ON my northwest coast in the midst of the night, a fishermen's group stands watching; Out on the lake, that expands before them, others are spearing salmon; The canoe, a dim shadowy thing, moves across the black water, Bearing a Torch a-blaze at the prow.
LOCATIONS and times--what is it in me that meets them all, whenever and wherever, and makes me at home? Forms, colors, densities, odors--what is it in me that corresponds with them?
THITHER, as I look, I see each result and glory retracing itself and nestling close, always obligated; Thither hours, months, years--thither trades, compacts, establishments, even the most minute; Thither every-day life, speech, utensils, politics, persons, estates; Thither we also, I with my leaves and songs, trustful, admirant, As a father, to his father going, takes his children along with him.
OTHERS may praise what they like; But I, from the banks of the running Missouri, praise nothing, in art, or aught else, Till it has well inhaled the atmosphere of this river--also the western prairie-scent, And fully exudes it again.
AS I watch'd the ploughman ploughing, Or the sower sowing in the fields--or the harvester harvesting, I saw there too, O life and death, your analogies: (Life, life is the tillage, and Death is the harvest according.)