crucifix engraved,
With Odin and the hideous-faced Mexitli and every idol and
     image,
Taking them all for what they are worth and not a cent more,
Admitting they were alive and did the work of their days,
(They bore mites as for unfledg'd birds who have now to rise
     and fly and sing for themselves,)

Accepting the rough deific sketches to fill out better in myself,
     bestowing them freely on each man and woman I see,
Discovering as much or more in a framer framing a house,
Putting higher claims for him there with his roll'd-up sleeves
     driving the mallet and chisel,
Not objecting to special revelations, considering a curl of
     smoke or a hair on the back of my hand just as curious
     as any revelation,
Lads ahold of fire- engines and hook-and-ladder ropes no less
     to me than the gods of the antique wars,
Minding their voices peal through the crash of destruction,
Their brawny limbs passing safe over charr'd laths, their
     white foreheads whole and unhurt out of the flames;
By the mechanic's wife with her babe at her nipple
     interceding for every person born,
Three scythes at harvest whizzing in a row from three lusty
     angels with shirts bagg'd out at their waists,
The snag-tooth'd hostler with red hair redeeming sins past
     and to come,
Selling all he possesses, traveling on foot to fee lawyers for
     his brother and sit by him while he is tried for forgery;
What was strewn in the amplest strewing the square rod
     about me, and not filling the square rod then,
The bull and the bug never worshipp'd half enough,
Dung and dirt more admirable than was dream'd,
The supernatural of no account, myself waiting my time to
     be one of the supremes,
The day getting ready for me when I shall do as much good
     as the best, and be as prodigious;
By my life-lumps! becoming already a creator,
Putting myself here and now to the ambush'd womb of the
     shadows.

A call in the midst of the crowd,
My own voice, orotund sweeping and final.

Come my children,
Come my boys and girls, my women, household and
     intimates,

Now the performer launches his nerve, he has pass'd his
     prelude on the reeds within.

Easily written loose-finger'd chords — I feel the thrum of your
     climax and close.

My head slues round on my neck,
Music rolls, but not from the organ,
Folks are around me, but they are no household of mine.

Ever the hard unsunk ground,
Ever the eaters and drinkers, ever the upward and downward
     sun, ever the air and the ceaseless tides,
Ever myself and my neighbors, refreshing, wicked, real,
Ever the old inexplicable query, ever that thorn'd thumb,
     that breath of itches and thirsts,
Ever the vexer's hoot! hoot! till we find where the sly one
     hides and bring him forth,
Ever love, ever the sobbing liquid of life,
Ever the bandage under the chin, ever the trestles of death.

Here and there with dimes on the eyes walking,
To feed the greed of the belly the brains liberally spooning,
Tickets buying, taking, selling, but in to the feast never once
     going,
Many sweating, ploughing, thrashing, and then the chaff for
     payment receiving,
A few idly owning, and they the wheat continually claiming.

This is the city and I am one of the citizens,
Whatever interests the rest interests me, politics, wars,
     markets, newspapers, schools,
The mayor and councils, banks, tariffs, steamships, factories,
     stocks, stores, real estate and personal estate.

The little plentiful manikins skipping around in collars and
     tail'd coats,
I am aware who they are, (they are positively not worms or
     fleas,)
I acknowledge the duplicates of myself, the weakest and
     shallowest is deathless with me,

What I do and say the same waits for them,
Every thought that flounders in me the same flounders in
     them.