Trottoirs throng'd, vehicles, Broadway, the women,
     the shops and shows,
A million people — manners free and superb
     — open voices — hospitality
     — the most courageous and friendly young
     men,
City of hurried and sparkling waters! city of spires
     and masts!
City nested in bays! my city!

1860 1881

ALL IS TRUTH

O ME, man of slack faith so long,
Standing aloof, denying portions so long,
Only aware to-day of compact all-diffused truth,
Discovering to-day there is no lie or form of lie,
     and can be none, but grows as inevitably upon
     itself as the truth does upon itself,
Or as any law of the earth or any natural production
     of the earth does.

(This is curious and may not be realized immediately,
     but it must be realized,
I feel in myself that I represent falsehoods equally
     with the rest,
And that the universe does.)

Where has fail'd a perfect return indifferent of lies
     or the truth?
Is it upon the ground, or in water or fire? or in the
     spirit of man? or in the meat and blood?

Meditating among liars and retreating sternly into
     myself, I see that there are really no liars or
     lies after all,
And that nothing fails its perfect return, and that
     what are called lies are perfect returns,
And that each thing exactly represents itself and
     what has preceded it,
And that the truth includes all, and is compact just
     as much as space is compact,
And that there is no flaw or vacuum in the amount
     of the truth — but that all is truth without
     exception;
And henceforth I will go celebrate any thing I see
     or am,
And sing and laugh and deny nothing.

1860 1871

A RIDDLE SONG

THAT which eludes this verse and any verse,
Unheard by sharpest ear, unform'd in clearest eye
     or cunningest mind,
Nor lore nor fame, nor happiness nor wealth,
And yet the pulse of every heart and life throughout
     the world incessantly,
Which you and I and all pursuing ever ever miss,
Open but still a secret, the real of the real, an
     illusion,
Costless, vouchsafed to each, yet never man the
     owner,
Which poets vainly seek to put in rhyme, historians
     in prose,
Which sculptor never chisel'd yet, not painter painted,
Which vocalist never sung, nor orator nor actor ever
     utter'd,
Invoking here and how I challenge for my song.

Indifferently, 'mid public, private haunts, in solitude,
Behind the mountain and the wood,
Companion of the city's busiest streets, through
     the assemblage,
It and its radiations constantly glide.

In looks of fair unconscious babes,
Or strangely in the coffin'd dead,
Or show of breaking dawn or stars by night,
As some dissolving delicate film of dreams,
Hiding yet lingering.

Two little breaths of words comprising it,
Two words, yet all from first to last comprised
     in it.

How ardently for it!
How many ships have sail'd and sunk for it!
How many travelers started from their homes and
     ne'er return'd!
How much of genius boldly staked and lost for it!
What countless stores of beauty, love, ventur'd
     for it!
How all superbest deeds since Time began are
     traceable to it — and shall be to the end!
How all heroic martyrdoms to it!

How, justified by it, the horrors, evils, battles of
     the earth!
How the bright fascinating lambent flames of it, in
     every age and land, have drawn men's eyes,
Rich as a sunset on the Norway coast, the sky, the
     islands, and the cliffs,
Or midnight's silent glowing northern lights unreachable.

Haply God's riddle it, so vague and yet so certain,
The soul for it, and all the visible universe for it,
And heaven at last for it.

1881 1881