A Song for Occupations

1


Come closer to me,
Push close my lovers and take the best I possess,
Yield closer and closer and give me the best you possess.


This is unfinished business with me . . . . how is it with you?
I was chilled with the cold types and cylinder and wet paper
   between us.

I pass so poorly with paper and types . . . . I must pass
   with the contact of bodies and souls.


I do not thank you for liking me as I am, and liking the
   touch of me . . . . I know that it is good for you to do so.


Were all educations practical and ornamental well
   displayed out of me, what would it amount to?
Were I as the head teacher or charitable proprietor or wise
   statesman, what would it amount to?
Were I to you as the boss employing and paying you,
   would that satisfy you?

The learned and virtuous and benevolent, and the usual terms;
A man like me, and never the usual terms.

Neither a servant nor a master am I,
I take no sooner a large price than a small price . . . . I will
   have my own whoever enjoys me,
I will be even with you, and you shall be even with me.


If you are a workman or workwoman I stand as nigh as
   the nighest that works in the same shop,
If you bestow gifts on your brother or dearest friend,
   I demand as good as your brother or dearest friend,
If your lover or husband or wife is welcome by day or
   night, I must be personally as welcome;

If you have become degraded or ill, then I will become
   so for your sake;
If you remember your foolish and outlawed deeds, do you
   think I cannot remember my foolish and outlawed
   deeds?
If you carouse at the table I say I will carouse at the
   opposite side of the table;
If you meet some stranger in the street and love him or
   her, do I not often meet strangers in the street and
   love them?
If you see a good deal remarkable in me I see just as much
   remarkable in you.


Why what have you thought of yourself?
Is it you then that thought yourself less?
Is it you that thought the President greater than you? or the
   rich better off than you? or the educated wiser than
   you?

Because you are greasy or pimpled -- or that you was once
   drunk, or a thief, or diseased, or rheumatic, or a
   prostitute -- or are so now -- or from frivolity or
   impotence -- or that you are no scholar, and never
   saw your name in print . . . . do you give in that you
   are any less immortal?



2


Souls of men and women! it is not you I call unseen,
   unheard, untouchable and untouching;
It is not you I go argue pro and con about, and to settle
   whether you are alive or no;
I own publicly who you are, if nobody else owns . . . . and
   see and hear you, and what you give and take;
What is there you cannot give and take?

I see not merely that you are polite or whitefaced . . . .
   married or single . . . . citizens of old states or citizens
   of new states . . . . eminent in some profession . . . . a
   lady or gentleman in a parlor . . . . or dressed in the
   jail uniform . . . . or pulpit uniform,
Not only the free Utahan, Kansian, or Arkansian . . . . not
   only the free Cuban . . . not merely the slave . . . .
   not Mexican native, or Flatfoot, or negro from Africa,
Iroquois eating the warflesh -- fishtearer in his lair of
   rocks and sand . . . . Esquimaux in the dark cold
   snowhouse . . . . Chinese with his transverse eyes . . . .
   Bedowee -- or wandering nomad -- or tabounschik
   at the head of his droves,

Grown, half-grown, and babe -- of this country and every
   country, indoors and outdoors I see . . . . and all else
   is behind or through them.


The wife -- and she is not one jot less than the husband,
The daughter -- and she is just as good as the son,
The mother -- and she is every bit as much as the father.

Offspring of those not rich -- boys apprenticed to trades,
Young fellows working on farms and old fellows working
   on farms;
The naive . . . . the simple and hardy . . . . he going to the
   polls to vote . . . . he who has a good time, and he
   who has a bad time;
Mechanics, southerners, new arrivals, sailors, mano'warsmen,
   merchantmen, coasters,
All these I see . . . . but nigher and farther the same I see;
None shall escape me, and none shall wish to escape me.

I bring what you much need, yet always have,
I bring not money or amours or dress or eating . . . . but
   I bring as good;
And send no agent or medium . . . . and offer no
   representative of value -- but offer the value itself.

