Text of Whitman's Poem


I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their 
        parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.

Creeds and schools in abeyance,
Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
Nature without check with original energy.


Houses and rooms are full of perfumes, the shelves are crowded with 
I breathe the fragrance myself and know it and like it,
The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it.

The atmosphere is not a perfume, it has no taste of the 
        distillation, it is odorless,
It is for my mouth forever, I am in love with it,
I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked,
I am mad for it to be in contact with me.

The smoke of my own breath,
Echoes, ripples, buzz'd whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and vine,
My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing 
        of blood and air through my lungs,
The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore and 
        dark-color'd sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn,
The sound of the belch'd words of my voice loos'd to the eddies of 
        the wind,
A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms,
The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag,
The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields 
        and hill-sides,
The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising 
        from bed and meeting the sun.

Have you reckon'd a thousand acres much? have you reckon'd the earth much?
Have you practis'd so long to learn to read?
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?

Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of 
        all poems,
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions of suns left,)
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through 
        the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books,
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self.


I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the 
        beginning and the end,
But I do not talk of the beginning or the end.

There was never any more inception than there is now,
Nor any more youth or age than there is now,
And will never be any more perfection than there is now,
Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.

Urge and urge and urge,
Always the procreant urge of the world.

Out of the dimness opposite equals advance, always substance and 
        increase, always sex,
Always a knit of identity, always distinction, always a breed of life.
To elaborate is no avail, learn'd and unlearn'd feel that it is so.

Sure as the most certain sure, plumb in the uprights, well 
        entretied, braced in the beams,
Stout as a horse, affectionate, haughty, electrical,
I and this mystery here we stand.

Clear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not my soul.

Lack one lacks both, and the unseen is proved by the seen,
Till that becomes unseen and receives proof in its turn.

Showing the best and dividing it from the worst age vexes age,
Knowing the perfect fitness and equanimity of things, while they 
        discuss I am silent, and go bathe and admire myself.

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.

I am satisfied—I see, dance, laugh, sing;
As the hugging and loving bed-fellow sleeps at my side through the night, 
        and withdraws at the peep of the day with stealthy tread,
Leaving me baskets cover'd with white towels swelling the house with 
        their plenty,
Shall I postpone my acceptation and realization and scream at my eyes,
That they turn from gazing after and down the road,
And forthwith cipher and show me to a cent,
Exactly the value of one and exactly the value of two, and which is ahead?


Trippers and askers surround me,
People I meet, the effect upon me of my early life or the ward and 
        city I live in, or the nation,
The latest dates, discoveries, inventions, societies, authors old and new,
My dinner, dress, associates, looks, compliments, dues,
The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman I love,
The sickness of one of my folks or of myself, or ill-doing or loss 
        or lack of money, or depressions or exaltations,
Battles, the horrors of fratricidal war, the fever of doubtful news, 
        the fitful events;
These come to me days and nights and go from me again,
But they are not the Me myself.

Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am,
Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary,
Looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest,
Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next,
Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it.

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.


I believe in you my soul, the other I am must not abase itself to you,
And you must not be abased to the other.
Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat,
Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture, not 
        even the best,
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valvèd voice.

I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning,
How you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turn'd over upon me,
And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue 
        to my bare-stript heart,
And reach'd till you felt my beard, and reach'd till you held my feet.

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 promise of my own,
And I know that the spirit of God is the 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, heap'd stones, elder, mullein and 


A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt,
Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see 
        and remark, and say Whose?

Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation.

Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,
Growing among black folks as among white, 
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I 
        receive them the same.

And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.

Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them,
It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken soon out 
        of their mothers' laps,
And here you are the mothers' laps.

This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.

O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues,
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing.

I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken 
        soon out of their laps.

What do you think has become of the young and old men?
And what do you think has become of the women and children?

They are alive and well somewhere,
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the 
        end to arrest it,
And ceas'd the moment life appear'd.

All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.


Has any one supposed it lucky to be born?
I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I know it.

I pass death with the dying and birth with the new-wash'd babe, and 
        am not contain'd between my hat and boots,
And peruse manifold objects, no two alike and every one good,
The earth good and the stars good, and their adjuncts all good.

I am not an earth nor an adjunct of an earth,
I am the mate and companion of people, all just as immortal and 
        fathomless as myself,
(They do not know how immortal, but I know.)

Every kind for itself and its own, for me mine male and female,
For me those that have been boys and that love women,
For me the man that is proud and feels how it stings to be slighted,
For me the sweet-heart and the old maid, for me mothers and the 
        mothers of mothers,
For me lips that have smiled, eyes that have shed tears,
For me children and the begetters of children.

Undrape! you are not guilty to me, nor stale nor discarded,
I see through the broadcloth and gingham whether or no,
And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot be shaken away.


The little one sleeps in its cradle,
I lift the gauze and look a long time, and silently brush away flies 
        with my hand.

The youngster and the red-faced girl turn aside up the bushy hill,
I peeringly view them from the top.

The suicide sprawls on the bloody floor of the bedroom,
I witness the corpse with its dabbled hair, I note where the pistol 
        has fallen.

The blab of the pave, tires of carts, sluff of boot-soles, talk of 
        the promenaders,
The heavy omnibus, the driver with his interrogating thumb, the 
        clank of the shod horses on the granite floor,
The snow-sleighs, clinking, shouted jokes, pelts of snow-balls,
The hurrahs for popular favorites, the fury of rous'd mobs,
The flap of the curtain'd litter, a sick man inside borne to the hospital,
The meeting of enemies, the sudden oath, the blows and fall,
The excited crowd, the policeman with his star quickly working his 
        passage to the centre of the crowd,
The impassive stones that receive and return so many echoes,
What groans of over-fed or half-starv'd who fall sunstruck or in fits,
What exclamations of women taken suddenly who hurry home and 
        give birth to babes,
What living and buried speech is always vibrating here, what howls 
        restrain'd by decorum,
Arrests of criminals, slights, adulterous offers made, acceptances, 
        rejections with convex lips,
I mind them or the show or resonance of them—I come and I depart.


The big doors of the country barn stand open and ready,
The dried grass of the harvest-time loads the slow-drawn wagon,
The clear light plays on the brown gray and green intertinged,
The armfuls are pack'd to the sagging mow.

I am there, I help, I came stretch'd atop of the load,
I felt its soft jolts, one leg reclined on the other,
I jump from the cross-beams and seize the clover and timothy,
And roll head over heels and tangle my hair full of wisps.


Alone far in the wilds and mountains I hunt,
Wandering amazed at my own lightness and glee,
In the late afternoon choosing a safe spot to pass the night,
Kindling a fire and broiling the fresh-kill'd game,
Falling asleep on the gather'd leaves with my dog and gun by my side.

The Yankee clipper is under her sky-sails, she cuts the sparkle and scud,
My eyes settle the land, I bend at her prow or shout joyously from the deck.

The boatmen and clam-diggers arose early and stopt for me,
I tuck'd my trowser-ends in my boots and went and had a good time;
You should have been with us that day round the chowder-kettle.

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 near 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 neck, 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 runaway slave came to my house and stopt 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.


Twenty-eight young men bathe by the shore,
Twenty-eight young men and all so friendly;
Twenty-eight years of womanly life and all so lonesome.

She owns the fine house by the rise of the bank,
She hides handsome and richly drest aft the blinds of the window.

Which of the young men does she like the best?
Ah the homeliest of them is beautiful to her.

Where are you off to, lady? for I see you,
You splash in the water there, yet stay stock still in your room.

Dancing and laughing along the beach came the twenty-ninth bather,
The rest did not see her, but she saw them and loved them.

The beards of the young men glisten'd with wet, it ran from their long hair,
Little streams pass'd all over their bodies.

An unseen hand also pass'd over their bodies,
It descended tremblingly from their temples and ribs.

The young men float on their backs, their white bellies bulge to the 
        sun, they do not ask who seizes fast to them,
They do not know who puffs and declines with pendant and bending arch,
They do not think whom they souse with spray.


The butcher-boy puts off his killing-clothes, or sharpens his knife 
        at the stall in the market,
I loiter enjoying his repartee and his shuffle and break-down.

Blacksmiths with grimed and hairy chests environ the anvil,
Each has his main-sledge, they are all out, there is a great heat in 
        the fire.

From the cinder-strew'd threshold I follow their movements,
The lithe sheer of their waists plays even with their massive arms,
Overhand the hammers swing, overhand so slow, overhand so sure,
They do not hasten, each man hits in his place.


The negro holds firmly the reins of his four horses, the block swags 
        underneath on its tied-over chain,
The negro that drives the long dray of the stone-yard, steady and 
        tall he stands pois'd on one leg on the string-piece,
His blue shirt exposes his ample neck and breast and loosens over 
        his hip-band,
His glance is calm and commanding, he tosses the slouch of his hat 
        away from his forehead,
The sun falls on his crispy hair and mustache, falls on the black of 
        his polish'd and perfect limbs.

I behold the picturesque giant and love him, and I do not stop there,
I go with the team also.

In me the caresser of life wherever moving, backward as well as 
        forward sluing,
To niches aside and junior bending, not a person or object missing,
Absorbing all to myself and for this song.

Oxen that rattle the yoke and chain or halt in the leafy shade, what 
        is that you express in your eyes?
It seems to me more than all the print I have read in my life.

My tread scares the wood-drake and wood-duck on my distant and 
        day-long ramble,
They rise together, they slowly circle around.

I believe in those wing'd purposes,
And acknowledge red, yellow, white, playing within me,
And consider green and violet and the tufted crown intentional,
And do not call the tortoise unworthy because she is not something else,
And the jay in the woods never studied the gamut, yet trills pretty well to me,
And the look of the bay mare shames silliness out of me.


The wild gander leads his flock through the cool night,
Ya-honk he says, and sounds it down to me like an invitation,
The pert may suppose it meaningless, but I listening close,
Find its purpose and place up there toward the wintry sky.

The sharp-hoof'd moose of the north, the cat on the house-sill, the 
        chickadee, the prairie-dog,
The litter of the grunting sow as they tug at her teats,
The brood of the turkey-hen and she with her half-spread wings,
I see in them and myself the same old law.

The press of my foot to the earth springs a hundred affections,
They scorn the best I can do to relate them.

I am enamour'd of growing out-doors,
Of men that live among cattle or taste of the ocean or woods,
Of the builders and steerers of ships and the wielders of axes and 
        mauls, and the drivers of horses,
I can eat and sleep with them week in and week out.

What is commonest, cheapest, nearest, easiest, is Me,
Me going in for my chances, spending for vast returns,
Adorning myself to bestow myself on the first that will take me,
Not asking the sky to come down to my good will,
Scattering it freely forever.


The pure contralto sings in the organ loft,
The carpenter dresses his plank, the tongue of his foreplane 
        whistles its wild ascending lisp,
The married and unmarried children ride home to their Thanksgiving dinner,
The pilot seizes the king-pin, he heaves down with a strong arm,
The mate stands braced in the whale-boat, lance and harpoon are ready,
The duck-shooter walks by silent and cautious stretches,
The deacons are ordain'd with cross'd hands at the altar,
The spinning-girl retreats and advances to the hum of the big wheel,
The farmer stops by the bars as he walks on a First-day loafe and 
        looks at the oats and rye,
The lunatic is carried at last to the asylum a confirm'd case,
(He will never sleep any more as he did in the cot in his mother's 
The jour printer with gray head and gaunt jaws works at his case,
He turns his quid of tobacco while his eyes blurr with the manuscript;
The malform'd limbs are tied to the surgeon's table,
What is removed drops horribly in a pail;
The quadroon girl is sold at the auction-stand, the drunkard nods by 
        the bar-room stove,
The machinist rolls up his sleeves, the policeman travels his beat, 
        the gate-keeper marks who pass,
The young fellow drives the express-wagon, (I love him, though I do 
        not know him;)
The half-breed straps on his light boots to compete in the race,
The western turkey-shooting draws old and young, some lean on their 
        rifles, some sit on logs,
Out from the crowd steps the marksman, takes his position, levels his piece;
The groups of newly-come immigrants cover the wharf or levee,
As the woolly-pates hoe in the sugar-field, the overseer views them 
        from his saddle,
The bugle calls in the ball-room, the gentlemen run for their 
        partners, the dancers bow to each other,
The youth lies awake in the cedar-roof'd garret and harks to the 
        musical rain,
The Wolverine sets traps on the creek that helps fill the Huron,
The squaw wrapt in her yellow-hemm'd cloth is offering moccasins and 
        bead-bags for sale,
The connoisseur peers along the exhibition-gallery with half-shut 
        eyes bent sideways,
As the deck-hands make fast the steamboat the plank is thrown for 
        the shore-going passengers,
The young sister holds out the skein while the elder sister winds it 
        off in a ball, and stops now and then for the knots,
The one-year wife is recovering and happy having a week ago borne 
        her first child,
The clean-hair'd Yankee girl works with her sewing-machine or in the 
        factory or mill,
The paving-man leans on his two-handed rammer, the reporter's lead 
        flies swiftly over the note-book, the sign-painter is lettering 
        with blue and gold,
The canal boy trots on the tow-path, the book-keeper counts at his 
        desk, the shoemaker waxes his thread,
The conductor beats time for the band and all the performers follow him,
The child is baptized, the convert is making his first professions,
The regatta is spread on the bay, the race is begun, (how the white 
        sails sparkle!)
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 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! I do not laugh at your oaths nor jeer you;)
The President holding a cabinet council is surrounded by the great 
On the piazza walk three matrons stately and friendly with twined arms,
The crew of the fish-smack pack repeated layers of halibut in the hold,
The Missourian crosses the plains toting his wares and his cattle,
As the fare-collector goes through the train he gives notice by the 
        jingling of loose change,
The floor-men are laying the floor, the tinners are tinning the 
        roof, the masons are calling for mortar,
In single file each shouldering his hod pass onward the laborers;
Seasons pursuing each other the indescribable crowd is gather'd,it 
        is the fourth of Seventh-month, (what salutes of cannon and small arms!)
Seasons pursuing each other the plougher ploughs, the mower mows, 
        and the winter-grain falls in the ground;
Off on the lakes the pike-fisher watches and waits by the hole in 
        the frozen surface,
The stumps stand thick round the clearing, the squatter strikes deep 
        with his axe,
Flatboatmen make fast towards dusk near the cotton-wood or pecan-trees,
Coon-seekers go through the regions of the Red river or through 
        those drain'd by the Tennessee, or through those of the Arkansas,
Torches shine in the dark that hangs on the Chattahooche or Altamahaw,
Patriarchs sit at supper with sons and grandsons and great-grand-sons 
        around them,
In walls of adobie, in canvas tents, rest hunters and trappers after 
        their day's sport,
The city sleeps and the country sleeps,
The living sleep for their time, the dead sleep for their time,
The old husband sleeps by his wife and the young husband sleeps by his wife;
And these tend inward to me, and I tend outward to them,
And such as it is to be of these more or less I am,
And of these one and all I weave the song of myself.


