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.