Song of Myself (1892 Version) by Walt Whitman | poetry foundation (2023)


I myself celebrate and sing

And what I accept you will accept

Because every atom that is mine is yours too.

Fireplace and invitation to my alma,

I lean forward and walk slowly while looking at a blade of summer grass.

My tongue, each atom of my blood, formed from this earth, from this air,

Born here to parents born here to the same parents, and your parents from the same

I, now thirty-seven years old, in perfect health, begin

Hoping not to stop until death.

creeds and schools in limbo,

Retiring for a while was enough for who you are, but never forget it.

I take shelter for better or for worse, I let speak in any danger,

Uncontrolled nature with primal energy.


Houses and rooms are full of perfumes, shelves are full of perfumes,

I myself breathe the perfume and I know it and I like it,

Distillation would also drug me, but I won't have it.

The environment is not perfumed, it has no distillation taste, it is odorless,

It's my mouth forever, I'm in love with it.

I go to the forest bank and stand naked and naked,

I'm crazy to be in touch with myself.

the smoke of my own breath

echoes, waves, whispering whispers, root of love, silk thread, fork and tendril,

My breath and inhalation, the beating of my heart, the blood and air rushing through my lungs,

The smell of green leaves and dry leaves and the shore and dark sea rocks and hay in the barn,

The belching of the words of my voice dissolved in the eddies of the wind,

A few light kisses, a few hugs, a hug,

The play of light and shadow on the trees as the flexible branches sway,

Pleasure in solitude or in the bustle of the streets or next to fields and mountains,

The feeling of health, the trill of noon, the song of me getting out of bed and meeting the sun.

Did you calculate a thousand acres a lot? Do you trust the earth too much?

Did you practice so much to learn to read?

Did he pride himself on understanding the meaning of poetry?

Stay with me night and day and you will have the origin of all the poems,

You will have the good of the earth and the sun (millions of suns remain)

You must no longer take anything second or third hand, nor look with the eyes of the dead, nor feed ghosts in books,

You also shouldn't look through my eyes and take nothing from me,

You must listen to all sides and filter them from yourself.


I listened to what the speakers said, the talk at the beginning and the end.

But I'm not talking about the beginning or the end.

There have never been more beginnings than now

No more youth nor old age than now,

And there will never be more perfection than now

There is no more heaven or hell than right now.

rising rise

Always the procreative impulse of the world.

Out of nothing is opposite equal progress, always substance and increase, always sex,

Always a network of identity, always distinction, always a career of life.

It is useless to explain it, both the learned and the inexperienced feel that it is so.

Certain as the surest certainty, plumb, well received, leaning on the beam,

Strong as a horse, affectionate, haughty, electric,

Me and this mystery here we are.

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

the lack of one lacks both, and the invisible is proven by the visible,

Until he becomes invisible and in turn receives evidence.

Showing the best and separating it from the worst irritates old age,

Knowing the perfect adequacy and equanimity of things, while they argue, I remain silent, take a shower and admire myself.

Welcome is every organ and feature of mine and every man who is warm and pure,

Not one inch or one iota of an inch is abhorrent, and none should be less familiar than the others.

I am happy: I see, I dance, I laugh, I sing;

As the tender and loving bedfellow sleeps beside me at night and creeps away at dusk,

Leave me baskets covered in white towels filling the house with its fullness

Should I put off my acceptance and realization and scream in my eyes?

stop looking down the street and down

And immediately figure and show me in a penny,

Value exactly one and value exactly two, and what's ahead?


stumblers and questioners surround me,

people I meet, the impact of my youth, or the community and city I live in, or the nation,

The latest data, discoveries, inventions, societies, old and new authors,

My dinner, dress, couple, looks, compliments, debts,

The real or imagined indifference of a man or a woman I love

The illness of one of my relatives or of myself, or bad deeds, or loss or lack of money, or depression or euphoria,

the battles, the horrors of fratricidal wars, the fever of dubious news, the convulsive events;

They come to me day and night and leave again,

But they are not me.

