This is the beginning to a much longer poem, or “reminiscence,” by Walt Whitman. I know there’s a lot of great Whitman stuff, but this might be my favorite. The way he situates my favorite line, line 20-”I, chanter of pains and joys, uniter of here and hereafter,”-makes it sound like being a poet is the greatest thing on earth, and I’m not sure he’s incorrect.
| Out of the cradle endlessly rocking | |
| Out of the mocking-bird’s throat, the musical shuttle | |
| Out of the Ninth-month midnight, | |
| Over the sterile sands, and the fields beyond, where the child, leaving his bed, wander’d alone, bare-headed, barefoot, | |
| Down from the shower’d halo, | 5 |
| Up from the mystic play of shadows, twining and twisting as if they were alive, | |
| Out from the patches of briers and blackberries, | |
| From the memories of the bird that chanted to me, | |
| From your memories, sad brother—from the fitful risings and fallings I heard, | |
| From under that yellow half-moon, late-risen, and swollen as if with tears, | 10 |
| From those beginning notes of sickness and love, there in the transparent mist, | |
| From the thousand responses of my heart, never to cease, | |
| From the myriad thence-arous’d words, | |
| From the word stronger and more delicious than any, | |
| From such, as now they start, the scene revisiting, | 15 |
| As a flock, twittering, rising, or overhead passing, | |
| Borne hither—ere all eludes me, hurriedly, | |
| A man—yet by these tears a little boy again, | |
| Throwing myself on the sand, confronting the waves, | |
| I, chanter of pains and joys, uniter of here and hereafter, | 20 |
| Taking all hints to use them—but swiftly leaping beyond them, | |
| A reminiscence sing. |
