11—Sun-Down Poem. (1856)

FLOOD-TIDE of the river, flow on! I watch
         you, face to face,
Clouds of the west! sun half an hour high! I see
         you also face to face.

Crowds of men and women attired in the usual
         costumes, how curious you are to me!
On the ferry-boats the hundreds and hundreds
         that cross are more curious to me than you
         suppose,
And you that shall cross from shore to shore
         years hence, are more to me, and more in my
         meditations, than you might suppose.

The impalpable sustenance of me from all things
         at all hours of the day,
The simple, compact, well-joined scheme—my-
         self disintegrated, every one disintegrated,
         yet part of the scheme,
The similitudes of the past and those of the
         future,

The glories strung like beads on my smallest
         sights and hearings—on the walk in the
         street, and the passage over the river,
The current rushing so swiftly, and swimming
         with me far away,
The others that are to follow me, the ties between
         me and them,
The certainty of others—the life, love, sight,
         hearing of others.

Others will enter the gates of the ferry, and cross
         from shore to shore,
Others will watch the run of the flood-tide,
Others will see the shipping of Manhattan north
         and west, and the heights of Brooklyn to the
         south and east,
Others will see the islands large and small,
Fifty years hence others will see them as they
         cross, the sun half an hour high,
A hundred years hence, or ever so many hundred
         years hence, others will see them,
Will enjoy the sun-set, the pouring in of the flood-
         tide, the falling back to the sea of the ebb-
         tide.

It avails not, neither time or place—distance
         avails not,
I am with you, you men and women of a genera-
         tion, or ever so many generations hence,

I project myself, also I return—I am with you,
         and know how it is.

Just as you feel when you look on the river and
         sky, so I felt,
Just as any of you is one of a living crowd, I was
         one of a crowd,
Just as you are refreshed by the gladness
         of the river, and the bright flow, I was
         refreshed,
Just as you stand and lean on the rail, yet hurry
         with the swift current, I stood, yet was hur-
         ried,
Just as you look on the numberless masts of ships,
         and the thick-stemmed pipes of steamboats, I
         looked.

I too many and many a time crossed the river,
         the sun half an hour high,
I watched the December sea-gulls, I saw them
         high in the air floating with motionless
         wings oscillating their bodies,
I saw how the glistening yellow lit up parts of
         their bodies, and left the rest in strong
         shadow,
I saw the slow-wheeling circles and the gradual
         edging toward the south.

I too saw the reflection of the summer-sky in the
         water.

Had my eyes dazzled by the shimmering track of
         beams,
Looked at the fine centrifugal spokes of light
         round the shape of my head in the sun-lit
         water,
Looked on the haze on the hills southward and
         southwestward,
Looked on the vapor as it flew in fleeces tinged
         with violet,
Looked toward the lower bay to notice the arriv-
         ing ships,
Saw their approach, saw aboard those that were
         near me,
Saw the white sails of schooners and sloops, saw
         the ships at anchor,
The sailors at work in the rigging or out astride
         the spars,
The round masts, the swinging motion of the
         hulls, the slender serpentine pennants,
The large and small steamers in motion, the pi-
         lots in their pilot-houses,
The white wake left by the passage, the quick
         tremulous whirl of the wheels,
The flags of all nations, the falling of them at
         sun-set,
The scallop-edged waves in the twilight, the
         ladled cups, the frolicsome crests and glisten-
         ing,

The stretch afar growing dimmer and dimmer, the
         gray walls of the granite store-houses by the
         docks,
On the river the shadowy group, the big steam-
         tug closely flanked on each side by the
         barges—the hay-boat, the belated lighter,
On the neighboring shore the fires from the foun-
         dry chimneys burning high and glaringly into
         the night,
Casting their flicker of black, contrasted with wild
         red and yellow light, over the tops of houses,
         and down into the clefts of streets.

These and all else were to me the same as they
         are to you,
I project myself a moment to tell you—also I
         return.

I loved well those cities,
I loved well the stately and rapid river,
The men and women I saw were all near to me,
Others the same—others who look back on me,
         because I looked forward to them,
The time will come, though I stop here today and
         tonight.

What is it, then, between us? What is the
         count of the scores or hundreds of years
         between us?


Whatever it is, it avails not—distance avails not,
         and place avails not.

I too lived,
I too walked the streets of Manhattan Island, and
         bathed in the waters around it;
I too felt the curious abrupt questionings stir with-
         in me,
In the day, among crowds of people, sometimes
         they came upon me,
In my walks home late at night, or as I lay in my
         bed, they came upon me.

I too had been struck from the float forever held
         in solution,
I too had received identity by my body,
That I was, I knew was of my body, and what I
         should be, I knew I should be of my body.

It is not upon you alone the dark patches fall,
The dark threw patches down upon me also,
The best I had done seemed to me blank and sus-
         picious,
My great thoughts, as I supposed them, were they
         not in reality meagre? Would not people
         laugh at me?

