There was a child went forth every day,
And the first object he look'd upon, that object he became,
And that object became part of him for the day or a certain
part of the day,
Or for many years or stretching cycles of years.

The early lilacs became part of this child,
And grass and white and red morning-glories, and white and red
 

clover, and the song of the phoebe-bird,
And the Third-month lambs and the sow's pink-faint litter, and
 

the mare's foal and the cow's calf,
And the noisy brood of the barnyard or by the mire of the pond-
 

side,
And the fish suspending themselves so curiously below there,
 

and the beautiful curious liquid,
And the water-plants with their graceful flat heads, all became
 

part of him.

The field-sprouts of Fourth month and Fifth-month became part
 

of him,
Winter-grain sprouts and those of the light-yellow corn, and the
 

esculent roots of the garden,
And the apple-trees cover'd with blossoms and the fruit afterward,
 

and wood-berries, and the commonest weeds by the road,
And the old drunkard staggering home from the outhouse of the
 

tavern whence he had lately risen,
And the schoolmistress that pass'd on her way to the school,
And the friendly boys that pass'd, and the quarrelsome boys,
And the tidy and fresh-cheek'd girls, and the barefoot negro boy
 

and girl,
And all the changes of city and country wherever he went.

His own parents, he that had father'd him and she that had conceiv'd

him in her womb and birth'd him,
They gave this child more of themselves than that,
They gave him afterward every day, they became part of him.

The mother at home quietly placing the dishes on the supper
 

table,
The mother with mild words, clean her cap and gown, a whole-
 

some odor falling off her person and clothes as she walks by.
The father, strong, self-sufficient, manly, mean, anger'd, unjust,
The blow, the quick loud word, the tight bargain, the crafty lure,
The family usages, the language, the company, the furniture, the
 

yearning and swelling heart,
Affection that will not be gainsay'd, the sense of what is real, the
 

thought if after all it should prove unreal,
The doubts of day-time and the doubts of night-time, the curious
 

whether and how,
Whether that which appears so is so, or is it all flashes and specks?
Men and women crowding fast in the streets, if they are not
 

flashes and specks what are they?
The streets themselves and the facades of houses, and goods in
 

the windows,
Vehicles, teams, the heavy-plank'd wharves, the huge crossing at
 

the ferries,
The village on the highland seen from afar at sunset, the river
 

between,
Shadows, aureola and mist, the light falling on roofs and gables of
 

white or brown two miles off,
The schooner near by sleepily dropping down the tide, the little
 

boat slack-tow' d astern
The hurrying tumbling waves, quick-broken crests, slapping,
The strata of color'd clouds, the long bar of maroon-tint away solitary

by itself, the spread of purity it lies motionless in,
The horizon's edge, the flying sea-crow, the fragrance of salt marsh
 

and shore mud,
These became part of that child who went forth every day, and
 

who now goes, and will always go forth every day.