Apart from dragging and dragging, what I am remains

He gets funny, cocky, sympathetic, idle, even,

Look down, stand tall or cross one arm in imperceptible stillness,

Head tilted to the side, anxiously awaiting what comes next.

In and out of the game and while you watch and marvel.

Looking back on my own days sweating in the fog with linguists and competitors

I have no mockery or contention, I bear witness and I hope.


I believe in you my soul, the other that I am I must not humble myself for you,

And one must not humiliate the other.

Walk with me on the grass, undo the lock on your throat,

I don't want words, or music, or rhymes, or customs, or sermons, not even the best,

I like the silence, the hum of your tube voice.

I care how we once made a summer morning so transparent

How you put your head on my hips and gently rolled over me

And he untied the shirt from my chest and plunged his tongue into my naked heart,

And he reached out to feel my beard, and he reached out to hold my feet.

Rise quickly and spread around me the peace and knowledge that surpasses all arguments on earth,

And I know that the hand of God is my promise

And I know the Spirit of God is my own brother,

And that all men born are also my brothers, and women my sisters and lovers,

and that a kelson of creation is love,

And unlimited are the hard or fallen leaves in the fields,

And brown ants in the little holes below

And mossy scabs from the worm fence, stacked stones, elderberry, mullein, and pokeweed.


said a childwhat is grasstaking it to me with full hands;

How could I answer the child? I don't know any more than he knows what it is.

I think it must be the flag of my disposition, woven with a hopeful green cloth.

Or I think it's the lord's handkerchief

A fragrant gift and a memory dropped on purpose,

Have the owner's name somewhere in the corners for us to see, notice and sayWhose?

Or I think that the grass itself is a child, the baby produced by the vegetation.

Or I think it's a uniform hieroglyph,

And that means sprouting in wide and narrow areas,

It grows among the blacks as among the whites,

Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give you the same, I receive you the same.

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

Tenderly I will use you to roll the grass,

You can spit on the breasts of young people.

Maybe I would have loved her if I had known her

They may come from older people or from offspring that were soon torn from their mothers' wombs.

And here you are, the womb of mothers.

This grass is too dark to come from the white heads of old mothers,

Darker than the colorless beards of the old,

Dark to emerge under the faint red roofs of the mouths.

Oh, I perceive so many tongues speaking,

And I realize that they do not leave the palate for nothing.

I wish I could translate the references to the dead boys and girls

And the allusions to old men and mothers and children who will soon be snatched from their laps.

What do you think happened to the young and the old?

And what do you think happened to the women and children?

They are alive and well somewhere.

The smallest outbreak shows that there really is no death,

And if ever there was a life that moved on and didn't wait for the end to catch it

And it stopped as soon as life appeared.

Everything goes forward and out, nothing falls apart,

And dying is different than you thought and happier.


Did anyone assume that it was lucky to be born?

I hasten to tell you that dying is just as happy, and I know it.

I survive death with dying and birth with the freshly washed child and I am not trapped between the hat and the boots,

And rummage through various objects, no two are the same and they are all good,

The earth is good and the stars are good, and their complements are all good.

I am not a land nor an appendage of a land,

I am the companion and companion of men, all as immortal and fathomless as I,

(You don't know how immortal, but I do.)

Each species by itself and for itself, for me my male and my female,

For me those who were children and who love women

For me, the man who is proud and feels the pain of being hurt.

For me the bride and the old spinster, for me the mothers and mothers of mothers,

For me, lips that smile, eyes that shed tears,

For me the children and children's producers.

Unpacking! You don't owe me, neither old nor discarded,

I see through wool and gingham yes or no

And I am there, persistent, greedy, tireless and tireless.


The little one sleeps in the cradle,

I lift the gauze and peer carefully, silently brushing away the flies with my hand.

The red-faced boy and girl climb the thick hill

I spy on her from above.

Suicide spreads on the fucking bedroom floor.

I look at the corpse with disheveled hair, I realize where the gun fell.