There is something that comes home to one now and
   perpetually,
It is not what is printed or preached or discussed . . . . it
   eludes discussion and print,
It is not to be put in a book . . . . it is not in this book,
It is for you whoever you are . . . . it is no farther from you
   than your hearing and sight are from you,
It is hinted by nearest and commonest and readiest . . . .
   it is not them, though it is endlessly provoked by
   them . . . . What is there ready and near you now?


You may read in many languages and read nothing about it;
You may read the President's message and read nothing
   about it there,
Nothing in the reports from the state department or
   treasury department . . . . or in the daily papers, or
   the weekly papers,
Or in the census returns or assessors' returns or prices
   current or any accounts of stock.



3


The sun and stars that float in the open air . . . . the
   appleshaped earth and we upon it . . . . surely the
   drift of them is something grand;

I do not know what it is except that it is grand, and that it is
   happiness,
And that the enclosing purport of us here is not a
   speculation, or bon-mot or reconnoissance,

And that it is not something which by luck may turn out
   well for us, and without luck must be a failure for us,
And not something which may yet be retracted in a certain
   contingency.

The light and shade -- the curious sense of body and
   identity -- the greed that with perfect complaisance
   devours all things -- the endless pride and outstretching
   of man -- unspeakable joys and sorrows,
The wonder every one sees in every one else he sees . . . .
   and the wonders that fill each minute of time forever
   and each acre of surface and space forever,

Have you reckoned them as mainly for a trade or
   farmwork? or for the profits of a store? or to achieve
   yourself a position? or to fill a gentleman's leisure
   or a lady's leisure?

Have you reckoned the landscape took substance and
   form that it might be painted in a picture?
Or men and women that they might be written of,
   and songs sung?
Or the attraction of gravity and the great laws and
   harmonious combinations and the fluids of the air
   as subjects for the savans?
Or the brown land and the blue sea for maps and charts?

Or the stars to be put in constellations and named fancy
   names?
Or that the growth of seeds is for agricultural tables
   or agriculture itself?

Old institutions . . . . these arts libraries legends collections
   -- and the practice handed along in manufactures . . . .
   will we rate them so high?
Will we rate our prudence and business so high? . . . .
   I have no objection,
I rate them as high as the highest . . . . but a child born of a
   woman and man I rate beyond all rate.


We thought our Union grand and our Constitution grand;
I do not say they are not grand and good -- for they are,
I am this day just as much in love with them as you,
But
I am eternally in love with you and with all my fellows
   upon the earth.

We consider the bibles and religions divine . . . . I do not
   say they are not divine,
I say they have all grown out of you and may grow
   out of you still,
It is not they who give the life . . . . it is you who give the life;
Leaves are not more shed from the trees or trees from
   the earth than they are shed out of you.



4


The sum of all known value and respect I add up in
   you whoever you are;
The President is up there in the White House for you . . . .
   it is not you who are here for him,
The Secretaries act in their bureaus for you . . . . not you
   here for them,
The Congress convenes every December for you,
Laws, courts, the forming of states, the charters of cities,
   the going and coming of commerce and mails are
   all for you.

All doctrines, all politics and civilization exurge from you,
All sculpture and monuments and anything inscribed
   anywhere are tallied in you
,

The gist of histories and statistics as far back as the
   records reach is in you this hour -- and myths and
   tales the same;
If you were not breathing and walking here where
   would they all be?
The most renowned poems would be ashes . . . . orations
   and plays would be vacuums.

All architecture is what you do to it when you look upon it;
Did you think it was in the white or gray stone? or the
   lines of the arches and cornices?

All music is what awakens from you when you are
   reminded by the instruments,
It is not the violins and the cornets . . . . it is not the oboe
   nor the beating drums -- nor the notes of the baritone
   singer singing his sweet romanza . . . . nor those of
   the men's chorus, nor those of the women's chorus,
It is nearer and farther than they.