I am of old and young, of the foolish as much as the wise,
Regardless of others, ever regardful of others,
Maternal as well as paternal, a child as well as a man,
Stuff'd with the stuff that is coarse and stuff'd with the stuff 
        that is fine,
One of the Nation of many nations, the smallest the same and the 
        largest the same,
A Southerner soon as a Northerner, a planter nonchalant and 
        hospitable down by the Oconee I live,
A Yankee bound my own way ready for trade, my joints the limberest 
        joints on earth and the sternest joints on earth,
A Kentuckian walking the vale of the Elkhorn in my deer-skin 
        leggings, a Louisianian or Georgian,
A boatman over lakes or bays or along coasts, a Hoosier, Badger, Buckeye;
At home on Kanadian snow-shoes or up in the bush, or with fishermen 
        off Newfoundland,
At home in the fleet of ice-boats, sailing with the rest and tacking,
At home on the hills of Vermont or in the woods of Maine, or the 
        Texan ranch,
Comrade of Californians, comrade of free North-Westerners, (loving 
        their big proportions,)
Comrade of raftsmen and coalmen, comrade of all who shake hands 
        and welcome to drink and meat,
A learner with the simplest, a teacher of the thoughtfullest,
A novice beginning yet experient of myriads of seasons,
Of every hue and caste am I, of every rank and religion,
A farmer, mechanic, artist, gentleman, sailor, quaker,
Prisoner, fancy-man, rowdy, lawyer, physician, priest.

I resist any thing better than my own diversity,
Breathe the air but leave plenty after me,
And am not stuck up, and am in my place.

(The moth and the fish-eggs are in their place,
The bright suns I see and the dark suns I cannot see are in their place,
The palpable is in its place and the impalpable is in its place.)


These are really the thoughts of all men in all ages and lands, they 
        are not original with me,
If they are not yours as much as mine they are nothing, or next to nothing,
If they are not the riddle and the untying of the riddle they are nothing,
If they are not just as close as they are distant they are nothing.

This is the grass that grows wherever the land is and the water is,
This the common air that bathes the globe.


With music strong I come, with my cornets and my drums,
I play not marches for accepted victors only, I play marches for 
        conquer'd and slain persons.

Have you heard that it was good to gain the day?
I also say it is good to fall, battles are lost in the same spirit 
        in which they are won.

I beat and pound for the dead,
I blow through my embouchures my loudest and gayest for them.

Vivas to those who have fail'd!
And to those whose war-vessels sank in the sea!
And to those themselves who sank in the sea!
And to all generals that lost engagements, and all overcome heroes!
And the numberless unknown heroes equal to the greatest heroes known!


This is the meal equally set, this the meat for natural hunger,
It is for the wicked just the same as the righteous, I make appointments 
        with all,
I will not have a single person slighted or left away,
The kept-woman, sponger, thief, are hereby invited,
The heavy-lipp'd slave is invited, the venerealee is invited;
There shall be no difference between them and the rest.

This is the press of a bashful hand, this the float and odor of hair,
This the touch of my lips to yours, this the murmur of yearning,
This the far-off depth and height reflecting my own face,
This the thoughtful merge of myself, and the outlet again.

Do you guess I have some intricate purpose?
Well I have, for the Fourth-month showers have, and the mica on the 
        side of a rock has.

Do you take it I would astonish?
Does the daylight astonish? does the early redstart twittering 
        through the woods?
Do I astonish more than they?

This hour I tell things in confidence,
I might not tell everybody, but I will tell you.


Who goes there? hankering, gross, mystical, nude;
How is it I extract strength from the beef I eat?

What is a man anyhow? what am I? what are you?

All I mark as my own you shall offset it with your own,
Else it were time lost listening to me.

I do not snivel that snivel the world over,
That months are vacuums and the ground but wallow and filth.

Whimpering and truckling fold with powders for invalids, conformity 
        goes to the fourth-remov'd,
I wear my hat as I please indoors or out.

Why should I pray? why should I venerate and be ceremonious?

Having pried through the strata, analyzed to a hair, counsel'd with 
        doctors and calculated close,
I find no sweeter fat than sticks to my own bones.

In all people I see myself, none more and not one a barley-corn less,
And the good or bad I say of myself I say of them.

I know I am solid and sound,
To me the converging objects of the universe perpetually flow,
All are written to me, and I must get what the writing means.

I know I am deathless,
I know this orbit of mine cannot be swept by a carpenter's compass,
I know I shall not pass like a child's carlacue cut with a burnt 
        stick at night.

I know I am august,
I do not trouble my spirit to vindicate itself or be understood,
I see that the elementary laws never apologize,
(I reckon I behave no prouder than the level I plant my house by, 
        after all.)

I exist as I am, that is enough,
If no other in the world be aware I sit content,
And if each and all be aware I sit content.

One world is aware and by far the largest to me, and that is myself,
And whether I come to my own to-day or in ten thousand or ten 
        million years,
I can cheerfully take it now, or with equal cheerfulness I can wait.

My foothold is tenon'd and mortis'd in granite,
I laugh at what you call dissolution,
And I know the amplitude of time.


I am the poet of the Body and I am the poet of the Soul,
The pleasures of heaven are with me and the pains of hell are with me,
The first I graft and increase upon myself, the latter I translate 
        into a new tongue.

I am the poet of the woman the same as the man,
And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man,
And I say there is nothing greater than the mother of men.

I chant the chant of dilation or pride,
We have had ducking and deprecating about enough,
I show that size is only development.

Have you outstript the rest? are you the President?
It is a trifle, they will more than arrive there every one, and 
        still pass on.

I am he that walks with the tender and growing night,
I call to the earth and sea half-held by the night.

Press close bare-bosom'd night—press close magnetic nourishing night!
Night of south winds—night of the large few stars!
Still nodding night—mad naked summer night.

Smile O voluptuous cool-breath'd earth!
Earth of the slumbering and liquid trees!
Earth of departed sunset—earth of the mountains misty-topt!
Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon just tinged with blue!
Earth of shine and dark mottling the tide of the river!
Earth of the limpid gray of clouds brighter and clearer for my sake!
Far-swooping elbow'd earth—rich apple-blossom'd earth!
Smile, for your lover comes.

Prodigal, you have given me love—therefore I to you give love!
O unspeakable passionate love.

Thruster holding me tight and that I hold tight!
We hurt each other as the bridegroom and the bride hurt each other.


You sea! 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.

Sea of stretch'd ground-swells,
Sea breathing broad and convulsive breaths,
Sea of the brine of life and of unshovell'd yet always-ready graves,
Howler and scooper of storms, capricious and dainty sea,
I am integral with you, I too am of one phase and of all phases.

Partaker of influx and efflux I, extoller of hate and conciliation,
Extoller of amies and those that sleep in each others' arms.

I am he attesting sympathy,
(Shall I make my list of things in the house and skip the house 
        that supports them?)

I am not the poet of goodness only, I do not decline to be the poet 
        of wickedness also.

What blurt is this about virtue and about vice?
Evil propels me and reform of evil propels me, I stand indifferent,
My gait is no fault-finder's or rejecter's gait,
I moisten the roots of all that has grown.

Did you fear some scrofula out of the unflagging pregnancy?
Did you guess the celestial laws are yet to be work'd over and rectified?

I find one side a balance and the antipodal side a balance,
Soft doctrine as steady help as stable doctrine,
Thoughts and deeds of the present our rouse and early start.

This minute that comes to me over the past decillions,
There is no better than it and now.

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.


Endless unfolding of words of ages!
And mine a word of the modern, the word En-Masse.

A word of the faith that never balks,
Here or henceforward it is all the same to me, I accept Time absolutely.

It alone is without flaw, it alone rounds and completes all,
That mystic baffling wonder alone completes all.

I accept Reality and dare not question it,
Materialism first and last imbuing.

Hurrah for positive science! long live exact demonstration!
Fetch stonecrop mixt with cedar and branches of lilac,
This is the lexicographer, this the chemist, this made a grammar of 
        the old cartouches,
These mariners put the ship through dangerous unknown seas.
This is the geologist, this works with the scalpel, and this is a 

Gentlemen, to you the first honors always!
Your facts are useful, and yet they are not my dwelling,
I but enter by them to an area of my dwelling.

Less the reminders of properties told my words,
And more the reminders they of life untold, and of freedom and extrication,
And make short account of neuters and geldings, and favor men and 
        women fully equipt,
And beat the gong of revolt, and stop with fugitives and them that 
        plot and conspire.


Walt Whitman, a kosmos, of Manhattan the son,
Turbulent, fleshy, sensual, eating, drinking and breeding,
No sentimentalist, no stander above men and women or apart from them,
No more modest than immodest.

Unscrew the locks from the doors!
Unscrew the doors themselves from their jambs!

Whoever degrades another degrades me,
And whatever is done or said returns at last to me.

Through me the afflatus surging and surging, through me the current 
        and index.

I speak the pass-word primeval, I give the sign of democracy,
By God! I will accept nothing which all cannot have their 
        counterpart of on the same terms.

Through me many long dumb voices,
Voices of the interminable generations of prisoners and slaves,
Voices of the diseas'd and despairing and of thieves and dwarfs,
Voices of cycles of preparation and accretion,
And of the threads that connect the stars, and of wombs and of the 
And of the rights of them the others are down upon,
Of the deform'd, trivial, flat, foolish, despised,
Fog in the air, beetles rolling balls of dung.

Through me forbidden voices,
Voices of sexes and lusts, voices veil'd and I remove the veil,
Voices indecent by me clarified and transfigur'd.

I do not press my fingers across my mouth,
I keep as delicate around the bowels as around the head and heart,
Copulation is no more rank to me than death is.

I believe in the flesh and the appetites,
Seeing, hearing, feeling, are miracles, and each part and tag of me 
        is a miracle.

Divine am I inside and out, and I make holy whatever I touch or am 
        touch'd from,
The scent of these arm-pits aroma finer than prayer,
This head more than churches, bibles, and all the creeds.

If I worship one thing more than another it shall be the spread of 
        my own body, or any part of it,
Translucent mould of me it shall be you!
Shaded ledges and rests it shall be you!
Firm masculine colter it shall be you!
Whatever goes to the tilth of me it shall be you!
You my rich blood! your milky stream pale strippings of my life!
Breast that presses against other breasts it shall be you!
My brain it shall be your occult convolutions!
Root of wash'd sweet-flag! timorous pond-snipe! nest of guarded 
        duplicate eggs! it shall be you!
Mix'd tussled hay of head, beard, brawn, it shall be you!
Trickling sap of maple, fibre of manly wheat, it shall be you!
Sun so generous it shall be you!
Vapors lighting and shading my face it shall be you!
You sweaty brooks and dews it shall be you!
Winds whose soft-tickling genitals rub against me it shall be you!
Broad muscular fields, branches of live oak, loving lounger in my 
        winding paths, it shall be you!
Hands I have taken, face I have kiss'd, mortal I have ever touch'd, 
        it shall be you.

