Page:Leaves of Grass (1882).djvu/360

354 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 turn'd-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-pull'd scabbard.

This face owes to the sexton his dismalest fee,

An unceasing death-bell tolls there.

Features of my equals would you trick me with your creas'd and cadaverous march?

Well, you cannot trick me.

I see your rounded never-erased flow,

I see 'neath the rims of your haggard and mean disguises.

Splay and twist as you like, poke with the tangling fores of fishes or rats,

You'll be unmuzzled, you certainly will.

I saw the face of the most smear'd and slobbering idiot they had at the asylum,

And I knew for my consolation what they knew not,

I knew of the agents that emptied and broke my brother,

The same wait to clear the rubbish from the fallen tenement,

And I shall look again in a score or two of ages,

And I shall meet the real landlord perfect and unharm'd, every inch as good as myself.

The Lord advances, and yet advances,

Always the shadow in front, always the reached hand bringing up the laggards.

Out of this face emerge banners and horses—O superb! I see what is coming,

I see the high pioneer-caps, see staves of runners clearing the way,

I hear victorious drums.