5


Will the whole come back then?
Can each see the signs of the best by a look in the
   lookingglass? Is there nothing greater or more?

Does all sit there with you and here with me?

The old forever new things . . . . you foolish child! . . . .
   the closest simplest things -- this moment with you,
Your person and every particle that relates to your
   person,
The pulses of your brain waiting their chance
and
   encouragement at every deed or sight;
Anything you do in public by day, and anything you do
   in secret betweendays,
What is called right and what is called wrong . . . .
   what you behold or touch . . . . what causes your
   anger or wonder,
The anklechain of the slave, the bed of the bedhouse,
   the cards of the gambler, the plates of the forger;
What is seen or learned in the street, or intuitively learned,

What is learned in the public school -- spelling, reading,
   writing and ciphering . . . . the blackboard and the
   teacher's diagrams:

The panes of the windows and all that appears through
   them . . . . the going forth in the morning and the aimless
   spending of the day;
(What is it that you made money? what is it that you
   got what you wanted?)
The usual routine . . . . the workshop, factory, yard,
   office, store, or desk;
The jaunt of hunting or fishing, or the life of hunting or
   fishing,

Pasturelife, foddering, milking and herding, and all
   the personnel and usages;
The plum-orchard and apple-orchard . . . . gardening . .
   seedlings, cuttings, flowers and vines,
Grains and manures . . marl, clay, loam . .
the subsoil
   plough . . the shovel and pick and rake and hoe . .
   irrigation and draining;
The currycomb . . the horse-cloth . . the halter and
   bridle and bits . . the very wisps of straw,

The barn and barn-yard . . the bins and mangers . .
   the mows and racks:
Manufactures . . commerce . . engineering . . the building
   of cities, and every trade carried on there . . and the
   implements of every trade,
The anvil and tongs and hammer . . the axe and wedge . . the
   square and mitre and jointer and smoothingplane;
The plumbob and trowel and level . . the wall-scaffold, and
   the work of walls and ceilings . . or any mason-work:
The ship's compass . . the sailor's tarpaulin . . the stays and
   lanyards, and the ground-tackle for anchoring or
   mooring,
The sloop's tiller . . the pilot's wheel and bell . . the
   yacht or fish-smack . . the great gay-pennanted
   three-hundred-foot steamboat under full headway,
   with her proud fat breasts and her delicate
   swift-flashing paddles;
The trail and line and hooks and sinkers . . the seine, and
   hauling the seine;

Smallarms and rifles . . . . the powder and shot and caps and
   wadding . . . . the ordnance for war . . . . the carriages:
Everyday objects . . . . the housechairs, the carpet, the
   bed and the counterpane of the bed, and him or her
   sleeping at night, and the wind blowing, and the
   indefinite noises:
The snowstorm or rainstorm . . . . the tow-trowsers . . . . the
   lodge-hut in the woods, and the still-hunt:
City and country . . fireplace and candle . . gaslight and
   heater and aqueduct;
The message of the governor, mayor, or chief of police . . . .
   the dishes of breakfast or dinner or supper;
The bunkroom, the fire-engine, the string-team, and the
   car or truck behind;
The paper I write on or you write on . . and every word
   we write . . and every cross and twirl of the pen . . and
   the curious way we write what we think . . . . yet
   very faintly;
The directory, the detector, the ledger . . . . the books
   in ranks or the bookshelves . . . . the clock attached
   to the wall,
The ring on your finger . . the lady's wristlet . . the
   hammers of stonebreakers or coppersmiths . . the
   druggist's vials and jars;
The etui of surgical instruments, and the etui of oculist's
   or aurist's instruments, or dentist's instruments;
Glassblowing, grinding of wheat and corn . . casting, and
   what is cast . . tinroofing, shingledressing,
Shipcarpentering, flagging of sidewalks by flaggers . .
   dockbuilding, fishcuring, ferrying;