I dote on myself, there is that lot of me and all so luscious,
Each moment and whatever happens thrills me with joy,
I cannot tell how my ankles bend, nor whence the cause of my faintest wish,
Nor the cause of the friendship I emit, nor the cause of the 
        friendship I take again.

That I walk up my stoop, I pause to consider if it really be,
A morning-glory at my window satisfies me more than the metaphysics 
        of books.

To behold the day-break!
The little light fades the immense and diaphanous shadows,
The air tastes good to my palate.

Hefts of the moving world at innocent gambols silently rising 
        freshly exuding,
Scooting obliquely high and low.

Something I cannot see puts upward libidinous prongs,
Seas of bright juice suffuse heaven.

The earth by the sky staid with, the daily close of their junction,
The heav'd challenge from the east that moment over my head,
The mocking taunt. See then whether you shall be master!


Dazzling and tremendous how quick the sun-rise would kill me,
If I could not now and always send sun-rise out of me.

We also ascend dazzling and tremendous as the sun,
We found our own O my soul in the calm and cool of the daybreak.

My voice goes after what my eyes cannot reach,
With the twirl of my tongue I encompass worlds and volumes of worlds.

Speech is the twin of my vision, it is unequal to measure itself,
It provokes me forever, it says sarcastically,
Walt you contain enough, why don't you let it out then?

Come now I will not be tantalized, you conceive too much of 
Do you not know O speech how the buds beneath you are folded?
Waiting in gloom, protected by frost,
The dirt receding before my prophetical screams,
I underlying causes to balance them at last,
My knowledge my live parts, it keeping tally with the meaning of all things,
Happiness, (which whoever hears me let him or her set out in search 
        of this day.)

My final merit I refuse you, I refuse putting from me what I really am,
Encompass worlds, but never try to encompass me,
I crowd your sleekest and best by simply looking toward you.

Writing and talk do not prove me,
I carry the plenum of proof and every thing else in my face,
With the hush of my lips I wholly confound the skeptic.


Now I will do nothing but listen,
To accrue what I hear into this song, to let sounds contribute toward it.

I hear bravuras of birds, bustle of growing wheat, gossip of flames, 
        clack of sticks cooking my meals,
I hear the sound I love, the sound of the human voice,
I hear all sounds running together, combined, fused or following,
Sounds of the city and sounds out of the city, sounds of the day and night,
Talkative young ones to those that like them, the loud laugh of 
        work-people at their meals,
The angry base of disjointed friendship, the faint tones of the sick,
The judge with hands tight to the desk, his pallid lips pronouncing 
        a death-sentence,
The heave'e'yo of stevedores unlading ships by the wharves, the 
        refrain of the anchor-lifters,
The ring of alarm-bells, the cry of fire, the whirr of swift-streaking 
        engines and hose-carts with premonitory tinkles and color'd lights,
The steam-whistle, the solid roll of the train of approaching cars,
The slow march play'd at the head of the association marching two and two,(They go to guard some corpse, the flag-tops are draped with black muslin.)

I hear the violoncello, ('tis the young man's heart's complaint,)
I hear the key'd cornet, it glides quickly in through my ears,
It shakes mad-sweet pangs through my belly and breast.

I hear the chorus, it is a grand opera,
Ah this indeed is music—this suits me.

A tenor large and fresh as the creation fills me,
The orbic flex of his mouth is pouring and filling me full.

I hear the train'd soprano (what work with hers is this?)
The orchestra whirls me wider than Uranus flies,
It wrenches such ardors from me I did not know I possess'd them,
It sails me, I dab with bare feet, they are lick'd by the indolent waves,
I am cut by bitter and angry hail, I lose my breath,
Steep'd amid honey'd morphine, my windpipe throttled in fakes of death,
At length let up again to feel the puzzle of puzzles,
And that we call Being.


To be in any form, what is that?
(Round and round we go, all of us, and ever come back thither,)
If nothing lay more develop'd the quahaug in its callous shell were enough.

Mine is no callous shell,
I have instant conductors all over me whether I pass or stop,
They seize every object and lead it harmlessly through me.

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.


Is this then a touch? quivering me to a new identity,
Flames and ether making a rush for my veins,
Treacherous tip of me reaching and crowding to help them,
My flesh and blood playing out lightning to strike what is hardly 
        different from myself,
On all sides prurient provokers stiffening my limbs,
Straining the udder of my heart for its withheld drip,
Behaving licentious toward me, taking no denial,
Depriving me of my best as for a purpose,
Unbuttoning my clothes, holding me by the bare waist,
Deluding my confusion with the calm of the sunlight and pasture-fields,
Immodestly sliding the fellow-senses away,
They bribed to swap off with touch and go and graze at the edges of me,
No consideration, no regard for my draining strength or my anger,
Fetching the rest of the herd around to enjoy them a while,
Then all uniting to stand on a headland and worry me.

The sentries desert every other part of me,
They have left me helpless to a red marauder,
They all come to the headland to witness and assist against me.

I am given up by traitors,
I talk wildly, I have lost my wits, I and nobody else am the 
        greatest traitor,
I went myself first to the headland, my own hands carried me there.

You villain touch! what are you doing? my breath is tight in its throat,
Unclench your floodgates, you are too much for me.


Blind loving wrestling touch, sheath'd hooded sharp-tooth'd touch!
Did it make you ache so, leaving me?

Parting track'd by arriving, perpetual payment of perpetual loan,
Rich showering rain, and recompense richer afterward.

Sprouts take and accumulate, stand by the curb prolific and vital,
Landscapes projected masculine, full-sized and golden.


All truths wait in all things,
They neither hasten their own delivery nor resist it,
They do not need the obstetric forceps of the surgeon,
The insignificant is as big to me as any,
(What is less or more than a touch?)

Logic and sermons never convince,
The damp of the night drives deeper into my soul.

(Only what proves itself to every man and woman is so,
Only what nobody denies is so.)

A minute and a drop of me settle my brain,
I believe the soggy clods shall become lovers and lamps,
And a compend of compends is the meat of a man or woman,
And a summit and flower there is the feeling they have for each other,
And they are to branch boundlessly out of that lesson until it 
        becomes omnific,
And until one and all shall delight us, and we them.


I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars,
And the pismire is equally perfect, and a grain of sand, and the egg of the wren,
And the tree-toad is a chef-d'oeuvre for the highest,
And the running blackberry would adorn the parlors of heaven,
And the narrowest hinge in my hand puts to scorn all machinery,
And the cow crunching with depress'd head surpasses any statue,
And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels.

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,
But call any thing back again when I desire it.

In vain the speeding or shyness,
In vain the plutonic rocks send their old heat against my approach,
In vain the mastodon retreats beneath its own powder'd bones,
In vain objects stand leagues off and assume manifold shapes,
In vain the ocean settling in hollows and the great monsters lying low,
In vain the buzzard houses herself with the sky,
In vain the snake slides through the creepers and logs,
In vain the elk takes to the inner passes of the woods,
In vain the razor-bill'd auk sails far north to Labrador,
I follow quickly, I ascend to the nest in the fissure of the cliff.


I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and 
I stand and look at them long and long.

They do not sweat and whine about their condition,
They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins,
They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God,
Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of 
        owning things,
Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of 
        years ago,
Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth.

So they show their relations to me and I accept them,
They bring me tokens of myself, they evince them plainly in their 

I wonder where they get those tokens,
Did I pass that way huge times ago and negligently drop them?

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 one that I love, and now go with him on brotherly terms.

A gigantic beauty of a stallion, fresh and responsive to my caresses,
Head high in the forehead, wide between the ears,
Limbs glossy and supple, tail dusting the ground,
Eyes full of sparkling wickedness, ears finely cut, flexibly moving.

His nostrils dilate as my heels embrace him,
His well-built limbs tremble with pleasure as we race around and return.

I but use you a minute, then I resign you, stallion,
Why do I need your paces when I myself out-gallop them?
Even as I stand or sit passing faster than you.


Space and Time! now I see it is true, what I guess'd at,
What I guess'd when I loaf'd on the grass,
What I guess'd while I lay alone in my bed,
And again as I walk'd the beach under the paling stars of the morning.

My ties and ballasts leave me, my elbows rest in sea-gaps,
I skirt sierras, my palms cover continents,
I am afoot with my vision.

By the city's quadrangular houses—in log huts, camping with lumber-men,
Along the ruts of the turnpike, along the dry gulch and rivulet bed,
Weeding my onion-patch or hoeing rows of carrots and parsnips,
        crossing savannas, trailing in forests,
Prospecting, gold-digging, girdling the trees of a new purchase,
Scorch'd ankle-deep by the hot sand, hauling my boat down the 
        shallow river,
Where the panther walks to and fro on a limb overhead, where the 
        buck turns furiously at the hunter,
Where the rattlesnake suns his flabby length on a rock, where the 
        otter is feeding on fish,
Where the alligator in his tough pimples sleeps by the bayou,
Where the black bear is searching for roots or honey, where the 
        beaver pats the mud with his paddle-shaped tail;
Over the growing sugar, over the yellow-flower'd cotton plant, over 
        the rice in its low moist field,
Over the sharp-peak'd farm house, with its scallop'd scum and 
        slender shoots from the gutters,
Over the western persimmon, over the long-leav'd corn, over the 
        delicate blue-flower flax,
Over the white and brown buckwheat, a hummer and buzzer there with 
        the rest,
Over the dusky green of the rye as it ripples and shades in the breeze;
Scaling mountains, pulling myself cautiously up, holding on by low 
        scragged limbs,
Walking the path worn in the grass and beat through the leaves of the brush,
Where the quail is whistling betwixt the woods and the wheat-lot,
Where the bat flies in the Seventh-month eve, where the great 
        goldbug drops through the dark,
Where the brook puts out of the roots of the old tree and flows to 
        the meadow,
Where cattle stand and shake away flies with the tremulous 
        shuddering of their hides,
Where the cheese-cloth hangs in the kitchen, where andirons straddle 
        the hearth-slab, where cobwebs fall in festoons from the rafters;
Where trip-hammers crash, where the press is whirling its cylinders,
Wherever the human heart beats with terrible throes under its ribs,
Where the pear-shaped balloon is floating aloft, (floating in it 
        myself and looking composedly down,)
Where the life-car is drawn on the slip-noose, where the heat 
        hatches pale-green eggs in the dented sand,
Where the she-whale swims with her calf and never forsakes it,
Where the steam-ship trails hind-ways its long pennant of smoke,
Where the fin of the shark cuts like a black chip out of the water,
Where the half-burn'd brig is riding on unknown currents,
Where shells grow to her slimy deck, where the dead are corrupting below;
Where the dense-starr'd flag is borne at the head of the regiments,
Approaching Manhattan up by the long-stretching island,
Under Niagara, the cataract falling like a veil over my countenance,
Upon a door-step, upon the horse-block of hard wood outside,
Upon the race-course, or enjoying picnics or jigs or a good game of 
At he-festivals, with blackguard gibes, ironical license, 
        bull-dances, drinking, laughter,
At the cider-mill tasting the sweets of the brown mash, sucking the 
        juice through a straw,
At apple-peelings wanting kisses for all the red fruit I find,
At musters, beach-parties, friendly bees, huskings, house-raisings;
Where the mocking-bird sounds his delicious gurgles, cackles, 
        screams, weeps,
Where the hay-rick stands in the barn-yard, where the dry-stalks are 
        scatter'd, where the brood-cow waits in the hovel,
Where the bull advances to do his masculine work, where the stud to 
        the mare, where the cock is treading the hen,
Where the heifers browse, where geese nip their food with short jerks,
Where sun-down shadows lengthen over the limitless and lonesome prairie,
Where herds of buffalo make a crawling spread of the square miles 
        far and near,
Where the humming-bird shimmers, where the neck of the long-lived 
        swan is curving and winding,
Where the laughing-gull scoots by the shore, where she laughs her 
        near-human laugh,
Where bee-hives range on a gray bench in the garden half hid by the 
        high weeds,
Where band-neck'd partridges roost in a ring on the ground with 
        their heads out,
Where burial coaches enter the arch'd gates of a cemetery,
Where winter wolves bark amid wastes of snow and icicled trees,
Where the yellow-crown'd heron comes to the edge of the marsh at 
        night and feeds upon small crabs,
Where the splash of swimmers and divers cools the warm noon,
Where the katy-did works her chromatic reed on the walnut-tree over 
        the well,
Through patches of citrons and cucumbers with silver-wired leaves,
Through the salt-lick or orange glade, or under conical firs,
Through the gymnasium, through the curtain'd saloon, through the 
        office or public hall;
Pleas'd with the native and pleas'd with the foreign, pleas'd with 
        the new and old,
Pleas'd with the homely woman as well as the handsome,
Pleas'd with the quakeress as she puts off her bonnet and talks melodiously,
Pleas'd with the tune of the choir of the whitewash'd church,
Pleas'd with the earnest words of the sweating Methodist preacher, 
        impress'd seriously at the camp-meeting;
Looking in at the shop-windows of Broadway the whole forenoon, 
        flatting the flesh of my nose on the thick plate glass,
Wandering the same afternoon with my face turn'd up to the clouds, 
        or down a lane or along the beach,
My right and left arms round the sides of two friends, and I in the middle;
Coming home with the silent and dark-cheek'd bush-boy, (behind me 
        he rides at the drape of the day,)
Far from the settlements studying the print of animals' feet, or the 
        moccasin print,
By the cot in the hospital reaching lemonade to a feverish patient,
Nigh the coffin'd corpse when all is still, examining with a candle;
Voyaging to every port to dicker and adventure,
Hurrying with the modern crowd as eager and fickle as any,
Hot toward one I hate, ready in my madness to knife him,
Solitary at midnight in my back yard, my thoughts gone from me a long while,
Walking the old hills of Judaea with the beautiful gentle God by my side,
Speeding through space, speeding through heaven and the stars,
Speeding amid the seven satellites and the broad ring, and the 
        diameter of eighty thousand miles,
Speeding with tail'd meteors, throwing fire-balls like the rest,
Carrying the crescent child that carries its own full mother in its belly,
Storming, enjoying, planning, loving, cautioning,
Backing and filling, appearing and disappearing,
I tread day and night such roads.