The noise of the sidewalk, the tires of the cars, the crunch of the soles of the boots, the conversation of the walkers,

The heavy bus, the driver with an inquisitive thumb, the sound of shod horses on the granite floor,

Snow sleds that jingle, shout jokes, crackle snowballs,

Hooray for popular favorites, aroused the anger of the crowds,

The curtain stretcher flap, a patient admitted to the hospital,

The clash of enemies, the sudden swearing, the blows and the fall,

The crowd cheering, the policeman with his star pushing his way quickly through the crowd,

The impassive stones that receive and return so many echoes,

What moans of the fed up or the hungry, the sunny or the convulsed,

What screams of suddenly moved women running home and having babies,

What living and buried language vibrates here, what howls held back by decency,

Criminal arrests, insults, adulterous offers, promises, convex-lipped refusals,

I worry about them or about their show or resonance: I come and go.


The great country barn doors are open and ready,

The dry grass of the harvest time carries the cart drawn slowly,

The bright light plays with grayish brown interspersed with green,

Full arms are packaged for dropped cuts.

I am there, I am helping, I came tense with the load,

I felt your soft thrusts, with one leg crossed

I jump from the rafters and grab the shamrock and timothy,

And curl up on my stomach and tangle my stringy hair.


Alone in the desert and the mountains I hunt,

Wandering in wonder at my own lightness and happiness,

Choose a safe place to spend the night in the late afternoon,

Light the fire and roast the freshly killed game,

Falling asleep in the collected leaves with my dog ​​and my gun at my side.

The Yankee clipper is under her sails, she cuts the glitter and the dew,

My eyes roam the land, I bow to your prow, or shout joyfully from the deck.

The boatmen and diggers got up early and stopped for me.

I tucked the ends of my pants into my boots and went out to have fun;

You should have sat with us at the kettle that day.

I saw the outdoor wedding of the hunter in the wild west, the bride was a red-haired maiden,

His father and his friends sat cross-legged and smoked in silence, they had moccasins on their feet and big thick blankets slung over their shoulders,

In a ravine, the hunter was unkempt, he was dressed mainly in furs, his lush beard and curls protected his neck, he held his girlfriend's hand,

She had long eyelashes, her head was uncovered, her thick, straight locks falling over her voluptuous limbs and reaching down to her feet.

The runaway slave came to my house and stayed outside.

I heard their movements break the branches of the woodpile,

Through the half-open kitchen door, I saw him limp and weak,

And approaching where he was sitting on a log, and taking him inside, he assured him:

And he brought water and filled a tub for his sweaty body and aching feet,

And I gave him a room next to mine, and I gave him clean and sufficient clothes,

And clearly remember your rolling eyes and your clumsiness,

And remember to put Band-Aids on the blisters on your neck and ankles;

He stayed with me for a week before recovering and heading north,

I let him sit next to me at the table, my shotgun propped in the corner.


Twenty-eight young people bathe on the beach,

Twenty-eight young people and all very nice;

Twenty-eight years as a woman and everything so lonely.

She owns the nice house on the road to the bank,

She hides beautifully and richly dressed behind the window shutters.

Which of the boys do you like the most?

Ah, the homeliest of them is beautiful to them.

where are you going ma'am because I saw you

You splash in the water there, but remain motionless in your room.

Dancing and laughing along the beach came the twenty-ninth bather,

The others did not see her, but she saw them and loved them.

The beards of the young men shone with moisture, their long hair flowing

Small rivulets flowed over their bodies.

An invisible hand also ran through their bodies,

He shuddered at his temples and ribs.

The young float on their backs, their white bellies sticking out to the sun, they don't ask who holds them,

They don't know who snorts and sinks with tow and bow,

They don't think about who they fumigate.


The butcher's son takes off his battle clothes or sharpens his knife at the market stall,

I walk and appreciate your quick wit and your shuffling and breaking.

Blacksmiths with dirty hairy chests surround the anvil,

Everyone has their main sleigh, everyone is outside, it's very hot on the fire.

From the ash-covered threshold I follow your movements,

The slender simplicity of her waist even plays with her huge arms,

The upper hand swings the hammers, the upper hand so slow, the upper hand so sure,

They are not in a hurry, each one attacks in his place.