The pump, the piledriver, the great derrick . . the coalkiln
   and brickkiln,
Ironworks or whiteleadworks . . the sugarhouse . .
   steam-saws, and the great mills and factories;
The cottonbale . . the stevedore's hook . . the saw and
   buck of the sawyer . . the screen of the coalscreener . .
   the mould of the moulder . . the workingknife of
   the butcher;
The cylinder press . . the handpress . . the frisket and
   tympan . . the compositor's stick and rule,
The implements for daguerreotyping . . . . the tools of the
   rigger or grappler or sailmaker or blockmaker,

Goods of guttapercha or papiermache . . . . colors and
   brushes . . . . glaziers' implements,
The veneer and gluepot . . the confectioner's ornaments . .
   the decanter and glasses . . the shears and flatiron;

The awl and kneestrap . . the pint measure and quart
   measure . . the counter and stool . . the writingpen of
   quill or metal;
Billiards and tenpins . . . . the ladders and hanging ropes
   of the gymnasium, and the manly exercises;
The designs for wallpapers or oilcloths or carpets . . . . the
   fancies for goods for women . . . . the bookbinder's
   stamps;
Leatherdressing, coachmaking, boilermaking, ropetwisting,
   distilling, signpainting, limeburning, coopering,
   cottonpicking,

The walkingbeam of the steam-engine . . the throttle and
   governors, and the up and down rods,
Stavemachines and plainingmachines . . . . the cart of the
   carman . . the omnibus . . the ponderous dray;
The snowplough and two engines pushing it . . . . the
   ride in the express train of only one car . . . . the swift
   go through a howling storm:
The bearhunt or coonhunt . . . . the bonfire of shavings in the
   open lot in the city . . the crowd of children watching;
The blows of the fighting-man . . the upper cut and
   one-two-three;
The shopwindows . . . . the coffins in the sexton's wareroom
. . . . the fruit on the fruitstand . . . . the beef on the
   butcher's stall,
The bread and cakes in the bakery . . . . the white and red
   pork in the pork-store;
The milliner's ribbons . . the dressmaker's patterns . . . .
   the tea-table . . the homemade sweetmeats:
The column of wants in the one-cent paper . . the news by
   telegraph . . . . the amusements and operas and shows:
The cotton and woolen and linen you wear . . . . the money
   you make and spend;
Your room and bedroom . . . . your piano-forte . . . .
   the stove and cookpans,

The house you live in . . . . the rent . . . . the other tenants
. . . . the deposit in the savings-bank . . . . the trade
   at the grocery,
The pay on Saturday night . . . . the going home, and
   the purchases;
In them the heft of the heaviest . . . . in them far more than
   you estimated, and far less also,
In them, not yourself . . . . you and your soul enclose all
   things, regardless of estimation,
In them your themes and hints and provokers . . if not,
   the whole earth has no themes or hints or provokers,
   and never had.

I do not affirm what you see beyond is futile . . . . I do
   not advise you to stop,
I do not say leadings you thought great are not great,
But I say that none lead to greater or sadder or happier
   than those lead to.



6


Will you seek afar off? You surely come back at last,
In things best known to you finding the best or as good
   as the best,
In folks nearest to you finding also the sweetest and
   strongest and lovingest,
Happiness not in another place, but this place . . not for
   another hour, but this hour,
Man in the first you see or touch . . . .
always in your
   friend or brother or nighest neighbor . . . . Woman in
   your mother or lover or wife,
And all else thus far known giving place to men and women.

When the psalm sings instead of the singer,
When the script preaches instead of the preacher,
When the pulpit descends and goes instead of the carver
   that carved the supporting desk,

When the sacred vessels or the bits of the eucharist, or
   the lath and plast, procreate as effectually as the young
   silversmiths or bakers, or the masons in their overalls,
When a university course convinces like a slumbering
   woman and child convince,


When the minted gold in the vault smiles like the
   nightwatchman's daughter,
When warrantee deeds loafe in chairs opposite and
   are my friendly companions,
I intend to reach them my hand and make as much of them
   as I do of men and women.