It is not you alone who know what it is to be
         evil,

I am he who knew what it was to be evil,
I too knitted the old knot of contrariety,
Blabbed, blushed, resented, lied, stole, grudged,
Had guile, anger, lust, hot wishes I dared not
         speak,
Was wayward, vain, greedy, shallow, sly, a solitary
         committer, a coward, a malignant person,
The wolf, the snake, the hog, not wanting in me,
The cheating look, the frivolous word, the adul-
         terous wish, not wanting,
Refusals, hates, postponements, meanness, lazi-
         ness, none of these wanting.

But I was a Manhattanese, free, friendly, and
         proud!
I was called by my nighest name by clear loud
         voices of young men as they saw me ap-
         proaching or passing,
Felt their arms on my neck as I stood, or the neg-
         ligent leaning of their flesh against me as I sat,
Saw many I loved in the street, or ferry-boat, or
         public assembly, yet never told them a word,
Lived the same life with the rest, the same old
         laughing, gnawing, sleeping,
Played the part that still looks back on the actor
         or actress,
The same old role, the role that is what we make
         it, as great as we like, or as small as we
         like, or both great and small.


Closer yet I approach you,
What thought you have of me, I had as much of
         you—I laid in my stores in advance,
I considered long and seriously of you before you
         were born.

Who was to know what should come home to me?
Who knows but I am enjoying this?
Who knows but I am as good as looking at you
         now, for all you cannot see me?

It is not you alone, nor I alone,
Not a few races, not a few generations, not a few
         centuries,
It is that each came, or comes, or shall come,
         from its due emission, without fail, either
         now, or then, or henceforth.

Every thing indicates—the smallest does, and
         the largest does,
A necessary film envelops all, and envelops the
         soul for a proper time.

Now I am curious what sight can ever be more
         stately and admirable to me than my mast-
         hemm'd Manhatta, my river and sun-set, and
         my scallop-edged waves of flood-tide, the
         sea-gulls oscillating their bodies, the hay-boat
         in the twilight, and the belated lighter,

Curious what gods can exceed these that clasp
         me by the hand, and with voices I love call
         me promptly and loudly by my nighest name
         as I approach,
Curious what is more subtle than this which ties
         me to the woman or man that looks in my
         face,
Which fuses me into you now, and pours my
         meaning into you.

We understand, then, do we not?
What I promised without mentioning it, have
         you not accepted?
What the study could not teach—what the
         preaching could not accomplish is accom-
         plished, is it not?
What the push of reading could not start is
         started by me personally, is it not?

Flow on, river! Flow with the flood-tide, and
         ebb with the ebb-tide!
Frolic on, crested and scallop-edged waves!
Gorgeous clouds of the sun-set, drench with your
         splendor me, or the men and women genera-
         tions after me!
Cross from shore to shore, countless crowds of
         passengers!
Stand up, tall masts of Manahatta!—stand up,
         beautiful hills of Brooklyn!


Bully for you! you proud, friendly, free Manhat-
         tanese!
Throb, baffled and curious brain! throw out ques-
         tions and answers!
Suspend here and everywhere, eternal float of
         solution!
Blab, blush, lie, steal, you or I or any one after
         us!
Gaze, loving and thirsting eyes, in the house or
         street or public assembly!
Sound out, voices of young men! loudly and mu-
         sically call me by my nighest name!
Live, old life! play the part that looks back on the
         actor or actress!
Play the old role, the role that is great or small,
         according as one makes it!
Consider, you who peruse me, whether I may
         not in unknown ways be looking upon you!
Be firm, rail over the river, to support those who
         lean idly, yet haste with the hasting cur-
         rent!
Fly on, sea-birds! fly sideways, or wheel in large
         circles high in the air!
Receive the summer-sky, you water! faithfully
         hold it till all downcast eyes have time to
         take it from you!
Diverge, fine spokes of light, from the shape of
         my head, or any one's head, in the sun-lit
         water!


Come on, ships, from the lower bay! pass up
         or down, white-sailed schooners, sloops,
         lighters!
Flaunt away, flags of all nations! be duly lowered
         at sun-set!
Burn high your fires, foundry chimneys! cast
         black shadows at night-fall! cast red and
         yellow light over the tops of the houses!
Appearances, now or henceforth, indicate what
         you are!
You necessary film, continue to envelop the
         soul!
About my body for me, and your body for you, be
         hung our divinest aromas!
Thrive, cities! Bring your freight, bring your
         shows, ample and sufficient rivers!
Expand, being than which none else is perhaps
         more spiritual!
Keep your places, objects than which none else is
         more lasting!

We descend upon you and all things, we arrest
         you all,
We realize the soul only by you, you faithful solids
         and fluids,
Through you color, form, location, sublimity,
         ideality,
Through you every proof, comparison, and all the
         suggestions and determinations of ourselves.


You have waited, you always wait, you dumb
         beautiful ministers! you novices!
We receive you with free sense at last, and are
         insatiate henceforward,
Not you any more shall be able to foil us, or with-
         hold yourselves from us,
We use you, and do not cast you aside—we
         plant you permanently within us,
We fathom you not—we love you—there is
         perfection in you also,
You furnish your parts toward eternity
Great or small, you furnish your parts toward the
         soul.