I visit the orchards of spheres and look at the product,
And look at quintillions ripen'd and look at quintillions green.

I fly those flights of a fluid and swallowing soul,
My course runs below the soundings of plummets.

I help myself to material and immaterial,
No guard can shut me off, no law prevent me.

I anchor my ship for a little while only,
My messengers continually cruise away or bring their returns to me.

I go hunting polar furs and the seal, leaping chasms with a 
        pike-pointed staff, clinging to topples of brittle and blue.

I ascend to the foretruck,
I take my place late at night in the crow's-nest,
We sail the arctic sea, it is plenty light enough,
Through the clear atmosphere I stretch around on the wonderful beauty,
The enormous masses of ice pass me and I pass them, the scenery is 
        plain in all directions,
The white-topt mountains show in the distance, I fling out my 
        fancies toward them,
We are approaching some great battle-field in which we are soon to 
        be engaged,
We pass the colossal outposts of the encampment, we pass with still 
        feet and caution,
Or we are entering by the suburbs some vast and ruin'd city,
The blocks and fallen architecture more than all the living cities 
        of the globe.

I am a free companion, I bivouac by invading watchfires,
I turn the bridegroom out of bed and stay with the bride myself,
I tighten her all night to my thighs and lips.

My voice is the wife's voice, the screech by the rail of the stairs,
They fetch my man's body up dripping and drown'd.

I understand the large hearts of heroes,
The courage of present times and all times,
How the skipper saw the crowded and rudderless wreck of the 
        steam-ship, and Death chasing it up and down the storm,
How he knuckled tight and gave not back an inch, and was faithful of 
        days and faithful of nights,
And chalk'd in large letters on a board, Be of good cheer,
        we will not desert you;
How he follow'd with them and tack'd with them three days and 
        would not give it up,
How he saved the drifting company at last,
How the lank loose-gown'd women look'd when boated from the 
        side of their prepared graves,
How the silent old-faced infants and the lifted sick, and the 
        sharp-lipp'd unshaved men;
All this I swallow, it tastes good, I like it well, it becomes mine,
I am the man, I suffer'd, I was there.

The disdain and calmness of martyrs,
The mother of old, condemn'd for a witch, burnt with dry wood, her 
        children gazing on,
The hounded slave that flags in the race, leans by the fence, 
        blowing, cover'd with sweat,
The twinges that sting like needles his legs and neck, the murderous 
        buckshot and the bullets,
All these I feel or am.

I am the hounded slave, I wince at the bite of the dogs,
Hell and despair are upon me, crack and again crack the marksmen,
I clutch the rails of the fence, my gore dribs, thinn'd with the 
        ooze of my skin,
I fall on the weeds and stones,
The riders spur their unwilling horses, haul close,
Taunt my dizzy ears and beat me violently over the head with whip-stocks.

Agonies are one of my changes of garments,
I do not ask the wounded person how he feels, I myself become the 
        wounded person,
My hurts turn livid upon me as I lean on a cane and observe.

I am the mash'd fireman with breast-bone broken,
Tumbling walls buried me in their debris,
Heat and smoke I inspired, I heard the yelling shouts of my comrades,
I heard the distant click of their picks and shovels,
They have clear'd the beams away, they tenderly lift me forth.

I lie in the night air in my red shirt, the pervading hush is for my sake,
Painless after all I lie exhausted but not so unhappy,
White and beautiful are the faces around me, the heads are bared 
        of their fire-caps,
The kneeling crowd fades with the light of the torches.

Distant and dead resuscitate,
They show as the dial or move as the hands of me, I am the clock myself.

I am an old artillerist, I tell of my fort's bombardment,
I am there again.

Again the long roll of the drummers,
Again the attacking cannon, mortars,
Again to my listening ears the cannon responsive.

I take part, I see and hear the whole,
The cries, curses, roar, the plaudits for well-aim'd shots,
The ambulanza slowly passing trailing its red drip,
Workmen searching after damages, making indispensable repairs,
The fall of grenades through the rent roof, the fan-shaped explosion,
The whizz of limbs, heads, stone, wood, iron, high in the air.

Again gurgles the mouth of my dying general, he furiously waves 
        with his hand,
He gasps through the clot Mind not me—mind—the entrenchments.


Now I tell what I knew in Texas in my early youth,
(I tell not the fall of Alamo,
Not one escaped to tell the fall of Alamo,
The hundred and fifty are dumb yet at Alamo,)
'Tis the tale of the murder in cold blood of four hundred and twelve 
        young men.

Retreating they had form'd in a hollow square with their baggage for 
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.

They were the glory of the race of rangers,
Matchless with horse, rifle, song, supper, courtship,
Large, turbulent, generous, handsome, proud, and affectionate,
Bearded, sunburnt, drest in the free costume of hunters,
Not a single one over thirty years of age.

The second First-day morning they were brought out in squads and 
        massacred, it was beautiful early summer,
The work commenced about five o'clock and was over by eight.

None obey'd the command to kneel,
Some made a mad and helpless rush, some stood stark and straight,
A few fell at once, shot in the temple or heart, the living and dead 
        lay together,
The maim'd and mangled dug in the dirt, the new-comers saw them there,
Some half-kill'd attempted to crawl away,
These were despatch'd with bayonets or batter'd with the blunts of muskets,
A youth not seventeen years old seiz'd his assassin till two more 
        came to release him,
The three were all torn and cover'd with the boy's blood.

At eleven o'clock began the burning of the bodies;
That is the tale of the murder of the four hundred and twelve young men.


Would you hear of an old-time sea-fight?
Would you learn who won by the light of the moon and stars?
List to the yarn, as my grandmother's father the sailor told it to me.

Our foe was no skulk in his ship I tell you, (said he,)
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.

We closed with him, the yards entangled, the cannon touch'd,
My captain lash'd fast with his own hands.

We had receiv'd some eighteen pound shots under the water,
On our lower-gun-deck two large pieces had burst at the first fire,
        killing all around and blowing up overhead.

Fighting at sun-down, fighting at dark,
Ten o'clock at night, the full moon well up, our leaks on the gain, 
        and five feet of water reported,
The master-at-arms loosing the prisoners confined in the after-hold 
        to give them a chance for themselves.

The transit to and from the magazine is now stopt by the sentinels,
They see so many strange faces they do not know whom to trust.

Our frigate takes fire,
The other asks if we demand quarter?
If our colors are struck and the fighting done?

Now I laugh content, for I hear the voice of my little captain,
We have not struck, he composedly cries, we have just begun our part 
        of the fighting.

Only three guns are in use,
One is directed by the captain himself against the enemy's main-mast,
Two well serv'd with grape and canister silence his musketry and 
        clear his decks.

The tops alone second the fire of this little battery, especially 
        the main-top,
They hold out bravely during the whole of the action.

Not a moment's cease,
The leaks gain fast on the pumps, the fire eats toward the powder-magazine.

One of the pumps has been shot away, it is generally thought we are sinking.

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.

Toward twelve there in the beams of the moon they surrender to us.


Stretch'd and still lies the midnight,
Two great hulls motionless on the breast of the darkness,
Our vessel riddled and slowly sinking, preparations to pass to the 
        one we have conquer'd,
The captain on the quarter-deck coldly giving his orders through a 
        countenance white as a sheet,
Near by the corpse of the child that serv'd in the cabin,
The dead face of an old salt with long white hair and carefully 
        curl'd whiskers,
The flames spite of all that can be done flickering aloft and below,
The husky voices of the two or three officers yet fit for duty,
Formless stacks of bodies and bodies by themselves, dabs of flesh 
        upon the masts and spars,
Cut of cordage, dangle of rigging, slight shock of the soothe of waves,
Black and impassive guns, litter of powder-parcels, strong scent,
A few large stars overhead, silent and mournful shining,
Delicate sniffs of sea-breeze, smells of sedgy grass and fields by 
        the shore, death-messages given in charge to survivors,
The hiss of the surgeon's knife, the gnawing teeth of his saw,
Wheeze, cluck, swash of falling blood, short wild scream, and long, 
        dull, tapering groan,
These so, these irretrievable.


You laggards there on guard! look to your arms!
In at the conquer'd doors they crowd! I am possess'd!
Embody all presences outlaw'd or suffering,
See myself in prison shaped like another man,
And feel the dull unintermitted pain.

For me the keepers of convicts shoulder their carbines and keep watch,
It is I let out in the morning and barr'd at night.

Not a mutineer walks handcuff'd to jail but I am handcuff'd to him 
        and walk by his side,
(I am less the jolly one there, and more the silent one with sweat 
        on my twitching lips.)

Not a youngster is taken for larceny but I go up too, and am tried 
        and sentenced.

Not a cholera patient lies at the last gasp but I also lie at the last gasp,
My face is ash-color'd, my sinews gnarl, away from me people retreat.

Askers embody themselves in me and I am embodied in them,
I project my hat, sit shame-faced, and beg.


Enough! enough! enough!
Somehow I have been stunn'd. Stand back!
Give me a little time beyond my cuff'd head, slumbers, dreams, gaping,
I discover myself on the verge of a usual mistake.

That I could forget the mockers and insults!
That I could forget the trickling tears and the blows of the 
        bludgeons and hammers!
That I could look with a separate look on my own crucifixion and 
        bloody crowning.

I remember now,
I resume the overstaid fraction,
The grave of rock multiplies what has been confided to it, or to any graves,
Corpses rise, gashes heal, fastenings roll from me.

I troop forth replenish'd with supreme power, one of an average 
        unending procession,
Inland and sea-coast we go, and pass all boundary lines,
Our swift ordinances on their way over the whole earth,
The blossoms we wear in our hats the growth of thousands of years.

Eleves, I salute you! come forward!
Continue your annotations, continue your questionings.


The friendly and flowing savage, who is he?
Is he waiting for civilization, or past it and mastering it?

Is he some Southwesterner rais'd out-doors? is he Kanadian?
Is he from the Mississippi country? Iowa, Oregon, California?
The mountains? prairie-life, bush-life? or sailor from the sea?

Wherever he goes men and women accept and desire him,
They desire he should like them, touch them, speak to them, stay with them.

Behavior lawless as snow-flakes, words simple as grass, uncomb'd 
        head, laughter, and naivetè,
Slow-stepping feet, common features, common modes and emanations,
They descend in new forms from the tips of his fingers,
They are wafted with the odor of his body or breath, they fly out of 
        the glance of his eyes.


Flaunt of the sunshine I need not your bask—lie over!
You light surfaces only, I force surfaces and depths also.

Earth! you seem to look for something at my hands,
Say, old top-knot, what do you want?

Man or woman, I might tell how I like you, but cannot,
And might tell what it is in me and what it is in you, but cannot,
And might tell that pining I have, that pulse of my nights and days.

Behold, I do not give lectures or a little charity,
When I give I give myself.

You there, impotent, loose in the knees,
Open your scarf'd chops till I blow grit within you,
Spread your palms and lift the flaps of your pockets,
I am not to be denied, I compel, I have stores plenty and to spare,
And any thing I have I bestow.

I do not ask who you are, that is not important to me,
You can do nothing and be nothing but what I will infold you.

To cotton-field drudge or cleaner of privies I lean,
On his right cheek I put the family kiss,
And in my soul I swear I never will deny him.

On women fit for conception I start bigger and nimbler babes,
(This day I am jetting the stuff of far more arrogant republics.)

To any one dying, thither I speed and twist the knob of the door,
Turn the bed-clothes toward the foot of the bed,
Let the physician and the priest go home.

I seize the descending man and raise him with resistless will,
O despairer, here is my neck,
By God, you shall not go down! hang your whole weight upon me.

I dilate you with tremendous breath, I buoy you up,
Every room of the house do I fill with an arm'd force,
Lovers of me, bafflers of graves.

Sleep—I and they keep guard all night,
Not doubt, not decease shall dare to lay finger upon you,
I have embraced you, and henceforth possess you to myself,
And when you rise in the morning you will find what I tell you is so.


