Page:Leaves of Grass (1860).djvu/96

By my life-lumps! becoming already a creator,
Putting myself here and now to the ambushed womb
of the shadows.

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

278.Come my children,
Come my boys and girls, my women, household,
and intimates,
Now the performer launches his nerve—he has
passed his prelude on the reeds within,

279.Easily written, loose-fingered chords! I feel the thrum
of their climax and close.

280.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.

281.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 thorned
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 tressels
of death.