Manhattan Streets I Saunter’d, Pondering by Walt Whitman

MANHATTAN’S streets I saunter’d, pondering,
On time, space, reality—on such as these, and abreast with them, prudence.

After all, the last explanation remains to be made about prudence;
Little and large alike drop quietly aside from the prudence that suits immortality.

The Soul is of itself;
All verges to it—all has reference to what ensues;
All that a person does, says, thinks, is of consequence;
Not a move can a man or woman make, that affects him or her in a day, month, any part of
life-time, or the hour of death, but the same affects him or her onward afterward through
indirect life-time.

The indirect is just as much as the direct,
The spirit receives from the body just as much as it gives to the body, if not more.

Not one word or deed—not venereal sore, discoloration, privacy of the onanist,
gluttons or rum-drinkers, peculation, cunning, betrayal, murder, seduction, prostitution,
results beyond death, as really as before death.

Charity and personal force are the only investments worth anything.

No specification is necessary—all that a male or female does, that is vigorous,
clean, is so much profit to him or her, in the unshakable order of the universe, and
whole scope of it forever.

Who has been wise, receives interest,
Savage, felon, President, judge, farmer, sailor, mechanic, literat, young, old, it is the
The interest will come round—all will come round.

Singly, wholly, to affect now, affected their time, will forever affect all of the past,
all of
the present, and all of the future,
All the brave actions of war and peace,
All help given to relatives, strangers, the poor, old, sorrowful, young children, widows,
and to shunn’d persons,
All furtherance of fugitives, and of the escape of slaves,
All self-denial that stood steady and aloof on wrecks, and saw others fill the seats of
All offering of substance or life for the good old cause, or for a friend’s sake, or
opinion’s sake,
All pains of enthusiasts, scoff’d at by their neighbors,
All the limitless sweet love and precious suffering of mothers,
All honest men baffled in strifes recorded or unrecorded,
All the grandeur and good of ancient nations whose fragments we inherit,
All the good of the dozens of ancient nations unknown to us by name, date, location,
All that was ever manfully begun, whether it succeeded or no,
All suggestions of the divine mind of man, or the divinity of his mouth, or the shaping of
All that is well thought or said this day on any part of the globe—or on any of the
stars, or on any of the fix’d stars, by those there as we are here;
All that is henceforth to be thought or done by you, whoever you are, or by any one;
These inure, have inured, shall inure, to the identities from which they sprang, or shall

Did you guess anything lived only its moment?
The world does not so exist—no parts palpable or impalpable so exist;
No consummation exists without being from some long previous consummation—and that
Without the farthest conceivable one coming a bit nearer the beginning than any.

Whatever satisfies Souls is true;
Prudence entirely satisfies the craving and glut of Souls;
Itself only finally satisfies the Soul;
The Soul has that measureless pride which revolts from every lesson but its own.

Now I give you an inkling;
Now I breathe the word of the prudence that walks abreast with time, space, reality,
That answers the pride which refuses every lesson but its own.

What is prudence, is indivisible,
Declines to separate one part of life from every part,
Divides not the righteous from the unrighteous, or the living from the dead,
Matches every thought or act by its correlative,
Knows no possible forgiveness, or deputed atonement,
Knows that the young man who composedly peril’d his life and lost it, has done
for himself without doubt,
That he who never peril’d his life, but retains it to old age in riches and ease, has
achiev’d nothing for himself worth mentioning;
Knows that only that person has really learn’d, who has learn’d to prefer
Who favors Body and Soul the same,
Who perceives the indirect assuredly following the direct,
Who in his spirit in any emergency whatever neither hurries or, avoids death.

by Walt Whitman

Other poems by 'Walt Whitman'

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Song at Sunset.

Ashes of Soldiers.



I Hear America Singing.

When Lilacs Last in the Door-yard Bloom’d.

To Foreign Lands.

Adieu to a Soldier.

In Midnight Sleep.

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