The negro holds the reins of his four horses, their tails block under the chain tied,

The Negro who drives Steinhof's long cart, solid and tall, leans on one leg on the piece of rope,

His blue shirt exposes his broad neck and chest and loosens around his waist,

His look is calm and authoritative, he removes his wide-brimmed hat from his forehead,

The sun falls on his curly hair and mustache, falls on the blackness of his polished and perfect limbs.

I see the picturesque giant and I love him and I can't stop

I also go with the team.

In me the caress of life, wherever it moves, winding to and fro,

Junior side and double niches, there are no missing people or objects,

I record everything for myself and for this song.

Oxen shaking yokes and chains or standing in the shadow of the leaves, what do you express in your eyes?

It seems to me more than anything in print I have ever read.

My step scares the forest duck and the forest duck on my long, long foray,

They rise together, circling slowly.

I believe in these winged intentions

And I recognize red, yellow, white playing with me

And consider the green and purple and the plumed crown envisioned,

And don't call the turtle unworthy, because nothing else is,

And the jay in the woods never studied the scale, but it sounds good to me.

And the look of the bay mare makes me feel foolish.


The wild goose leads his flock through the cold night,

Ya-hunkhe says and it sounds like an invitation,

The pert might think it doesn't make sense, but I'm listening carefully.

Find your purpose and place it there towards the winter sky.

The northern elk, the cat on the house bench, the blue tit, the prairie dog,

The sow's litter grunts as she pulls at her teats,

The chick of the turkey and her with the wings ajar,

I see in you and in me the same old law.

Pressing my foot on the ground, a hundred affections sprout,

They despise the best I can do to tell them.

I am in love with growing outdoors.

Of the men who live among cattle or savor the sea or the forest,

Of shipbuilders and helmsmen, and axes and hammers, and horse drivers,

I can eat and sleep in them week after week.

The more common, the cheaper, the closer, the easier I am,

I take risks, I spend for big profits,

I adorn myself to give myself to the first one who takes me

Don't ask the sky to come down to my good will

Spread it free forever.


The tall cigar sings in the organ gallery,

(Video) Song of Myself by Walt Whitman (Sections 1-30)

The carpenter prepares his plank, the fo'c'sle's tongue whistles its growing wild lisp,

Married and unmarried children come home for Thanksgiving dinner,

The pilot grabs the kingpin, lowers it with a strong arm,

The officer is armed in the lifeboat, spear and harpoon at the ready,

The duckling walks on calm and careful stretches,

Deacons are ordained with folded hands at the altar,

The spinner moves back and forth to the whirr of the great wheel,

The farmer takes a break from the bars as he pops into a day one burger and looks at the oats and rye,

The madman is finally taken to the asylum as a confirmed case,

(He will never sleep like he used to in his mother's crib ;)

The gray-haired, thin-chinned daily printer works on his chest,

He rolls tobacco while his eyes mist over the manuscript;

The deformed limbs are strapped to the surgeon's table,

What is taken out falls terribly into a bucket;

The gang girl is sold at the auction stand, the drunk man waves at the bar,

The driver rolls up his sleeves, the policeman makes his rounds, the doorman marks passers-by,

The young man drives the express car (I love him even though I don't know him ;)

The mestizo fastens his light boots to enter the race,

Turkey hunting in the West attracts young and old, some leaning on their rifles, others perched on logs,

The goalkeeper leaves the crowd, takes position, aligns his figure;

Groups of recently arrived immigrants cover the pier or dike,

As the wool cakes are being cut in the sugar field, the foreman watches them from his chair,

The bugle sounds in the ballroom, the knights run to their partners, the dancers greet each other,

The young man lies awake in the cedar-roofed loft and listens to the musical rain,

Wolverine sets traps in the stream that helps fill the Huron,

The Indian woman, wrapped in her yellow cloth, offers moccasins and beaded handbags for sale,

The connoisseur looks through the exhibition gallery with narrowed eyes, squinting,

When the sailors dock the steamer, the plank is thrown to disembark the passengers,

The younger sister holds the thread while the older sister unwinds it into a ball, pausing from time to time to knot.

