Walt whitman. SparkNotes: Whitman’s Poetry: “Song of Myself” 2019-03-05

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Walt Whitman Poems

walt whitman

Is there a single final farewell? Myself moving forward then and now and forever, Gathering and showing more always and with velocity, Infinite and omnigenous, and the like of these among them; Not too exclusive toward the reachers of my remembrancers; Picking out here that I love, and now go with him on brotherly terms. The editions were of varying length, each one larger and augmented from the previous version, until the final edition reached over 400 poems. I am not the poet of goodness only—I do not decline to be the poet of wickedness also. Retreating, they had form’d in a hollow square, with their baggage for breastworks; Nine hundred lives out of the surrounding enemy’s, nine times their number, was the price they took in advance; Their colonel was wounded and their ammunition gone; They treated for an honorable capitulation, receiv’d writing and seal, gave up their arms, and march’d back prisoners of war. Distant and dead resuscitate; They show as the dial or move as the hands of me—I am the clock myself.

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Best Famous Walt Whitman Poems

walt whitman

Check out our other writing samples, like our resources on , ,. Archived from on July 16, 2016. O manhood, balanced, florid, and full. The title Leaves of Grass was a. Who have explored the outward, the surfaces of the races--the life that has exhibited itself; Who have treated of man as the creature of politics, aggregates, rulers and priests; I, habitan of the Alleghanies, treating of him as he is in himself, in his own rights, Pressing the pulse of the life that has seldom exhibited itself, the. Do you not know, O , how the buds beneath you are folded? And I to mankind, Be not curious about God, For I, who am curious about each, am not curious about God; No array of terms can say how much I am at peace about God, and about death.

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Song of Myself (1892 version) by Walt Whitman

walt whitman

GradeSaver, 16 August 2014 Web. This is no book;Who touches this, touches a man; Is it night? The sky up there—yet here, or next door, or across the way? A few quadrillions of eras, a few octillions of cubic leagues, do not hazard the span, or make it impatient; They are but parts—anything is but a part. And as to you Life, I reckon you are the leavings of many deaths; No doubt I have died myself ten thousand times before. How the water sports and sings! She owns the fine house by the rise of the bank; She hides, handsome and richly drest, aft the blinds of the window. Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am; Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary; Looks down, is erect, bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest, Looking with side-curved head, curious what will come ; Both in and out of the game, and watching and wondering at it.

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SparkNotes: Whitman’s Poetry: “Song of Myself”

walt whitman

This is the press of a bashful hand—this is the float and odor of hair; This is the touch of my lips to yours—this is the murmur of yearning; This is the far-off depth and height reflecting my own face; This is the thoughtful merge of myself, and the outlet again. Throughout his lifetime, he undertook different professions. Illustrious whatever I see, or hear, or touch, to the last. Unscrew the doors themselves from their jambs! I find I incorporate gneiss, coal, long-threaded moss, fruits, grains, esculent roots, And am stucco’d with quadrupeds and birds all over, And have distanced what is behind me for good reasons, And call anything close again, when I desire it. This is because of Whitman's belief that poetry was strongest as an oral medium. And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves. I hear the chorus—it is a grand ; Ah, this indeed is music! Welcome is every organ and attribute of me, and of any man hearty and clean; Not an inch, nor a particle of an inch, is vile, and none shall be less familiar than the rest.

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Song of Myself (1892 version) by Walt Whitman

walt whitman

A tenor large and fresh as the creation fills me; The orbic flex of his mouth is pouring and filling me full. I merely stir, press, feel with my fingers, and am happy; To touch my person to some one else’s is about as much as I can stand. Backward I see in my own days where I sweated through fog with linguists and contenders; I have no mockings or arguments—I witness and wait. The drover, watching his drove, sings out to them that would stray; The pedler sweats with his pack on his back, the purchaser higgling about the odd cent; The camera and plate are prepared, the lady must sit for her daguerreotype; The bride unrumples her white dress, the minute-hand of the clock moves slowly; The opium-eater reclines with rigid head and just-open’d lips; The prostitute draggles her shawl, her bonnet bobs on her tipsy and pimpled neck; The crowd laugh at her blackguard oaths, the men jeer and wink to each other; Miserable! Round and round we go, all of us, and ever come back ; If nothing lay more develop’d, the quahaug in its callous shell were enough. I am a free companion—I bivouac by invading watchfires. Nevertheless, Whitman has been criticized for the nationalism expressed in Leaves of Grass and other works. Whitman once said he intended the book to be small enough to be carried in a pocket.


