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Putting higher claims for him there with his rolled-
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,
Those 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 charred 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 bagged out at
their waists,
The snag-toothed hostler with red hair redeeming sins
past and to come,
Selling all he possesses, travelling 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 worshipped half enough,
Dung and dirt more admirable than was dreamed,
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,
Guessing when I am it will not tickle me much to
receive puffs out of pulpit or print;