ithout one jolt, or the
untruth of a single second,
I do not think it was made in six days, nor in ten thousand years, nor
ten billions of years,
Nor planned and built one thing after another as an architect plans and
builds a house."

In old age he sees "the estuary that enlarges and spreads itself grandly
as it pours into the sea." He looks upon all things at a certain remove.
These are typical lines:--

"A thousand perfect men and women appear,
Around each gathers a cluster of friends, and gay children and youths,
with offerings."

"Women sit, or move to and fro, some old, some young,
The young are beautiful--but the old are more beautiful than the young."

"The Runner," "A Farm Picture," and scores of others, are to the same
effect. Always wholes, total impressions,--always a view as of a "strong
bird on pinion free." Few details, but panoramic effects; not the flower,
but the landscape; not a tree, but a forest; not a street corner, but a
city. The title of one of his poems, "A Song of the Rolling Earth," might
stand as the title of the book. When he gathers details and special
features he masses them like a bouquet of herbs and flowers. No cameo
carving, but large, bold, rough, heroic sculpturing. The poetry is always
in the totals, the breadth, the sweep of conception. The part that is
local, specific, genre, near at hand, is Whitman himself; his personality
is the background across which it all flits.

We make a mistake when we demand of Whitman what the other poets give
us,--studies, embroidery, delicate tracings, pleasing artistic effects,
rounded and finished specimens. We shall understand him better if we
inquire what his own standards are, what kind of a poet he would be. He
tells us over and over again that he would emulate the great forces and
processes of Nature. He seeks for hints in the sea, the mountain, in the
orbs themselves. In the wild splendor and savageness of a Colorado canyon
he sees a spirit kindred to his own.

He dwells fondly, significantly, upon the amplitude, the coarseness, and
what he calls the sexuality, of the earth, and upon its great charity and
equilibrium.

"The earth," he says, "does not withhold; it is generous enough:--

"The truths of the earth continually wait, they are not so concealed
either,
They are calm, subtle, untransmissible by print.
They are imbued through all things, conveying themselves willin