; 
We are the skald, the oracle, the monk, and the knight—we easily include them, and
 more; 
We stand amid time, beginningless and endless—we stand amid evil and good; 
All swings around us—there is as much darkness as light;
The very sun swings itself and its system of planets around us; 
Its sun, and its again, all swing around us. 
As for me, (torn, stormy, even as I, amid these vehement days,) 
I have the idea of all, and am all, and believe in all; 
I believe materialism is true, and spiritualism is true—I reject no part.

Have I forgotten any part? 
Come to me, whoever and whatever, till I give you recognition. 

I respect Assyria, China, Teutonia, and the Hebrews; 
I adopt each theory, myth, god, and demi-god; 
I see that the old accounts, bibles, genealogies, are true, without exception;
I assert that all past days were what they should have been; 
And that they could no-how have been better than they were, 
And that to-day is what it should be—and that America is, 
And that to-day and America could no-how be better than they are. 

3
In the name of These States, and in your and my name, the Past,
And in the name of These States, and in your and my name, the Present time. 

I know that the past was great, and the future will be great, 
And I know that both curiously conjoint in the present time, 
(For the sake of him I typify—for the common average man’s sake—your sake,
 if
 you are
 he;) 
And that where I am, or you are, this present day, there is the centre of all days, all
 races,
And there is the meaning, to us, of all that has ever come of races and days, or ever will
 come.

 Most explicit--
the sense of trap

as a narrowing
cone one's got

stuck into and
any movement

forward simply
wedges once more--

but where
or quite when,

even with whom,
since now there is no one

quite with you--Quite? Quiet?
English expression: Quait?

Language of singular
impedance? A dance? An

involuntary gesture to
others not there? What's

wrong here? How
reach out to the

other side all
others live on as

now you see the
two doctors, behind

you, in mind's eye,
probe into your anus,

or ass, or bottom,
behind you, the roto-

rooter-like device
sees all up, concludes

"like a worn-out inner tube,"
"old," prose prolapsed, person's

problems won't do, must
cut into, cut out . . .

The world is a round but
diminishing ball, a spherical

ice cube, a dusty
joke, a fading,

faint echo of its
former self but remembers,

sometimes, its past, sees
friends, places, reflections,

talks to itself in a fond,
judgemental murmur,

alone at last.
I stood so close

to you I could have
reached out and

touched you just
as you turned

over and began to
snore not unattractively,

no, never less than
attractively, my love,

my love--but in this
curiously glowing dark, this

finite emptiness, you, you, you
are crucial, hear the

whimpering back of
the talk, the approaching

fears when I may
cease to be me, all

lost or rather lumped
here in a retrograded,

dislocating, imploding
self, a uselessness

talks, even if finally to no one,
talks and talks.