THE COMPOST 



how can it he that the grotmd does not sicken? 

 How can you he alive, yon growths of spring? 



How can you fiirnish health, you hlood of herhs, roots, orchards, 



grain? 

 Are they not continually puffiijg distemper'd corpses within yoii? 

 Is not every continent work'd over and over with sour dead? 

 Where have yoti disposed of their carcasses? 



1 do not see any of it upon you today— or perhaps I am deceiv'd. 



Behold this compost! behold it well! 



Perhaps every mite has once form'd part of a sick person—Yet 



behold! 

 The grass of sprirtg covers the prairies, 

 The summer growth is innocent and disdainfid above all those strata 



of sour dead. 

 What chemistry! 



That the winds are really not infectious, 



That when I recline on the grass I do not catch any disease, 

 Though probably every spear of grass rises otit of what was once a 



catching disease. 



Now I am terrified at the Earth! it is that calm and patient. 

 It turns harmless and stainless on its axis, with such endless succes- 

 sions of diseas'd corpses, 

 It distils such exquisite winds out of such infused fetor. 

 It gives such divine materials to men, and accepts such leavings 

 from them at last. 



Walt Whitman. 



