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And the old drunkard staggering home from the outhouse
of the tavern, whence he had lately risen,
And the school-mistress that passed on her way to the
school,
And the friendly boys that passed—and the quarrelsome
boys,
And the tidy and fresh-cheeked girls—and the bare-foot
negro boy and girl,
And all the changes of city and country, wherever he
went.

4.His own parents,
He that had fathered him, and she that conceived him
in her womb, and birthed him,
They gave this child more of themselves than that,
They gave him afterward every day—they and of
them became part of him.

5.The mother at home, quietly placing the dishes on the
supper-table,
The mother with mild words—clean her cap and
gown, a wholesome odor falling off her person
and clothes as she walks by;
The father, strong, self-sufficient, manly, mean, angered,
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 gainsayed—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,