6.01.2004
There was a child went forth every day.
And the first object he look��d upon, that object he became.
And the object became part of him for the day or a certain part of the day.
Or for many years or stretching cycles of time
The young grass became part of his youth,
And the rain and brown and white tree, and green and brown earth, and the song of
the phoebe bird.
And in March the allergies and the sneezes, and the books and the magazines,
And the noisy birds of the trees or the mire of the park,
And the birds hovering themselves so curiously up there, and the beautiful blue sky,
And the grass with their pointed blades, all became part of him.
The field-sprouts of April and May became part of him,
Winter-grain sprouts and those of the light yellow, and the esculent roots of the garden,
And the persimmon-trees cover��d with blossoms and the fruit afterward and wood berries, and the crab grass by the road.
And the oldest drunkard staggering home from the out-house of the bar whence he had lately risen,
And the schoolmistress 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 Negro 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 dinner-table.
The mother with mild words, clean with her hat and dress, 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 words, 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 and the doubts of night, the curious whether and how,
Whether that which appears so is so, or is it all flashes and pecks?
Men and women crowding fast in the streets, and if they are not slashes and specks, what are they?
The streets themselves and the facades of houses and goods in the windows,
Cars, teams, the heavy-plank��d wharves, the huge crossing at the ferns,
The village on the highland seen from afar at sunset, the river between,
Shadows, aureola and mist, the light falling on the roofs and gables of white or brown two miles off.
The schooner nearby sleepily dropping down the tide, the little boat slack-tow��d astern,
The hurrying tumbles waves, quick-broken crests, slapping,
The strata of color��d clouds, the long bar or maroon-tint away solitary by itself, the spread of purity it lies motionless in,
The horizon��s edge, the flying seagull, the fragrance of salt marsh and shore mud,
These became part of that child who went forth every day,
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And the first object he look��d upon, that object he became.
And the object became part of him for the day or a certain part of the day.
Or for many years or stretching cycles of time
The young grass became part of his youth,
And the rain and brown and white tree, and green and brown earth, and the song of
the phoebe bird.
And in March the allergies and the sneezes, and the books and the magazines,
And the noisy birds of the trees or the mire of the park,
And the birds hovering themselves so curiously up there, and the beautiful blue sky,
And the grass with their pointed blades, all became part of him.
The field-sprouts of April and May became part of him,
Winter-grain sprouts and those of the light yellow, and the esculent roots of the garden,
And the persimmon-trees cover��d with blossoms and the fruit afterward and wood berries, and the crab grass by the road.
And the oldest drunkard staggering home from the out-house of the bar whence he had lately risen,
And the schoolmistress 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 Negro 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 dinner-table.
The mother with mild words, clean with her hat and dress, 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 words, 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 and the doubts of night, the curious whether and how,
Whether that which appears so is so, or is it all flashes and pecks?
Men and women crowding fast in the streets, and if they are not slashes and specks, what are they?
The streets themselves and the facades of houses and goods in the windows,
Cars, teams, the heavy-plank��d wharves, the huge crossing at the ferns,
The village on the highland seen from afar at sunset, the river between,
Shadows, aureola and mist, the light falling on the roofs and gables of white or brown two miles off.
The schooner nearby sleepily dropping down the tide, the little boat slack-tow��d astern,
The hurrying tumbles waves, quick-broken crests, slapping,
The strata of color��d clouds, the long bar or maroon-tint away solitary by itself, the spread of purity it lies motionless in,
The horizon��s edge, the flying seagull, the fragrance of salt marsh and shore mud,
These became part of that child who went forth every day,
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