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Walt Whitman

walt whitman

Houses and rooms are full of perfumes—the shelves are crowded with perfumes; I breathe the fragrance myself, and know it and like it; The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it. I do not know what it is, any more than he. List to the story as my grandmother’s father, the sailor, told it to. What behaved well in the past, or behaves well to-day, is not such a wonder; The wonder is, always and always, how there can be a mean man or an infidel. I go hunting polar furs and the seal—leaping chasms with a pike-pointed staff—clinging to topples of brittle and blue. I resign myself to you also—I guess what you mean; I behold from the beach your crooked inviting fingers; I believe you refuse to go back without feeling of me; We must have a turn together—I undress—hurry me out of sight of the land; Cushion me soft, rock me in billowy drowse; Dash me with amorous wet—I can repay you. Speech is the twin of my vision—it is unequal to measure itself; It provokes me forever; It says sarcastically, Walt, you contain —why don’t you let it out, then? Breast that presses against other breasts, it shall be you! The runaway slave came to my house and outside; I heard his motions crackling the twigs of the woodpile; Through the swung half-door of the kitchen I saw him limpsy and weak, And went where he sat on a log, and led him in and assured him, And brought water, and fill’d a tub for his sweated body and bruis’d feet, And gave him a room that enter’d from my own, and gave him some coarse clean clothes, And remember perfectly well his revolving eyes and his awkwardness, And remember putting plasters on the galls of his neck and ankles; He staid with me a week before he was recuperated and pass’d north; I had him sit next me at table—my fire-lock lean’d in the corner.

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Walt Whitman Poems

walt whitman

Very well, then, I contradict myself; I am large—I contain multitudes. I follow you, whoever you are, from the present hour; My words itch at your ears till you understand them. I turn the bridegroom out of bed, and stay with the bride myself; I tighten her all night to my thighs and lips. O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues! I do not know it—it is without name—it is a word unsaid; It is not in any dictionary, utterance, symbol. Our foe was no skulk in his ship, I tell you, said ; His was the surly English pluck—and there is no tougher or truer, and never was, and never will be; Along the lower’d eve he came, horribly raking us.

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SparkNotes: Whitman’s Poetry: “Song of Myself”

walt whitman

Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and knowledge that pass all the argument of the earth; And I know that the hand of God is the of my own, And I know that the spirit of God is brother of my own; And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women my sisters and lovers; And that a kelson of the creation is love; And limitless are leaves, stiff or drooping in the fields; And brown ants in the little wells beneath them; And mossy scabs of the worm fence, and heap’d stones, elder, mullen and poke-weed. Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you, that you be my poem; I whisper with my lips close to your ear, I have loved many women and men, but I love none better than you. I saw the marriage of the trapper in the open air in the far west—the bride was a red girl; Her father and his friends sat , cross-legged and dumbly smoking—they had moccasins to their feet, and large thick blankets hanging from their shoulders; On a bank lounged the trapper—he was drest mostly in skins—his luxuriant beard and curls protected his —he held his bride by the hand; She had long eyelashes—her head was bare—her coarse straight locks descended upon her voluptuous limbs and reach’d to her feet. The heart, to jet the all-alike and innocent blood! Hands I have taken—face I have kiss’d—mortal I have ever touch’d! Who has done his day’s work? Whitman believed the controversy would increase sales, which proved true. » » » » Best Poems Best Famous Walt Whitman Poems Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Walt Whitman poems. The first of these is found in the sixth section of the poem. Where much previous poetry, especially , relied on , , and on the and , Leaves of Grass particularly the first edition exalted the and the world.

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14. Walt Whitman. Whitman, Walt. 1900. Leaves of Grass

walt whitman

I remember I said, before my leaves sprang at all, I would raise my voice jocund and strong, with reference to consummations. With one exception, the poems do not rhyme or follow standard rules for meter and line length. Births have brought us richness and variety, And other births will bring us richness and variety. I am he that walks with the tender and growing night; I call to the earth and sea, half-held by the night. Still the New World: American Literature in a Culture of Creative Destruction. The only American library known to have purchased a copy of the first edition was in. Whatever goes to the tilth of me, it shall be you! Serene stands the little captain; He is not hurried—his voice is neither high nor low; His eyes give more light to us than our battle-lanterns.

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