Thursday, March 27, 2014

I bequeath myselt to the dirt

Walt Whitman (1819-1892) closes his Song of Myself (1881) as follows . . .

I bequeath myself 
to the dirt 
to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again 
look for me under your bootsoles.
You will hardly know 
who I am 
or what I mean,
But I shall be 
good health to you 
And filter and fibre your blood.
Failing to fetch me at first 
keep encouraged,
Missing me one place 
search another,
I stop some where 
waiting for you.

Friday, March 14, 2014

End of the Wilderness Road

All America lies at the end of the wilderness road,
and our past is not a dead past,
but still lives in us.

Our forefathers had civilization inside themselves,
the wild outside.

We live in the civilization they created,
but within us the wilderness still lingers.

What they dreamed, we live,
and what they lived, we dream.

T.K. Whipple (1890-1939) . . .
as quoted by Mike Brown in the Rockdale Reporter . . .
and as quoted by Larry McMurtry
in his epigraph to Lonesome Dove