The wife of one is recovering and happy to have given birth to her first child a week ago,

The fair-haired Yankee works at her sewing machine or in the factory or sawmill,

The cobblestone rests on its two-handed tamper, the reporter's mine flies swiftly over the notebook, the letterer writes in blue and gold,

The canal boy trots along the towpath, the accountant counts at his table, the shoemaker waxes his thread,

The director sets the rhythm of the band and all the artists follow him,

The child is baptized, the convert makes his first profession,

The regatta stretches across the bay, the regatta begins (how the white sails shine!)

The muleteer, looking at his herd, sings for those who are lost,

The peddler sweats with the backpack on his back (the buyer laughs for a penny or two ;)

The bride wrinkles her white dress, the minute hand on the clock moves slowly,

The opium eater rests with rigid head and parted lips,

The whore trails her shawl, her cap swinging around her drunken, pimply neck,

The crowd laughs at their oaths of villainy, men jeer and wink at each other,

(Wretch! I don't laugh at your vows and I don't make fun of you;)

The President, exercising a Council of Ministers, surrounds himself with the great secretaries,

In the square, three matrons walk majestic and graceful with their arms intertwined,

The Fish Smack Pack crew took repeat halibut shifts in the hold,

The Missourian crosses the prairie with his goods and cattle,

As the conductor walks the train, let the change change the jingle

The thieves lay the floor, the plumbers tin the ceiling, the masons ask for mortar,

In single file, each one with his helmet, the workers advance;

The seasons follow one another, the indescribable crowd gathers, it is the fourth day of the seventh month (what salutes of cannons and rifles!)

The seasons follow one another, the farmer plows, the reaper reaps, and the winter grain falls to the ground;

On the lakes the pike fisherman watches and waits in the hole in the frozen surface,

The tree stumps are thick around the clearing, the squatter is cutting deep with his axe,

Flatboaters zip past aspens or pecans at dusk,

Raccoon hunters pass through the Red River regions, or those drained by Tennessee, or those of Arkansas,

Glow-in-the-dark torches strung from Chattahooche or Altamahaw,

Patriarchs sit down to dinner surrounded by children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren,

On mud walls, in canvas tents, hunters and hunters rest after the day of sports,

The city sleeps and the countryside sleeps,

The living sleep in their time, the dead sleep in their time,

The old husband sleeps with his wife and the young husband sleeps with his wife;

And these tend towards me, and I lean towards them out,

And as it should be one of these more or less I am,

And from all this I weave the song of myself.


I belong to the old and the young, both the stupid and the wise,

Independent of others, always considerate of others,

Maternal as paternal, a child as a man,

Filled with rough stuff and stuffed with fine stuff

One of the nations of many nations, the smallest and the largest,

A southerner soon to be northerner, a laid-back and hospitable planter near Oconee, where I live,

A Yankee cut his way for me, ready for the trade, my joints the softest joints in the world and the stiffest joints in the world,

A Kentuckian walking through the Elkhorn Valley in my chamois leggings, a Louisian or a Georgian,

A boatman on lakes or bays or along the coast, a hoosier, badger, buckeye;

At home with Canadian snowshoes or in the bush or with fishermen in Newfoundland,

At home in the fleet of ice ships, sailing and turning with others.

At home in the hills of Vermont, the woods of Maine or the ranch of Texas,

Comrade to the Californians, comrade to the free Northwesters (lovers of your greatness)

Comrade to the boatmen and coalmen, comrade to all who shake hands and welcome food and drink,

A student with the simplest, a teacher with the most thoughtful,

A beginner starting out and still experiencing a myriad of seasons,

I am of all colors and castes, of all classes and religions,

Farmer, mechanic, artist, gentleman, sailor, Quaker,

Prisoner, nobleman, hooligan, lawyer, doctor, priest.

I resist everything better than my own diversity,

Breathe the air but leave a lot behind me

And I'm not a snob, I'm in my shoes.

(Moth and fish eggs are in place,

The bright suns I see and the dark suns I cannot see are in their places,

The tangible is in place and the intangible is in its place.)


These are really the thoughts of all people in all times and countries, they are not originally with me,

If they are not as much yours as mine, they are nothing or almost nothing,

If they are not the riddle and the solution to the riddle, they are nothing,

Unless they are as close as they are far, they are nothing.

