Page:Leaves of Grass (1860).djvu/158

150 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 awakes 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 score of the
 * baritone singer singing his sweet romanza—nor
 * that of the men's chorus, nor that of the women's
 * chorus,

It is nearer and farther than they.

Will the whole come back then? Can each see signs of the best by a look in the
 * looking-glass? 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 between-days,

What is called right and what is called wrong—
 * what you behold or touch, or what causes your
 * anger or wonder,