ACCEPTING THE UNIVERSE 



Milton, the dramatic power of Shakespeare, nor, 

 usually, the lyric thrill of many of the minor poets. 

 You embark on an endless quest with Whitman; 

 not on a picnic, nor a "day off," but a day-by-day 

 and a night-by-night journey through the universe: 



" I tramp a perpetual journey, 



My signs are a rain-proof coat, good shoes, and a staff cut from 



the woods. 

 No friend of mine takes his ease in my chair, 

 I have no chair, no church, no philosophy, 

 I lead no man to a dinner table, library, or exchange. 

 But each man and each woman of you I lead upon a knoll. 

 My left hand hooking you round the waist, 

 My right hand pointing to landscapes of continents and the 



public road, 



Not I, not any one else can travel that road for you, 

 You must travel it for yourself." 



He who can bring to Whitman's rugged and flow- 

 ing lines anything like the sympathy and insight 

 that beget them, will know what I mean. Our mod- 

 ern nature poets are holiday flower-gatherers beside 

 this inspired astronomer, geologist, and biologist, 

 all in one, sauntering the streets, loitering on the 

 beach, roaming the mountains, or rapt and silent 

 under the midnight skies. When, now, in my old age, 

 I open his pages again and read the "Song of the 

 Open Road," "Crossing Brooklyn Ferry," "The 

 Song of the Broad-Axe," "This Compost," "Walt 

 Whitman," "Great are the Myths," "Laws for 

 Creation," and scores of others, I seem to be present 



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