Keep your splendid silent sun, Keep your woods, O Nature, and the quiet places by the woods, Keep your fields of clover and timothy, and your corn-fields and orchards, Keep the blossoming buckwheat fields where the Ninth-month bees hum; Give me faces and streets--give me these phantoms incessant and endless along the trottoirs! Give me interminable eyes--give me women--give me comrades and lovers by the thousand! Let me see new ones every day--let me hold new ones by the hand every day! Give me such shows--give me the streets of Manhattan! Give me Broadway, with the soldiers marching--give me the sound of the trumpets and drums! (The soldiers in companies or regiments--some starting away, flushed and reckless, Some, their time up, returning with thinn'd ranks, young, yet very old, worn, marching, noticing nothing) Give me the shores and wharves heavy-fringed with black ships! O such for me! O an intense life, full to repletion and varied! The life of the theatre, bar-room, huge hotel, for me! The saloon of the steamer! the crowded excursion for me! the torchlight procession! The dense brigade bound for the war, with high piled military wagons following; People, endless, streaming, with strong voices, passions, pageants, Manhattan streets with their powerful throbs, with beating drums as now, The endless and noisy chorus, the rustle and clank of muskets (even the sight of the wounded), Manhattan crowds, with their turbulent musical chorus! Manhattan faces and eyes forever for me. FACES The old face of the mother of many children, Whist! I am fully content. Lull'd and late is the smoke of the First-day morning, It hangs low over the rows of trees by the fences, It hangs thin by the sassafras and wild-cherry and cat-brier under them. I saw the rich ladies in full dress at the soiree, I heard what the singers were singing so long, Heard who sprang in crimson youth from the white froth and the water-blue. Behold a woman! She looks out from her quaker cap, her face is clearer and more beautiful than the sky. She sits in an armchair under the shaded porch of the farmhouse, The sun just shines on her old white head. Her ample gown is of cream-hued linen, Her grandsons raised the flax, and her granddaughters spun it with the distaff and the wheel. The melodious character of the earth, The finish beyond which philosophy cannot go and does not wish to go, The justified mother of men. O MAGNET-SOUTH