I am he bringing help for the sick as they pant on their backs,
And for strong upright men I bring yet more needed help.

I heard what was said of the universe,
Heard it and heard it of several thousand years;
It is middling well as far as it goes—but is that all?

Magnifying and applying come I,
Outbidding at the start the old cautious hucksters,
Taking myself the exact dimensions of Jehovah,
Lithographing Kronos, Zeus his son, and Hercules his grandson,
Buying drafts of Osiris, Isis, Belus, Brahma, Buddha,
In my portfolio placing Manito loose, Allah on a leaf, the crucifix 
With Odin and the hideous-faced Mexitli and every idol and image,
Taking them all for what they are worth and not a cent more,
Admitting they were alive and did the work of their days,
(They bore mites as for unfledg'd birds who have now to rise and fly 
        and sing for themselves,)
Accepting the rough deific sketches to fill out better in myself, 
        bestowing them freely on each man and woman I see,
Discovering as much or more in a framer framing a house,
Putting higher claims for him there with his roll'd-up sleeves 
        driving the mallet and chisel,
Not objecting to special revelations, considering a curl of smoke or 
        a hair on the back of my hand just as curious as any revelation,
Lads ahold of fire-engines and hook-and-ladder ropes no less to me 
        than the gods of the antique wars,
Minding their voices peal through the crash of destruction,
Their brawny limbs passing safe over charr'd laths, their white 
        foreheads whole and unhurt out of the flames;
By the mechanic's wife with her babe at her nipple interceding for 
        every person born,
Three scythes at harvest whizzing in a row from three lusty angels 
        with shirts bagg'd out at their waists,
The snag-tooth'd hostler with red hair redeeming sins past and to come,
Selling all he possesses, traveling on foot to fee lawyers for his 
        brother and sit by him while he is tried for forgery;
What was strewn in the amplest strewing the square rod about me, and 
        not filling the square rod then,
The bull and the bug never worshipp'd half enough,
Dung and dirt more admirable than was dream'd,
The supernatural of no account, myself waiting my time to be one of 
        the supremes,
The day getting ready for me when I shall do as much good as the 
        best, and be as prodigious;
By my life-lumps! becoming already a creator,
Putting myself here and now to the ambush'd womb of the shadows.


A call in the midst of the crowd,
My own voice, orotund sweeping and final.

Come my children,
Come my boys and girls, my women, household and intimates,
Now the performer launches his nerve, he has pass'd his prelude on 
        the reeds within.

Easily written loose-finger'd chords—I feel the thrum of your 
        climax and close.

My head slues round on my neck,
Music rolls, but not from the organ,
Folks are around me, but they are no household of mine.

Ever the hard unsunk ground,
Ever the eaters and drinkers, ever the upward and downward sun, 
        ever the air and the ceaseless tides,
Ever myself and my neighbors, refreshing, wicked, real,
Ever the old inexplicable query, ever that thorn'd thumb, that 
        breath of itches and thirsts,
Ever the vexer's hoot! hoot! till we find where the sly one hides 
        and bring him forth,
Ever love, ever the sobbing liquid of life,
Ever the bandage under the chin, ever the trestles of death.

Here and there with dimes on the eyes walking,
To feed the greed of the belly the brains liberally spooning,
Tickets buying, taking, selling, but in to the feast never once going.
Many sweating, ploughing, thrashing, and then the chaff for payment 
A few idly owning, and they the wheat continually claiming.

This is the city and I am one of the citizens,
Whatever interests the rest interests me, politics, wars, markets, 
        newspapers, schools,
The mayor and councils, banks, tariffs, steamships, factories, 
        stocks, stores, real estate and personal estate.

The little plentiful manikins skipping around in collars and tail'd coats,
I am aware who they are, (they are positively not worms or fleas,)
I acknowledge the duplicates of myself, the weakest and shallowest 
        is deathless with me,
What I do and say the same waits for them,
Every thought that flounders in me the same flounders in them.

I know perfectly well my own egotism,
Know my omnivorous lines and must not write any less,
And would fetch you whoever you are flush with myself.

Not words of routine this song of mine,
But abruptly to question, to leap beyond yet nearer bring;
This printed and bound book—but the printer and the 
        printing-office boy?
The well-taken photographs—but your wife or friend close and solid 
        in your arms?
The black ship mail'd with iron, her mighty guns in her turrets—but 
        the pluck of the captain and engineers?
In the houses the dishes and fare and furniture—but the host and 
        hostess, and the look out of their eyes?
The sky up there—yet here or next door, or across the way?
The saints and sages in history—but you yourself?
Sermons, creeds, theology—but the fathomless human brain,
And what is reason? and what is love? and what is life?


I do not despise you priests, all time, the world over,
My faith is the greatest of faiths and the least of faiths,
Enclosing worship ancient and modern and all between ancient and modern,
Believing I shall come again upon the earth after five thousand years,
Waiting responses from oracles, honoring the gods, saluting the sun,
Making a fetich of the first rock or stump, powowing with sticks in 
        the circle of obis,
Helping the llama or brahmin as he trims the lamps of the idols,
Dancing yet through the streets in a phallic procession, rapt and 
        austere in the woods a gymnosophist,
Drinking mead from the skull-cup, to Shastas and Vedas admirant, 
        minding the Koran,
Walking the teokallis, spotted with gore from the stone and knife, 
        beating the serpent-skin drum,
Accepting the Gospels, accepting him that was crucified, knowing 
        assuredly that he is divine,
To the mass kneeling or the puritan's prayer rising, or sitting 
        patiently in a pew,
Ranting and frothing in my insane crisis, or waiting dead-like till 
        my spirit arouses me,
Looking forth on pavement and land, or outside of pavement and land,
Belonging to the winders of the circuit of circuits.

One of that centripetal and centrifugal gang I turn and talk like a 
        man leaving charges before a journey.

Down-hearted doubters dull and excluded,
Frivolous, sullen, moping, angry, affected, dishearten'd, atheistical,
I know every one of you, I know the sea of torment, doubt, despair 
        and unbelief.

How the flukes splash!
How they contort rapid as lightning, with spasms and spouts of blood!

Be at peace bloody flukes of doubters and sullen mopers,
I take my place among you as much as among any,
The past is the push of you, me, all, precisely the same,
And what is yet untried and afterward is for you, me, all, precisely 
        the same.

I do not know what is untried and afterward,
But I know it will in its turn prove sufficient, and cannot fail.

Each who passes is consider'd, each who stops is consider'd, not a 
        single one can it fail.

It cannot fail the young man who died and was buried,
Nor the young woman who died and was put by his side,
Nor the little child that peep'd in at the door, and then drew back 
        and was never seen again,
Nor the old man who has lived without purpose, and feels it with 
        bitterness worse than gall,
Nor him in the poor house tubercled by rum and the bad disorder,
Nor the numberless slaughter'd and wreck'd, nor the brutish koboo 
        call'd the ordure of humanity,
Nor the sacs merely floating with open mouths for food to slip in,
Nor any thing in the earth, or down in the oldest graves of the earth,
Nor any thing in the myriads of spheres, nor the myriads of myriads 
        that inhabit them,
Nor the present, nor the least wisp that is known.


It is time to explain myself—let us stand up.

What is known I strip away,
I launch all men and women forward with me into the Unknown.

The clock indicates the moment—but what does eternity indicate?

We have thus far exhausted trillions of winters and summers,
There are trillions ahead, and trillions ahead of them.

Births have brought us richness and variety,
And other births will bring us richness and variety.

I do not call one greater and one smaller,
That which fills its period and place is equal to any.

Were mankind murderous or jealous upon you, my brother, my sister?
I am sorry for you, they are not murderous or jealous upon me,
All has been gentle with me, I keep no account with lamentation,
(What have I to do with lamentation?)

I am an acme of things accomplish'd, and I an encloser of things to be.

My feet strike an apex of the apices of the stairs,
On every step bunches of ages, and larger bunches between the steps,
All below duly travel'd, and still I mount and mount.

Rise after rise bow the phantoms behind me,
Afar down I see the huge first Nothing, I know I was even there,
I waited unseen and always, and slept through the lethargic mist,
And took my time, and took no hurt from the fetid carbon.

Long I was hugg'd close—long and long.

Immense have been the preparations for me,
Faithful and friendly the arms that have help'd me.
Cycles ferried my cradle, rowing and rowing like cheerful boatmen,
For room to me stars kept aside in their own rings,
They sent influences to look after what was to hold me.

Before I was born out of my mother generations guided me,
My embryo has never been torpid, nothing could overlay it.

For it the nebula cohered to an orb,
The long slow strata piled to rest it on,
Vast vegetables gave it sustenance,
Monstrous sauroids transported it in their mouths and deposited it 
         with care.

All forces have been steadily employ'd to complete and delight me,
Now on this spot I stand with my robust soul.


O span of youth! ever-push'd elasticity!
O manhood, balanced, florid and full.

My lovers suffocate me,
Crowding my lips, thick in the pores of my skin,
Jostling me through streets and public halls, coming naked to me at night,
Crying by day Ahoy! from the rocks of the river, swinging and 
        chirping over my head,
Calling my name from flower-beds, vines, tangled underbrush,
Lighting on every moment of my life,
Bussing my body with soft balsamic busses,
Noiselessly passing handfuls out of their hearts and giving them to be mine.

Old age superbly rising! O welcome, ineffable grace of dying days!

Every condition promulges not only itself, it promulges what grows 
        after and out of itself,
And the dark hush promulges as much as any.

I open my scuttle at night and see the far-sprinkled systems,
And all I see multiplied as high as I can cipher edge but the rim of 
        the farther systems.

Wider and wider they spread, expanding, always expanding,
Outward and outward and forever outward.

My sun has his sun and round him obediently wheels,
He joins with his partners a group of superior circuit,
And greater sets follow, making specks of the greatest inside them.

There is no stoppage and never can be stoppage,
If I, you, and the worlds, and all beneath or upon their surfaces,
        were this moment reduced back to a pallid float, it would 
        not avail in the long run,
We should surely bring up again where we now stand,
And surely go as much farther, and then farther and farther.

A few quadrillions of eras, a few octillions of cubic leagues, do 
         not hazard the span or make it impatient,
They are but parts, any thing is but a part.

See ever so far, there is limitless space outside of that,
Count ever so much, there is limitless time around that.

My rendezvous is appointed, it is certain,
The Lord will be there and wait till I come on perfect terms,
The great Camerado, the lover true for whom I pine will be there.


I know I have the best of time and space, and was never measured and 
        never will be measured.

I tramp a perpetual journey, (come listen all!)
My signs are a rain-proof coat, good shoes, and a staff cut from the woods,
No friend of mine takes his ease in my chair,
I have no chair, no church, no philosophy,
I lead no man to a dinner-table, library, exchange,
But each man and each woman of you I lead upon a knoll,
My left hand hooking you round the waist,
My right hand pointing to landscapes of continents and the public road.

Not I, not any one else can travel that road for you,
You must travel it for yourself.

It is not far, it is within reach,
Perhaps you have been on it since you were born and did not know,Perhaps it is everywhere on water and on land.

Shoulder your duds dear son, and I will mine, and let us hasten forth,
Wonderful cities and free nations we shall fetch as we go.

If you tire, give me both burdens, and rest the chuff of your hand 
        on my hip,
And in due time you shall repay the same service to me,
For after we start we never lie by again.

This day before dawn I ascended a hill and look'd at the crowded heaven,
And I said to my spirit When we become the enfolders of those orbs, 
        and the pleasure and knowledge of every thing in them, shall we 
        be fill'd and satisfied then?
And my spirit said No, we but level that lift to pass and continue beyond.

You are also asking me questions and I hear you,
I answer that I cannot answer, you must find out for yourself.

Sit a while dear son,
Here are biscuits to eat and here is milk to drink,
But as soon as you sleep and renew yourself in sweet clothes, I kiss you 
        with a good-by kiss and open the gate for your egress hence.

Long enough have you dream'd contemptible dreams,
Now I wash the gum from your eyes,
You must habit yourself to the dazzle of the light and of every 
        moment of your life.

Long have you timidly waded holding a plank by the shore,
Now I will you to be a bold swimmer,
To jump off in the midst of the sea, rise again, nod to me, shout, 
        and laughingly dash with your hair.


I am the teacher of athletes,
He that by me spreads a wider breast than my own proves the width of my own,
He most honors my style who learns under it to destroy the teacher.

The boy I love, the same becomes a man not through derived power, 
        but in his own right,
Wicked rather than virtuous out of conformity or fear,
Fond of his sweetheart, relishing well his steak,
Unrequited love or a slight cutting him worse than sharp steel cuts,
First-rate to ride, to fight, to hit the bull's eye, to sail a 
        skiff, to sing a song or play on the banjo,
Preferring scars and the beard and faces pitted with small-pox over 
        all latherers,
And those well-tann'd to those that keep out of the sun.

I teach straying from me, yet who can stray from me?
I follow you whoever you are from the present hour,
My words itch at your ears till you understand them.

