Book III

By Pittsburg Landing, the turbid Tennessee Sucks against black, soaked spiles with soil-colored waters. That country is huge and disorderly, even now. —This is Ellyat’s tune, this is no tune but his⁠— Country of muddy rivers, sombre and swollen, Country of bronze wild turkeys and catfish-fries And brushpile landings going back to the brush. A province of mush and milk, a half-cleared forest, A speckled guinea-cock that never was cooped But ran away to grow his spurs by himself. Neither North nor South, but crunching a root of its own Between strong teeth⁠—perhaps a wild-onion-root, Perhaps a white stalk of arbutus, hardier there, Than any phantom-arbutus of Eastern Springs. A mudsill man with the river-wash in his ears, Munching the coarse, good meal of a johnny-cake Hot from the hob⁠—even now it tastes of the brush, The wilderness, the big lost star in the pines, The brown river-dirt, the perpetual river-sound, In spite of the sidewalks, in spite of the trolley-cars. No trolley-car-bell can drown that river-sound,