# Leaves of Grass (1860)/Debris

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DEBRIS.
He is wisest who has the most caution,
He only wins who goes far enough.
established that will produce it and continue it.
good army; He happy in himself, or she happy in herself, is
happy, But I tell you you cannot be happy by others, any
more than you can beget or conceive a child by
others.
you, and were tender with you, and stood aside
for you?
Have you not learned the great lessons of those who
rejected you, and braced themselves against you?
or who treated you with contempt, or disputed
the passage with you?
Have you had no practice to receive opponents when
they come?
Despairing cries float ceaselessly toward me, day and
night,
The sad voice of Death—the call of my nearest
lover, putting forth, alarmed, uncertain,
This sea I am quickly to sail, come tell me, Come tell me where I am, speeding—tell me my
destination.
I understand your anguish, but I cannot help you,
I approach, hear, behold—the sad mouth, the look
out of the eyes, your mute inquiry.
Whither I go from the bed I now recline on, come
tell me;
Old age, alarmed, uncertain—A young woman's
voice appealing to me, for comfort,
A young man's voice. Shall I not escape?
A thousand perfect men and women appear.
Around each gathers a cluster of friends, and gay
children and youths, with offerings.
A mask—a perpetual natural disguiser of herself,
Concealing her face, concealing her form,
Changes and transformations every hour, every moment.
Falling upon her even when she sleeps.
One sweeps by, attended by an immense train,
All emblematic of peace—not a soldier or menial
among them.
One sweeps by, old, with black eyes, and profuse
white hair,
He has the simple magnificence of health and
strength, His face strikes as with flashes of lightning whoever
it turns toward.
Three old men slowly pass, followed by three others,
and they by three others, They are beautiful—the one in the middle of each
group holds his companions by the hand,
As they walk, they give out perfume wherever they
walk.
Women sit, or move to and fro—some old, some
young,
The young are beautiful—but the old are more
beautiful than the young.
What weeping face is that looking from the window?
Why does it stream those sorrowful tears?
Is it for some burial place, vast and dry? Is it to wet the soil of graves?
I will take an egg out of the robin's nest in the
orchard,
I will take a branch of gooseberries from the old bush in the garden, and go and preach to the world;
You shall see I will not meet a single heretic or
scorner, You shall see how I stump clergymen, and confound
them,
You shall see me showing a scarlet tomato, and a
white pebble from the beach.
Behavior—fresh, native, copious, each one for himself or herself, Nature and the Soul expressed—America and freedom expressed—In it the finest art,
In it pride, cleanliness, sympathy, to have their
chance,
In it physique, intellect, faith—in it just as much as to manage an army or a city, or to write a book —perhaps more,
The youth, the laboring person, the poor person,
rivalling all the rest—perhaps outdoing the
rest, The effects of the universe no greater than its;
For there is nothing in the whole universe that can be more effective than a man's or woman's daily behavior can be, In any position, in any one of These States.
Not the pilot has charged himself to bring his ship into port, though beaten back, and many times baffled,
Not the path-finder, penetrating inland, weary and long,
By deserts parched, snows chilled, rivers wet, perseveres till he reaches his destination,
More than I have charged myself, heeded or unheeded, to compose a free march for These States,
To be exhilarating music to them, years, centuries hence.
I thought I was not alone, walking here by the shore,
But the one I thought was with me, as now I walk by the shore,
As I lean and look through the glimmering light— that one has utterly disappeared, And those appear that perplex me.