I do not say these things for a dollar or to fill up the time while 
        I wait for a boat,
(It is you talking just as much as myself, I act as the tongue of you,
Tied in your mouth, in mine it begins to be loosen'd.)

I swear I will never again mention love or death inside a house,
And I swear I will never translate myself at all, only to him or her 
        who privately stays with me in the open air.

If you would understand me go to the heights or water-shore,
The nearest gnat is an explanation, and a drop or motion of waves key,
The maul, the oar, the hand-saw, second my words.

No shutter'd room or school can commune with me,
But roughs and little children better than they.

The young mechanic is closest to me, he knows me well,
The woodman that takes his axe and jug with him shall take me with 
        him all day,
The farm-boy ploughing in the field feels good at the sound of my voice,
In vessels that sail my words sail, I go with fishermen and seamen 
        and love them.

The soldier camp'd or upon the march is mine,
On the night ere the pending battle many seek me, and I do not fail them,
On that solemn night (it may be their last) those that know me seek me.
My face rubs to the hunter's face when he lies down alone in his blanket,
The driver thinking of me does not mind the jolt of his wagon,
The young mother and old mother comprehend me,
The girl and the wife rest the needle a moment and forget where they are,
They and all would resume what I have told them.


I have said that the soul is not more than the body,
And I have said that the body is not more than the soul,
And nothing, not God, is greater to one than one's self is,
And whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his own 
        funeral drest in his shroud,
And I or you pocketless of a dime may purchase the pick of the earth,
And to glance with an eye or show a bean in its pod confounds the 
        learning of all times,
And there is no trade or employment but the young man following it 
        may become a hero,
And there is no object so soft but it makes a hub for the wheel'd universe,
And I say to any man or woman, Let your soul stand cool and composed 
        before a million universes.

And I say 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.)

I hear and behold God in every object, yet understand God not in the least,
Nor do I understand who there can be more wonderful than myself.

Why should I wish to see God better than this day?
I see something of God each hour of the twenty-four, and each moment then,
In the faces of men and women I see God, and in my own face in the glass,
I find letters from God dropt in the street, and every one is sign'd by God's name,
And I leave them where they are, for I know that wheresoe'er I go,
Others will punctually come for ever and ever.


And as to you Death, and you bitter hug of mortality, it is idle to 
        try to alarm me.
To his work without flinching the accoucheur comes,
I see the elder-hand pressing receiving supporting,
I recline by the sills of the exquisite flexible doors,
And mark the outlet, and mark the relief and escape.

And as to you Corpse I think you are good manure, but that does not 
        offend me,
I smell the white roses sweet-scented and growing,
I reach to the leafy lips, I reach to the polish'd breasts of melons.

And as to you Life I reckon you are the leavings of many deaths,
(No doubt I have died myself ten thousand times before.)

I hear you whispering there O stars of heaven,
O suns—O grass of graves—O perpetual transfers and promotions,
If you do not say any thing how can I say any thing?

Of the turbid pool that lies in the autumn forest,
Of the moon that descends the steeps of the soughing twilight,
Toss, sparkles of day and dusk—toss on the black stems that decay 
        in the muck,
Toss to the moaning gibberish of the dry limbs.

I ascend from the moon, I ascend from the night,
I perceive that the ghastly glimmer is noonday sunbeams reflected,
And debouch to the steady and central from the offspring great or small.


There is that in me—I do not know what it is—but I know it is in me.

Wrench'd and sweaty—calm and cool then my body becomes,
I sleep—I sleep long.

I do not know it—it is without name—it is a word unsaid,
It is not in any dictionary, utterance, symbol.

Something it swings on more than the earth I swing on,
To it the creation is the friend whose embracing awakes me.

Perhaps I might tell more. Outlines! I plead for my brothers and sisters.

Do you see O my brothers and sisters?
It is not chaos or death—it is form, union, plan—it is eternal 
        life—it is Happiness.


The past and present wilt—I have fill'd them, emptied them.
And proceed to fill my next fold of the future.

Listener up there! what have you to confide to me?
Look in my face while I snuff the sidle of evening,
(Talk honestly, no one else hears you, and I stay only a minute longer.)

Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)

I concentrate toward them that are nigh, I wait on the door-slab.

Who has done his day's work? who will soonest be through with his supper?Who wishes to walk with me?

Will you speak before I am gone? will you prove already too late?


The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains of my gab 
        and my loitering.

I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.

The last scud of day holds back for me,
It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow'd wilds,
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.

I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.


  1. The verb “to effuse” means to flow out. Whitman concludes the poem by describing the speaker’s dissipation into the night, pouring out his “flesh in eddies” so that he becomes everything around him. This dissipation is less of an erasure of the individual self than it is a merging of the temporary self with the immortal self that transcends time and everything in existence.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  2. The adjective “untranslatable” means that something cannot be transformed into something else, such as words being translated from one language to another. Something “untranslatable” can also refer to changing states or forms. Here, the speaker’s “barbaric yawp” cannot be translated into something understandable because he, like the hawk that scolds him, has not been “tamed.”

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  3. The verb “to contradict” means to assert the opposite of or to object to something. The speaker not only encourages the reader’s right to criticize his inconsistencies, but also the notion that the constant evolution of time and selfhood means that contradictions are inevitable. Therefore, because he “contain[s] multitudes,” these inconsistencies are unavoidable.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  4. Whitman once again highlights the actions he wishes for his readers to take after they have finished reading “Song of Myself.” Rather than accepting his words without objection, the speaker urges the reader to respond—even if it means challenging contradictions that he makes because he is “large” and “contain[s] multitudes.” The speaker’s request to the reader reflects the same inclusiveness that he offered to everything and everyone that he encountered throughout the poem; now, he makes space within the poem for the reader to make his or her contribution.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  5. Whitman possibly alludes to a famous passage from the United States Declaration of Independence, which was signed on July 4th, 1776. In it, Americans are granted the inalienable right to “Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness.” The question of what happiness is and how it is achieved is of the utmost importance throughout “Song of Myself.” At the end of the poem, the speaker seems to guide the reader to identify “Happiness” as the greater context of the universe and all creations; for, even in the midst of “chaos and death,” there is a “form,” “union,” and “plan” to justify everything that happens. It seems, then, that examining this plan and one’s position within it in the present moment will bring true happiness.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  6. Given the importance of death in the final sections of the poem, it is possible that the “it” to which the speaker refers is death—or, specifically, the experience of death that, naturally, no one is able to speak about. However, Whitman hints that “it” extends beyond humanity’s concept of death, for “it” is “not chaos or death.” It is, rather, “eternal life” and “Happiness.”

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  7. The noun “accoucheur” refers to a person, such as a midwife or an obstetrician, who assists in childbirth. Whitman represents the cycle of life and death through the symbol of childbirth; a newborn emerges into the world through “exquisite flexible doors” of the birth canal, but birth initiates the individual’s inevitable journey to death. The speaker reaffirms the cyclical nature of this journey by suspecting that he has “died myself ten thousand times before.”

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  8. Section forty-nine begins with the first of several apostrophes, or addresses to things or beings who are unable to respond in the moment. The speaker first speaks to Death, insisting that it is “idle” for it to attempt to “alarm” him because both life and death will always repeat in an endless cycle. Therefore, death is not the end of life—just as birth is not the beginning of life. Two stanzas later, he speaks to the Corpse, whose material remains will be used as manure to fertilize the ground and nourish new forms of life. Finally, Life is spoken to as “the leavings of many deaths,” as opposed to being the opposite of death.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  9. Whitman extends his argument that the soul and body are one by explaining that, because the individual soul is part of the universal soul, every person can “stand cool and composed before a million universes.” Further, God is not inaccessible nor separate from the present moment around each person, and thus need not inspire curiosity.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  10. Whitman reiterates the recurring argument that, contrary to what many religions maintain, the soul is neither superior nor inferior to the body. Rather, both the soul and the body exist together to form the individual self in its material form. Therefore, the present moment is important and must not be taken for granted—and, crucially, should not be sacrificed for the belief that the soul will be rewarded in the afterlife for misery endured while the physical body was alive.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  11. The speaker underscores that his target readership is not restricted by socio-economic class or gender. Rather than addressing well-educated or wealthy elites, he refers to ordinary people who, during Whitman’s time, might not have had the ability to read “Song of Myself” at all. Perhaps for this reason, the speaker positions himself throughout the poem as being willing to both share and articulate the experiences of people who would not be able to speak for themselves.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  12. The speaker expands upon his implied intentions for what the reader should do with the guidance he has provided throughout the poem. The “bold swimmer” of the previous section must learn to think for themself, rather than blindly accept information or teachings that are given as fact. If the reader is to honor Whitman’s “style,” then they must “destroy the teacher” by being endlessly inquisitive, curious, and willing to learn the truth on their own.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  13. Whitman’s speaker seems to signal the end of the poem in this section, both in his encouraging words aimed at preparing the reader for life without him and by highlighting one of the major goals of “Song of Myself”: to awaken the reader, or “wash the gum from your eyes,” to “the dazzle and the light of every moment of your life.” Whitman then indicates the actions that he possibly wishes for the reader to take after reading—to “jump off in the midst of the sea” of the present moment and appreciate, like “a bold swimmer,” the amplified experience that the speaker has helped to cultivate over the previous forty-five sections.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  14. A “knoll” is a small hill. The speaker leads the reader to a hill from which to view the “public road” that each individual must travel for themself. This journey is, like the speaker’s journey, a “perpetual” one; it is one of constant transformation, the culmination of all moments before it and all moments that will be created from it.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  15. The verb “to promulge” is a less common variant of the verb “to promulgate,” or to make something public. Whitman depicts the current moment as both containing everything that came before it as well as everything that will be created in the future. Therefore, “every condition,” or every person, not only creates itself in the moment, but also creates “what grows after and out of itself.”

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  16. Whitman's speaker uses the verb “to suffocate” to represent one of the poem’s ongoing themes: the process of interacting with and absorbing, in the form of the divine self, everything from the surrounding world. Every interaction with another person or with nature enters into the speaker, who then tries to give voice to everything and everyone he encounters.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  17. The speaker presents the birth of the universe, or “the huge first Nothing,” as the moment that everything he is made of was brought into creation. He knows he “was even there,” sleeping “through the lethargic mist” that would eventually form galaxies, solar systems, planets—and himself. In his present moment, therefore, he “stand[s] with [his] robust soul” as the culmination of eons of evolution. Just as important, he will pass along the natural “forces” that “have been steadily employ’d to complete and delight [him]” to subsequent generations.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  18. The word “acme” refers to the highest point of something, or the perfect expression of something. Whitman’s speaker means that he, like every other person, is the perfect accumulation of everything that has ever existed—the result of “trillions of winters and summers” and of the natural processes of science and the universe. Whitman further emphasizes the idea that one’s experience in the present moment is divine, and that future moments are actually manifestations of the current one that also contains all previous moments.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  19. A “fluke” is the tail fin of a whale. However, a fluke can also refer to a metal hook on the end of a weapon or a triangular blade on the anchor of a ship. Whitman’s imagery suggests that a whale that has been harpooned and is struggling as “spasms and spouts of blood” bleed into the water. In the next stanza, the speaker urges the “bloody flukes of doubters and sullen mopers” to “be at peace,” thus implying that they have been psychologically harpooned.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  20. Whitman suggests that, in contrast to the otherworldly faith of the religions he mentioned in section forty-one, his faith is in the material reality of the present. Further, everything that has ever existed in the past and in the future coalesces into the present moment so that everything the speaker experiences is divine—and exists in the afterlife, which, unlike the Christian belief in heaven, can be created and witnessed by people in the bodies they live in.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  21. The exclamation of the word “hoot” is an example of onomatopoeia, or a word that, when spoken aloud, sounds like the thing it refers to. Here, the sonic quality of the verb “to hoot” enhances the imagery of the detailed scene that Whitman describes.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  22. The adjective “orotund” refers to a sonic quality that is full, robust, and clear. The speaker characterizes his voice as powerful and commanding as he addresses the crowd, as a leader might speak to his followers. He suggests that he has shifted from the universal human self, which would engage with everyone in the crowd equally, to his individual self that tries—through commanding vocal projection—to set itself apart from everyone else.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  23. Whitman’s speaker rejects the supernatural forces often entertained by many religions, including those he alluded to earlier in this section. Instead, he elevates even the most base and vulgar aspects of the material world—such as the “bull,” “bug,” “dung,” and “dirt”—to the level of the divine. Whitman suggests not only that the natural world is divine, but also that the divine may be created by those on earth.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  24. Whitman alludes to the Greek gods Kronos and Zeus, as well as the demigod Hercules. According to Greek mythology, Kronos was the first-generation leader of the Titans, who were pre-Olympian gods. Kronos was overthrown by his son, Zeus, the sky and thunder god who came to rule over the gods at Mount Olympus. Hercules, however, is not a god; rather, he is Kronos’s grandson and Zeus’s son by a mortal woman, Alcmene.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  25. Whitman sharply contrasts the dejection and powerlessness of section thirty-seven with the emergence of a supremely powerful universal self. Rather than indifferently inhabiting and sharing in the lives and experiences of those around him, the speaker’s recharged divine self lifts those around him: he will “blow grit” into the “impotent,” impregnate “women fit for conception” with “bigger and nimbler babes,” and lift “the descending man...with resistless will.” Therefore, the speaker’s omnipotent eternal self will “keep guard all night” as a protective force that will “possess” all individuals to himself instead of merely inhabiting them.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  26. The verb “to flaunt” means to display something, often in an arrogant or showy manner. However, Whitman uses the verb as a noun when he describes a “flaunt of the sunshine,” perhaps in order to suggest that the performance of any verb—such as the sun flaunting its light—is a fixed eternal process instead of something with a beginning and an ending. He further develops the idea of eternal processes by declaring that in his embodiment of the divine human self, he is more enduring than the light that touches “surfaces only.” Instead, he “force[s] surfaces and depths also.” In other words, the speaker can penetrate everything and everyone that he encounters, while the sun can only illuminate surfaces.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  27. The noun “emanation” means something that flows from a source, such as the fragrance that issues from a flower.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  28. A “savage” is a person who is perceived as belonging to a primitive society. American colonists often used the term in a pejorative manner to refer to Native Americans, whom they saw as uncivilized. However, the adjective “savage” derives from the Latin word “silvaticus,” which means to be of the woods or forest. Whitman seems to draw from this original meaning, portraying this new wild American identity of the “friendly and flowing savage” as possibly transcending civilization and thus earning the respect and desire of everyone who encounters him.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  29. The noun “eleve,” or “èléve,” is the French term for a student or pupil. The speaker has resolved to “troop forth replenish’d with supreme power,” thus leaving the scene of death and suffering behind. He calls his eleves, or students, to join him as he continues his journey—while also urging them to continue questioning everything that they encounter.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  30. Whitman’s speaker seems to have nearly committed the “usual mistake” of believing that all of human existence is defined by pain and suffering. Rather than sharing in the pain of the prisoners in section thirty-seven, he became “possess’d” by their suffering to the extent that he began to be defined by it. Whitman seems to model the appropriate response to witnessing violence and the other horrors that are part of—but not entirely—the human experience: to acknowledge it and move on.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  31. Until now, the speaker’s democratized universal self has engaged freely with all forms of human life, good and bad. However, the desperation and misery represented in section thirty-seven possesses him so that he becomes overwhelmed by the pain, sickness, and isolation of those who suffer imprisonment. The experience is therefore not empowering, but rather drains him of life: his face becomes “ash-color’d,” his “sinews gnarl,” and people withdraw from him.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  32. The adjective “unintermitted” means to be continuous and uninterrupted, as opposed to “intermitted” or “intermittent” pain that comes and goes at intervals. Whitman’s speaker, who until now has absorbed and shared the experiences of others, is suddenly “possess’d” by the pain and suffering of “all presences outlaw’d or suffering.”