This is the grass that grows where there is land and water,

This is ordinary air that washes the balloon.


I come with loud music, with my trumpets and my drums,

I don't just march for the recognized victors, I march for the defeated and dead.

Did you hear it was good to win the day?

I also say that it is good to fall, battles are lost with the same spirit that they are won.

I beat and hammer for the dead

I blow into my neck my strongest and happy for her.

Hooray for those who failed!

And those whose warships sank in the sea!

And even those that sank into the sea!

And to all the generals who lost battles and to all the defeated heroes!

And the countless unsung heroes who rival the greatest known heroes!


This is equal food, this is meat for natural hunger,

It's for both the bad and the righteous, I date everyone

I don't want anyone to feel offended or excluded,

The sheltered, smugglers, thieves,

The thick-lipped slave is invited, the venerable is invited;

There will be no difference between them and the rest.

This is the pressure of a timid hand, this is the fluctuation and smell of hair,

This is the brush of my lips with yours, this murmur of longing

This is the far depth and height that reflects my own face,

This is the thoughtful merging of myself and starting again.

Do you think I have a complicated purpose?

Well, I have bathed and mica next to a rock for the fourth month.

Do you think I would be surprised?

Does daylight surprise? Does the early bird chirp through the woods?

Am I cooler than them?

This hour I say confidentially,

I may not tell everyone, but I will tell you.


who goes there with nostalgia, rude, mystical, naked;

How do I get energy from the meat I eat?

What is a man anyway? What I am? What are you?

Anything that I indicate as my property you must liquidate with yours,

Otherwise, it would be a waste of time to listen to me.

I don't smell this mushroom all over the world,

Those months are for vacuum cleaners and floors, but for wallows and dirt.

Snarling and throwing gunpowder at the invalids, conformity goes to the chosen room,

I wear my hat how I want, inside or outside.

Why should I pray? Why should I worship and be ceremonial?

After going through the layers, analyzing them to the last detail, consulting the doctors and calculating precisely,

I find no sweeter fat than sticks in my own bones.

In all people I see myself, nothing more and not a grain of barley less,

And what I say good or bad about me, I say about them.

I know I'm solid and healthy

For me, the converging objects of the universe flow endlessly,

They are all written for me and I need to understand what it means to write.

I know I'm immortal

I know that this orbit of mine cannot be traversed by a carpenter's compass,

I know I won't spend the night like a lullaby cut from a burnt stick.

I know I'm sublime

I don't bother my mind to justify or be understood,

I see elementary laws never apologize

(After all, I don't think I act prouder than the level I plant my house on.)

I exist as I am, that's enough

When no one else in the world knows that I'm sitting content

And when everyone is aware, I am happy.

A world I know and by far the biggest for me is myself,

And whether I come back to myself today or ten thousand or ten million years from now,

I can take it happy now, or as happy as I can hope.

My shoe is herringbone and herringbone carved in granite,

I laugh at what you call resolve

And I know the breadth of time.


I am the poet of the body and I am the poet of the soul.

The joys of heaven are with me and the sorrows of hell are with me,

The first I graft and multiply within myself, the second I translate into a new language.

I am the woman's poet as well as the man's,

And I say that it is as good to be a woman as a man

And I say that there is nothing greater than the mother of men.

I sing the song of expansion or pride

We've ducked and devalued enough

I show that greatness is only development.

Did you beat the rest? you are the president

It's a bit, they'll get there more than everyone else and they'll go further.

I am the one who walks with the tender and growing night

I call upon the land and the sea, half trapped by the night.

Squeeze Nude Breast Night - Squeeze Magnetic Nourishing Night!

Night of the South Winds - Night of the few big stars!

Still beckoning with the night - crazy naked summer night.

Smile, oh voluptuous land of fresh breath!

Land of sleeping and liquid trees!

Land of Late Dusk - Land of the Misty Mountains!

Land of the crystalline fountain of the full moon, barely tinged with blue!

Land of light and dark that splashes the river tide!

The light gray cloud lands lighter and lighter thanks to me!

Earth that crumbles with the elbows, earth rich in apple blossoms!

