But when all this has been said and conceded, there yet remain
countless passages of true and vital beauty, exquisite phrases,
haunting pictures, glimpses of perfect loveliness. His poems of
comradeship and the open air, his pictures of family life, have
often a magical thrill of passion, leaving one rapturous and
unsatisfied, believing in the secrets behind the world, and hoping
for a touch of like experience.
If I may take one poem as typical of the best that is in Whitman--
and what a splendid best!--it shall be "Out of the Cradle Endlessly
Rocking," from the book called Sea-drift. I declare that I can
never read this poem without profound emotion; it is here that he
fully justifies his claim to atmosphere and suggestiveness; the
nesting birds, the sea's edge, with its "liquid rims and wet
sands"--what a magical phrase!--the angry moan of the breakers
under the yellow, drooping moon, the boy with his feet in the
water, and the wind in his hair--this is all beyond criticism.
Demon or bird! (said the boy's soul)
Is it indeed toward your mate you sing? or is it mostly to me?
For I, that was a child, my tongue's use sleeping, now I have
heard you
Now in a moment I know what I am for,--I awake,
And already a thousand singers, a thousand songs, clearer,
louder and more sorrowful than yours,
A thousand warbling echoes have started to life within me,
never to die.
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