I write this, 11 A. M., shelter’d
under a dense oak by the bank, where I have taken refuge from a sudden rain. I
came down here, (we had sulky drizzles all the morning, but an hour ago a
lull,) for the before-mention’d daily and simple exercise I am fond of—to pull
on that young hickory sapling out there—to sway and yield to its tough-limber
upright stem—haply to get into my old sinews some of its elastic fibre and
clear sap. I stand on the turf and take these health-pulls moderately and at
intervals for nearly an hour, inhaling great draughts of fresh air. Wandering
by the creek, I have three or four naturally favorable spots where I
rest—besides a chair I lug with me and use for more deliberate occasions. At
other spots convenient I have selected, besides the hickory just named, strong
and limber boughs of beech or holly, in easy-reaching distance, for my natural
gymnasia, for arms, chest, trunk-muscles. I can soon feel the sap and sinew
rising through me, like mercury to heat. I hold on boughs or slender trees
caressingly there in the sun and shade, wrestle with their innocent
stalwartness—and know the virtue thereof passes from them into me.
(Or may-be we interchange—may-be the trees are more aware of it all than I ever
thought.)
But now pleasantly imprison’d here under the big oak—the rain dripping, and the sky cover’d with leaden clouds—nothing but the pond on one side, and the other a spread of grass, spotted with the milky blossoms of the wild carrot—the sound of an axe wielded at some distant wood-pile—yet in this dull scene, (as most folks would call it,) why am I so (almost) happy here and alone? Why would any intrusion, even from people I like, spoil the charm? But am I alone? Doubtless there comes a time—perhaps it has come to me—when one feels through his whole being, and pronouncedly the emotional part, that identity between himself subjectively and Nature objectively which Schelling and Fichte are so fond of pressing. How it is I know not, but I often realize a presence here—in clear moods I am certain of it, and neither chemistry nor reasoning nor esthetics will give the least explanation. All the past two summers it has been strengthening and nourishing my sick body and soul, as never before. Thanks, invisible physician, for thy silent delicious medicine, thy day and night, thy waters and thy airs, the banks, the grass, the trees, and e’en the weeds!
But now pleasantly imprison’d here under the big oak—the rain dripping, and the sky cover’d with leaden clouds—nothing but the pond on one side, and the other a spread of grass, spotted with the milky blossoms of the wild carrot—the sound of an axe wielded at some distant wood-pile—yet in this dull scene, (as most folks would call it,) why am I so (almost) happy here and alone? Why would any intrusion, even from people I like, spoil the charm? But am I alone? Doubtless there comes a time—perhaps it has come to me—when one feels through his whole being, and pronouncedly the emotional part, that identity between himself subjectively and Nature objectively which Schelling and Fichte are so fond of pressing. How it is I know not, but I often realize a presence here—in clear moods I am certain of it, and neither chemistry nor reasoning nor esthetics will give the least explanation. All the past two summers it has been strengthening and nourishing my sick body and soul, as never before. Thanks, invisible physician, for thy silent delicious medicine, thy day and night, thy waters and thy airs, the banks, the grass, the trees, and e’en the weeds!
Walt Whitman
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