Smile because your lover is coming.

Lost, you gave me love, that's why I give you love!

Oh indescribable passionate love.


your sea! I surrender to you too - I guess what you mean,

I see your crooked fingers inviting from the beach

I guess you refuse to go back without feeling anything for me

We have to take our turn together, I undress, quickly move out of sight of earth,

Soothe me gently, lull me to sleep,

Spray me with loving moisture, I can pay you back.

sea ​​of ​​stretched sills,

The sea breathes long, jerky breaths,

the brine sea of ​​life and graves without shovels but always ready,

howler and digger of storms, capricious and delicate sea,

I am integral with you, I am also of one phase and of all phases.

Partakers of the ebb and flow I, praisers of hate and reconciliation,

Amie worshipers and those who sleep in each other's arms.

I show sympathy

(Should I make my list of things around the house and skip the house that supports them?)

I am not only the poet of good, I do not refuse to also be the poet of evil.

What is this virtue and this vice?

Evil takes me and the reform of evil takes me, I remain indifferent,

My walk is not a search for blame or rejection,

I moisten the roots of everything that grows.

Were you afraid of any pregnancy scrofula that would not go away?

Did you guess that the laws of heaven still need to be checked and corrected?

I find one side a balance and the opposite side a balance,

Gentle teaching as constant help as constant teaching,

Thoughts and actions of this our wake up and start early.

This minute that comes to mind in recent decades.

There is nothing better than this and now.

What behaved well in the past or behaves well today is not a coincidence

The wonder is again and again how there can be an ordinary man or an unbeliever.


Infinite display of words of ages!

And my word of modernity, the word mass.

A word of faith that never fails

Here or from now on I don't care, I absolutely accept time.

Only he is perfect, only he rounds off and completes everything,

This mystical and incredible wonder alone completes everything.

I accept reality and I dare not question it,

Materialism first and last penetration.

Greetings to positive science! Long live the exact demonstration!

get a mixture of sedum with sprigs of cedar and lilac,

This is the lexicographer, this is the chemist, who made a grammar of the old tables,

These sailors guided the ship through dangerous unknown seas.

This is the geologist, who is working with the scalpel, and this is a mathematician.

Gentlemen, always the first honor for you!

Your data is useful, but it is not my home,

I only enter one area of ​​my apartment through them.

Less the memories of haciendas pronounced my words,

And more the memories of endless life and freedom and liberation,

And dwell briefly on castrati and geldings, preferring males and females in full kit,

And sound the gong of revolt and stop the fugitives and those who plot and plot.


Walt Whitman, a cosmos, of Manhattan the son,

Turbulent, fleshy, sensual, eats, drinks and breeds,

Not sentimental, not superior to men and women or separated from them,

No more humble than immodest.

Unbolt the locks on the doors!

Unbolt the swing gates yourself!

Who humiliates the other humiliates me,

And what is done or said eventually comes back to me.

Afflatus rises and rises through me, flows and indexes through me.

I pronounce the password of primitive times, I give the sign of democracy,

Of God! I won't accept anything that everyone can't have their counterpart on the same terms.

Through me many long silent voices,

voices of endless generations of prisoners and slaves,

Voices of sick and desperate and thieves and dwarfs,

voices of preparation and growth cycles,

and of the threads that bind the stars, and of the wombs and of the maternal cloth,

And from their rights others are degraded,

Of the deformed, trivial, superficial, foolish, despised,

Fog in the air, insects roll balls of dung.

Voices forbidden by me

Voices of sexes and desires, veiled voices and I take off my veil,

Indecent voices clarified and transfigured by me.

I don't put my fingers over my mouth

I hold the entrails as tenderly as the head and the heart,

Copulation is not more important to me than death.

I believe in meat and appetite

Seeing, hearing, feeling are marvels, and every part and label of me is marvelous.

Divine I am within and without, and I hold sacred all that I touch or am touched,

The smell of these armpits is finer than prayer,

This head more than churches, bibles and all creeds.

If I adore one thing more than another, it will be the extension of my own body, or part of it,

Translucent cast of me, must be you!

