Page:Leaves of Grass (1860).djvu/287

Rh Sauntering the pavement, or crossing the ceaseless
 * ferry, here then are faces,

I see them and complain not, and am content with
 * all.

Do you suppose I could be content with all, if I
 * thought them their own finale?

This now is too lamentable a face for a man, Some abject louse, asking leave to be—cringing for it, Some milk-nosed maggot, blessing what lets it wrig to
 * its hole.

This face is a dog's snout sniffling for garbage; Snakes nest in that mouth—I hear the sibilant threat.

This face is a haze more chill than the arctic sea. Its sleepy and wobbling icebergs crunch as they go.

This is a face of bitter herbs—this an emetic—they
 * need no label.

And more of the drug-shelf, laudanum, caoutchouc,
 * or hog's-lard.

This face is an epilepsy, its wordless tongue gives out
 * the unearthly cry.

Its veins down the neck distend, its eyes roll till they
 * show nothing but their whites,

Its teeth grit, the palms of the hands are cut by the
 * turned-in nails,

The man falls struggling and foaming to the ground
 * while he speculates well.

This face is bitten by vermin and worms. And this is some murderer's knife with a half-pulled
 * scabbard.