I know now why the earth is gross, tantalizing, wicked, it is for my sake, I take you specially to be mine, you terrible, rude forms. (Mother, bend down, bend close to me your face, I know not what these plots and wars and deferments are for, I know not fruition’s success, but I know that through war and crime your work goes on, and must yet go on.) 19 Thus by blue Ontario’s shore, While the winds fann’d me and the waves came trooping toward me, I thrill’d with the power’s pulsations, and the charm of my theme was upon me, Till the tissues that held me parted their ties upon me. And I saw the free souls of poets, The loftiest bards of past ages strode before me, Strange large men, long unwaked, undisclosed, were disclosed to me. 20 O my rapt verse, my call, mock me not! Not for the bards of the past, not to invoke them have I launch’d you forth, Not to call even those lofty bards here by Ontario’s shores, Have I sung so capricious and loud my savage song. Bards for my own land only I invoke, (For the war the war is over, the field is clear’d,) Till they strike up marches henceforth triumphant and onward, To cheer O Mother your boundless expectant soul. Bards of the great Idea! bards of the peaceful inventions! (for the war, the war is over!) Yet bards of latent armies, a million soldiers waiting ever-ready, Bards with songs as from burning coals or the lightning’s fork’d stripes! Ample Ohio’s, Kanada’s bards--bards of California! inland bards-- bards of the war! You by my charm I invoke. Reversals Let that which stood in front go behind, Let that which was behind advance to the front, Let bigots, fools, unclean persons, offer new propositions, Let the old propositions be postponed, Let a man seek pleasure everywhere except in himself, Let a woman seek happiness everywhere except in herself BOOK XXIV. AUTUMN RIVULETS As Consequent, Etc. As consequent from store of summer rains, Or wayward rivulets in autumn flowing, Or many a herb-lined brook’s reticulations, Or subterranean sea-rills making for the sea, Songs of continued years I sing. Life’s ever-modern rapids first, (soon, soon to blend, With the old streams of death.) Some threading Ohio’s farm-fields or the woods, Some down Colorado’s canons from sources of perpetual snow, Some half-hid in Oregon, or away southward in Texas, Some in the north finding their way to Erie, Niagara, Ottawa, Some to Atlantica’s bays, and so to the great salt brine. In you whoe’er you are my book perusing, In I myself, in all the world, these currents flowing, All, all toward the mystic ocean tending.