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  33. Whitman indicates the true cost of war in this final line: the “irretrievable” loss of life. Even for the victorious, which are celebrated in section thirty-five, the tragic loss of life cannot be avoided in war. The speaker recounts the gory details aboard the Bonhomme Richard as it slowly sinks, contrasting the “soothe of waves” and “delicate sniffs of sea-breeze” with the unnerving “hiss of the surgeon’s knife” and “the gnawing teeth of his saw.”

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  34. The noun “cordage” refers to the ropes used in the rigging of a ship. Rigging is a system of such ropes used to reinforce the ship’s masts, thus controlling the position of the sails. Whitman further employs juxtaposition by following the celebratory story of the “sea-battle” in section thirty-five with the ominous portrayal of the bloody aftermath in section thirty-six.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  35. Whitman subtly weaves irony into his continued cataloguing of the bloody battles that helped shape the United States during its early history. Generally, irony is a device, event, or situation in which things appear to be different from what they actually are. Here, Whitman describes battles that seem to be invested in unifying or bringing the United States together as a nation. Yet, ironically, the battles themselves resulted in divisiveness and death for all involved. Therefore, from the perspective of the universal self, which loves everyone equally, such battles promote the exact opposite of unity.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  36. Whitman likely alludes to the Battle of Flamborough Head, a “sea-fight” that took place off of the coast of England during the American Revolutionary War (1775–1783). This particular battle took place on September 23, 1779, between American Captain John Paul Jones’s Bonhomme Richard and British Captain Richard Pearson’s Serapis ships. The battle lasted for three-and-a-half hours and, though it was won by the Americans, roughly one hundred and fifty people lost their lives on both sides.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  37. Whitman juxtaposes the lengthy catalogue in section thirty-three with the short, graphic description of the Battle of the Alamo in section thirty-four. Juxtaposition is a device in which who opposite things are placed side-by-side in order to emphasize their differences. Whitman uses juxtaposition here in order to make the tragedy of the massacre all the more shocking and impactful on the reader.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  38. Whitman alludes to the Goliad Massacre, an event that took place on March 27, 1836, during the Texas Revolution (1835-1836), in which American colonists and Texas Mexicans revolted against Mexico for independence. After the Battle of Coleto on March 19 and 20, from which the Mexican army emerged victorious, Mexican General and President Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna ordered the execution of the prisoners taken from the Texian Army. The massacre took place in the town of Goliad, Texas, and was carried out by Mexican Lt. Colonel José Nicolás de la Portilla.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  39. An “ambulanza” is the Italian word for ambulance, a vehicle that transports sick or injured individuals to a location—usually a hospital—in order to receive medical attention. Whitman concludes the extensive catalogue of section thirty-three with images of death and horrific suffering in order to suggest that to encompass everything, as the universal human self does, is not always pleasant or positive.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  40. Whitman makes liberal use of the definite article “the,” as opposed to the indefinite articles “a” or “an,” to describe the many things he sees; “the native,” “the foreign,” “the homely woman,” “the quakeress,” “the tune of the choir,” and the Methodist preacher’s “earnest words” are all specific, yet simultaneously abstract. As a result, the reader feels the effect of being everywhere with the universal self—in the present moment as life takes place, as well as throughout time.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  41. The adjective “omnigenous” means to contain all things—in this context, all forms of life. The universal self that the speaker embodies moves forward “with velocity” through vast periods of time, which is “infinite” and carries all things in existence.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  42. The speaker notes that all of the animals he observes have the enviable ability to live in the present moment, unencumbered by stressors like a “duty to God” or the compulsion to own things. Whitman suggests that animals possess “tokens” of what humans have lost throughout their evolutionary journey—namely, the ability to be truly happy by appreciating life as it is being lived. Therefore, humans have something to learn from animals and can regain some of what was lost by receiving these “tokens” that animals carry.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  43. The adjective “plutonic” refers to something that has been formed by hot magma, a molten rock material located within the earth. Plutonic rocks are created when hot magma cools and solidifies. Whitman declares that nothing, whether the ancient plutonic rocks from within the earth or the long extinct species (“the mastodon”), can eradicate the present moment of living.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  44. A “pismire” is another word for an ant. Whitman considers the experience of living in a human body within the context of a vast network of ever-evolving life forms, each the product of millions of years of adaptations. Therefore, all things—be they leaves of grass or a pismire—are “equally perfect.”

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  45. The speaker acknowledges that the truth of all truths, or “a compend of compends,” about the universe and existence can be found in the physical bodies, or “the meat,” of humans. Further, this ultimate truth lies within the desire that people feel for each other’s bodies, or the “feeling they have for each other.” This desire, though experienced individually, will “branch boundlessly” until it “becomes omnific,” permeating all existence “until one and all shall delight us, and we them.”

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  46. Whitman contrasts his dramatic portrayal of intense sexual touch with unextraordinary, everyday touch that people have learned to take for granted. All of the material things of the world are in a state of birth or death, and therefore, as he suggests in the final stanza of this section, the only “truth” to be discovered during one’s lifetime is through touching these material things.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  47. The adjective “prolific” means to create or produce in abundance. The ache left by the departing “sheath’d hooded sharp-tooth’d touch” provides recompense, or dividends to be enjoyed as the pleasure of touch subsides, which Whitman compares to a “rich showering rain” that enables many sprouts to take root.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  48. The verb “to recompense” means to pay for something or to repay someone for something they have done or given.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  49. A “marauder” is a person who roams about in search of things to steal or people to attack. It is possible that the “red marauder” Whitman refers to is a Native American, as European settlers often described Native Americans as having red-colored skin.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  50. The adjective “prurient” means to inspire or arouse desire, especially sexual desire. Whitman’s word choice further develops his argument that the divine, transcendent self includes both the spiritual and the physical; thus, sexual arousal is sacred rather than vulgar or taboo.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  51. The adjective “callous” means to have a rough, hardened, or thick exterior. Here, “callous” refers to the hard, thick shell of the “quahaug,” or clam. However, the word can also be used to describe a person who is devoid of emotion. Whitman’s word choice seems to suggest a broad dullness of the senses, given that he proceeds to describe his overwhelming experience of touch in the next stanza.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  52. A “quahaug,” or “quahog,” is a species of edible clam that lives in a thick shell. Whitman extends his juxtaposition of human life with seemingly inferior animal life by comparing himself, or the universal form of the self, to a clam. In the following stanza, he goes on to suggest that unlike the clam with its “callous shell,” he is covered with “instant conductors.”

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  53. Both of these lines are end-stopped lines, meaning that they conclude with punctuation—in this case, a comma and a period. Nearly every line in “Song of Myself” is end stopped, thus creating a start-and-stop rhythm that encourages readers to pause at the end of each line. As a result, Whitman maintains a contemplative and serious tone that places emphasis on small details that are easier to catch when the flow of the poem is slowed.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  54. A “bravuras” is a highly technical, challenging musical passage. Whitman, who regularly idealizes the natural world throughout “Song of Myself,” suggests that birds perform their music with great skill. This subtle form of personification reinforces the poet’s argument that the universal human self engages with all forms of life.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  55. The noun “plenum” can refer to either the state of being full or a space that is entirely filled with matter. Whitman suggests that his face, as opposed to his speech or written words, is completely full of the “proof” of everything that he has to say—so much so that the mere hushing of his lips is enough to “wholly confound the skeptic.” Therefore, while Whitman values “articulation,” he acknowledges that the expressions on his face are enough to communicate his thoughts.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  56. Whitman reflects on poetic power and his compulsion, or even temptation, to express all of the knowledge he possesses. Speech is personified as the “twin of my vision,” a provoking being that taunts him to “let it out” because his mind is overflowing with enough things to share with the world. Yet, at the end of this section, he declares that “writing and talk do not prove me,” and that everything he knows—“the plenum of proof”—can be read on his face.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  57. Whitman, who has redefined his divine self as a “kosmos” (universe), depicts himself as a poet through whom the “forbidden voices” of prisoners, slaves, thieves, and others deemed “indecent” by society may be “clarified and transfigur’d.” Such a declaration reaffirms his unconditional love for everyone, for human life in all of its manifestations. Even the most vulgar, physical aspects of living in a human body are divine, for the transcendent self—embodied by the poet—makes “holy whatever I touch or am touch’d from.”

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  58. The noun “afflatus” refers to the imparting of sacred or divine knowledge—or simply to be inspired by an internal mental force. Whitman, who has just identified himself by name for the first time, characterizes the universal self as having access to divine information—thus reinforcing the portrayal of this universal self as sacred, and thus every part of a person, whether spiritual or physical, is also sacred.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  59. Whitman's speaker acknowledges the accomplishments of scientists and mathematicians, calling their work “useful” and their professions deserving of “the first honors always!” Nevertheless, he rejects them on the grounds that their facts “are not my dwelling,” suggesting that the divinity of the collective human identity transcends the materialism of modern science.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  60. The verb “to imbue” means to furnish, endow, or saturate with something—in this case, materialism and the “Reality” posed by “positive science” and “exact demonstration.” Whitman suggests that developments in science and technology, which were plentiful during the 19th century, have permeated everyday life and possibly crowded out spirituality and religious thinking.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  61. The noun “scrofula” refers to tuberculosis of the lymph nodes, often in the neck. Tuberculosis is a contagious infectious disease that usually affects the lungs, though it can also cause damage to other areas of the body. Though most people do not experience symptoms, those who do experience severe symptoms that can prove fatal 50% of the time. Scrofula, like any form of tuberculosis, is particularly dangerous during pregnancy and would have likely been treated as a death sentence in Whitman’s time.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  62. The adjective “capricious” means to be unpredictable, often due to impulsivity. The speaker personifies the sea as impulsive because of its tendency to vacillate, often without warning, between stormy and pleasant weather. He identifies with this capriciousness because he is similarly complex; he is “of one phase and of all phases,” shifting between opposites so that they seem to comingle within him.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  63. These two lines use antithesis in conjunction with parallelism. Antithesis is a device juxtaposing different concepts, usually in order to point out the relationship between them or to highlight the characteristics of one by placing it alongside its opposite. Whitman uses antithesis to emphasize that the binary relationship between the opposite concepts of body and soul, pleasure and pain are imaginary—they exist together within the universal human self.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  64. The first two lines of section twenty-one feature parallelism, or the repetition of grammatical structures within a line or series of lines. The speaker’s assertions that “I am the poet of the Body” and “I am the poet of the Soul” are identical grammatical structures. Similarly, his statement that “the pleasures of heaven are with me” and “the pains of hell are with me” contain the same grammatical structures. In both cases, the repeating structures are joined by the coordinating conjunction “and.” Parallelism enables Whitman to further emphasize the relationships between opposites such as the physical and spiritual or pleasure and pain. Neither is superior to the other, nor do they exist without the other.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  65. The adjective “august” means to inspire admiration because of one’s great dignity or magnificence. Whitman’s word choice characterizes the universal self, to which the speaker refers as “august” and “deathless,” as venerable and majestic—as such, the speaker’s self is neither superior nor inferior to any other human self.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  66. This stanza features parataxis, a literary device in which short, simple clauses or phrases are placed beside each other so that each carries equal importance. Whitman employs parataxis repeatedly throughout “Song of Myself,” creating the effect of details piling on one other. Here, the speaker invites readers into a sensory experience that is made more intense by the onslaught of details that pile up as the stanza progresses.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  67. A “venerealee” is a person with venereal disease, a contagious disease such as syphilis that is often sexually transmitted. In Whitman’s time, venereal disease was commonly associated with prostitution. By arguing for the inclusion of individuals who are usually ostracized or deemed inferior by society, the speaker more dramatically demonstrates his commitment to treating every person as an equal.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  68. The noun “embouchure” refers to the positioning of a person’s lips, teeth, and tongue while playing a wind instrument, such as a trombone or a saxophone. An embouchure can also refer to a type of mouthpiece that is used for playing such an instrument. The speaker portrays the death of those killed during battle not as a tragedy but as an opportunity for celebration. Thus, he celebrates the heroism of those who have fallen by playing the cornet “[his] loudest and gayest.”

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  69. A “cornet” is a brass wind instrument that is similar to a trumpet but more cone-shaped. A “cornet” was also a name given to the lowest rank in the United States cavalry. Whitman’s word choice suggests that, just as he plays for lost battles, he celebrates even the lowest members of the military.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  70. Whitman’s evolving description of grass is an example of symbolism, a device in which something is used to represent something else. Grass symbolizes multiple abstract concepts throughout the poem. A single blade of grass represents an individual in society, which constantly renews itself through numerous people’s lifespans. Grass as a larger quantity also symbolizes death, as the speaker imagines in the sixth section that the grass beneath him is the hair of dead people buried underground. Ultimately, as suggested in this line, grass represents the cycle of life, death, and hope—as well as humanity’s close connection with nature.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  71. Whitman’s speaker continues to expand upon the concept of a universal, divine human self that transcends the temporary individual selves that each person possesses. He suggests that even the seemingly unique components of the individual self—in this case, a person’s thoughts—stem from this universal self, thus rendering them “nothing, or next to nothing.” His own thoughts do not belong to him; they have been thought by every person in the past, present, and future.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  72. These two lines are enjambed, meaning that they contain a phrase that continues past line breaks into subsequent lines. Whitman periodically uses enjambment to vary the poem’s rhythm and create a sense of anticipation. Given that many lines in “Song of Myself” are end-stopped, enjambment noticeably speeds up the reading process.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  73. Section 16 begins with two paradoxes. A paradox is a statement that appears to contradict itself but upon closer analysis contains an element of truth. Here, the phrases “I am of old and young” and “of the foolish as much as the wise” are both paradoxes because a person presumably cannot be both old and young or foolish and wise at the same time. However, as Whitman suggests, the universal human self that transcends the temporary individual self encompasses the diversity of humanity. Therefore, this divine self can be contradictory things at the same time.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  74. Whitman likely alludes to either President James K. Polk, who was the president of the United States when Whitman began writing “Song of Myself” in 1847, or President Franklin Pierce, who was president from 1853 to 1857. That Whitman did not specify the President’s identity reinforces the abstract language that pervades the poem’s fifteenth section—even the leader of the United States is portrayed as a repeating, renewable figure.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  75. The noun “regatta” refers to a boat race, often among sailboats. Boat racing is only one of numerous activities catalogued throughout this section, though the visual details of each may not be about specific events. Instead, Whitman’s nonspecific language suggests that the speaker describes repetitive, general activities that are renewed over time.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  76. The immediate repetition of the pronoun “Me” in these two lines is an example of epizeuxis, or the repetition of a word with no intervening words in between. Such intense repetition in this context emphasizes the individual yet universal perspective of “Me” while also extending the repeating assonant “ē” sound.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  77. These three lines contain assonance, or the repetition of vowel sounds. By repeating the vowel “ē” sound in the words “eat,” “sleep,” “week,” “week,” “cheapest,” “nearest,” “easiest,” “Me,” and “Me,” Whitman encourages readers to dwell on the speaker’s experience of merging with various wild and domestic animals. Whitman again suggests that the universal self is part of nature, so it is natural for the speaker to spend weeks eating and sleeping among animals as equals.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  78. The speaker’s declaration of love for the black laborer would have been controversial in Whitman’s time, as slavery was still legal when “Song of Myself” was first published. Yet, the divine, universal human self loves every other person and living thing—thus indicating that everyone is divine and lovable.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  79. The verb “to swag” means to sway or to sag, as the heavy block does beneath its chain. Whitman continues his fixation on difficult physical labor in his description of a black man—not necessarily a slave, as was the black man in the tenth section—driving a cart of stones to a stone yard.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  80. The adjective “lithe” means to be flexible or athletically slender. Whitman’s word choice also carries the connotation of graceful movement, which characterizes otherwise rough physical work as aesthetically pleasing—as opposed to base or low-class.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  81. An “anvil” is a heavy, often forged or steel-faced iron block used by blacksmiths. Whitman’s speaker seems to admire the physical strength associated with masculinity and manual labor, which he observes with interest that, while not sexual, seems to mirror the lonely woman from section eleven.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  82. Whitman reverses the gendered roles usually established by Western voyeurism, in which men secretly watch naked women. Here, the wealthy-yet-lonely woman watches a group of men bathing by the shore below and imagines herself joining them as the “twenty-ninth bather.” Whitman’s portrayal of this particular scene was considered controversial at the time because of its celebration of eroticism alongside the acknowledgment of female desire and sexuality.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  83. The word “aft” is a naval term referring to someone situated near, toward, or in the stern of a ship. Whitman’s speaker describes a wealthy woman standing at the blinds of the window in her “fine house by the rise of the bank.” The usual social order is reversed here, as the woman is positioned at a higher status due to her wealth. However, her riches seem to separate her from the rest of the community, symbolized by the boundary established by her window blinds.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  84. This line contains alliteration, or the repetition of sounds among words in a group. Whitman’s rapid repetition of the hard consonant sound “c” in “coarse,” “clear,” and “clothes” lends a musical yet slightly overwhelming quality to the poem’s rhythm, while also reinforcing the poem’s tone.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  85. The noun “prow” refers to the bow of a ship, in this case a type of fast-moving ship (a “Yankee clipper”). Throughout the tenth section, Whitman illustrates different facets of the American experience through his speaker’s travels—moving from hunting in the wilderness to accompanying clam-diggers at sea to witnessing a wedding between a trapper and a Native American and, finally, helping an escaped slave.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  86. “Timothy” is a species of perennial grass native to Europe but commonly grown for hay in the United States. Whitman’s speaker jumps from the cross-beams of the hay wagon into a bed of clover and timothy, perhaps symbolizing the universal self’s ability to engage with and absorb nature.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  87. The verb “to intertinge” is an archaic form of the verb “to tinge,” which means to stain or lightly color something. Whitman sharply contrasts the chaotic city scene from the preceding section with his peaceful portrayal of harvesttime in the country. Here, the color of the harvested grass is a blend of brown, gray, and green.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  88. The noun “decorum” refers to good manners, or behavior associated with acceptable or proper conduct. Whitman’s word choice possibly implies repression of natural instincts, such as screaming, because of socially imposed expectations.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  89. A “promenader” is a person who goes on a leisurely stroll or drive, which at the time of the poem’s composing would have involved a horse-drawn vehicle. Whitman’s speaker catalogues his surroundings, portraying life in its pleasant and unpleasant forms. Here, he describes the sights and sounds of a busy street and the blend of people from all social classes within it. A promenader would likely have been of the middle or upper classes, as the working class would not have had the time to engage in leisurely activities.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  90. Whitman’s speaker refers to his universal self, which—unlike his individual self—never dies. His universal self transcends the physical body, and therefore cannot be “contain’d between my hat and boots.” Nor is this universal self limited to existing only on earth; it is eternal and engages with everything in creation. Whitman suggests that everyone possesses this innate divinity.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  91. This is a rhetorical question, or a question that is posed for some other reason aside from receiving an answer. Whitman asks many rhetorical questions throughout “Song of Myself.” Here, his speaker inquires whether or not it is actually lucky to be born—but the question raised is meant to encourage the reader to examine their own assumptions about life and death, rather than to obtain an answer.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  92. Whitman’s speaker initially personifies the grass in his puzzling attempt to answer the child’s question. Personification is a device in which human characteristics, including feelings and behaviors, are attributed to nonhuman things. As the sixth section progresses, however, the grass becomes a metaphor for the human condition—particularly the cyclical renewal of life throughout the ages.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  93. The first two lines of the sixth section each contain a caesura. A caesura is a break within a line of verse, often in the form of punctuation. Here, interrupting each line with a question mark both varies the poem’s rhythm while also encouraging the reader to reflect on the questions posed by the child and Whitman’s speaker.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  94. A “mullein” is a type of herbaceous plant belonging to the snapdragon family. Mulleins have woolly leaves and lengthy spikes of bright yellow flowers. Whitman’s speaker includes such details to indicate that the eternal human self that is one with God and one with the natural world, which is also “limitless” in its cycles of birth and death.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  95. Whitman uses a metaphor, or a device comparing two different things by stating or implying that they are the same, when he calls love “a kelson of the creation.” The noun “kelson” is a variation on “keelson,” a crucial structure extending above the keel of a ship so as to strengthen its framework. Whitman’s speaker suggests that this love is so powerful and pure that it strengthens the connection between his soul, God, and every other person in existence.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  96. Whitman’s speaker again establishes a strong boundary between the individual self, which is as temporary as the trivial details discussed by the “trippers and askers,” and the transcendent universal self. Everyday matters and even serious conflicts are not part of the universal “Me” that witnesses the “turbulence” of daily life. Instead, this greater Self is immortal in part because of its detachment and because it is renewed from generation to generation and never fixed to the present moment.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  97. The adjective “fratricidal” refers to conflict or intense disagreement within a family, a government, or an organization. The verb “fratricide,” however, means to murder one’s sibling. Whitman portrays the speaker’s self as remaining detached as it witnesses the many everyday details of existence, which include “fratricidal war,” “doubtful news,” and “fitful events.”

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  98. The repetition of the coordinating conjunction “and” in this line is an example of polysyndeton. Polysyndeton generally involves the repetition of coordinating conjunctions including “and,” “but,” and “or.” Often, the repeated words appear when they would otherwise be omitted in order to emphasize important words or to organize a lengthy list of items. In this case, Whitman uses this form of repetition to represent the universal self’s ability to flow freely into the physical self. The interaction between the soul and the body means that both are “clear and sweet.”

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  99. The noun “inception” refers to the beginning of something, or the commencement of an activity. Here, Whitman’s speaker scolds “the talkers” for discussing “the beginning and the end,” as well as frivolous topics like “latest dates, discoveries, inventions, societies, authors old and new.” Instead, he asserts that the beginning is always taking place because the universal human self is in a constant state of renewal.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  100. These three lines feature anaphora, or the repetition of words at the beginning of successive lines or phrases. Whitman frequently uses anaphora to vary rhythm while also providing a sense of order and structure to the poem’s many lists. Here, the repetition of the words “have you” invites the reader—in a rather forthright way—to pay attention to the questions posed by the speaker.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  101. Whitman’s speaker establishes his individualism by asserting that his self is separate from the “perfumes,” which represent other people, that fill “houses,” “rooms,” and “shelves.” Though the speaker feels an intense attraction to these other perfumes, he recognizes that he will become intoxicated, suggesting that allowing himself to become immersed in the other perfumes will erase his individuality. Nature, however, is “odorless,” and he experiences true self-expression by becoming “undisguised and naked” beside the bank in the woods.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  102. The noun “abeyance” refers to a state of temporary inaction or suspension. Whitman’s speaker means that the creeds, or a set of beliefs, and schools have “retired back” in to a condition of disuse. However, this disuse is transitory, for they are “never forgotten.”

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  103. The first line of “Song of Myself” contains a diacope, which is the repetition of words with a minimal number of intervening words between them. By repeating “myself,” Whitman establishes rhythm and musicality from the outset. Further, the second mention of the speaker’s selfhood hints at the existence of two separate versions of the self—which, throughout the poem, consist of the individual self and the universal self.

    — Owl Eyes Editors