Overhangs and shaded pegs, it will be you!

Firm male colter, that must be you!

Whatever's going for me, it must be you!

You, my rich blood! your pale growths of milky rays of my life!

chest that presses against other breasts, it will be you!

My brain, will be your hidden convolutions!

Sweet Washed Flag Root! shy spy! Saved Duplicate Egg Nest! it will be you!

(Video) Lecture I on Walt Whitman's "Song of Myself"

Mix the hairy hay of the head, beard, muscles, it will be you!

Huge maple sap, male wheat fiber, it will be you!

Sun, you should be so generous!

Vapors that illuminate and shade my face, it will be you!

Your sweaty threads and threads, it will be you!

Winds whose genitals gently tickle me, it must be you!

Wide muscle fields, live oak branches, lovingly lying on my winding paths, it will be you!

Hands I've held, faces I've kissed, mortals I've touched, it will be you.

I love myself there is so much of me and everything so exuberant

Every moment and everything that happens fills me with joy,

I can't tell how my fingers bend, or where my slightest desire comes from,

Neither the cause of friendship that I radiate, nor the cause of friendship that I withdraw.

That I'm going up my stairs, I stop to think if it really is so

A bell in my window satisfies me more than the metaphysics of books.

To see the sunrise!

The small light erases the immense and transparent shadows,

The air tastes good to my palate.

Handle the turbulent world with innocent leaps, silently rising, rising again,

Scooting obliquely high and low.

Something I can't see generates libidinal spikes

Seas of glowing sap flood the sky.

The earth in the sky got the daily end of its journey,

The heavy challenge of the east this time on my head,

The mocking mockery, let's see if you become a teacher!


Dazzling and powerful how quickly the dawn would kill me

If I couldn't send the dawn out of me now and forever.

We too rise dazzling and mighty as the sun,

We find our own soul, oh my, in the stillness and coolness of dawn.

My voice goes after what my eyes can't reach

With the whirlwind of my tongue I embrace worlds and volumes of worlds.

Language is the twin of my vision, it does not compare,

It bothers me forever, he says sarcastically,

If you've had enough, why don't you let it out?

Come on, I won't torment myself, you're picturing a lot of articulation,

Don't you know, oh word, how the cocoons get under you?

Waiting in the dark protected from frost

The filth that moves away from my prophetic cries,

I succumb to the causes to finally balance them,

My knowledge, my living parts, unites with the meaning of all things,

Happiness (whoever listens to me will go in search of this day.)

I deny my ultimate merit, I refuse to take from myself what I really am,

Embrace worlds, but never try to embrace me

I squeeze your best and most flexible just by looking at you.

Writing and speaking don't test me

I use plenum of evidence and all in my face

With the immobility of my lips, I completely confuse the skeptic.


Now I'll do nothing but listen

Let what I hear flow into this music, let the sounds contribute to it.

I hear the bravery of the birds, the fluttering of the growing wheat, the crackling of the flames, the crackling of the sticks preparing my meals,

I hear the sound that I love, the sound of the human voice

I hear all the tones converge, combine, merge or follow,

sounds of the city and sounds of the city, sounds of day and night,

Young chatterboxes for those who like it, laughter from the workers eating,

The angry base of broken friendship, the weak tones of the sick,

The judge with his hands firm on the table, his pale lips pronouncing a sentence of death,

The heave'e'yo of dockers unloading ships at the docks, the chorus of anchor lights,

The sound of alarm bells, the cry of fire, the hum of revving engines and tankers with beeping warnings and colored lights,

The whistle of the steamer, the rumble of the approaching carriage,

The slow march played in front of the union marching two by two,

(They go out to guard a corpse, the tips of the flags wrapped in black muslin.)

I hear the cello (it's the young man's heartbeat)

I hear the tuned horn, it slips swiftly into my ears,

Incredibly sweet pain shakes through my stomach and chest.

I hear the chorus, it's a grand opera

Ah, that's music, that suits me.

A great and fresh tenor like creation fills me,

The orbic flex of his mouth flows and fills me completely.

I listen to the trained soprano (what job is that with her?)

The orchestra keeps me spinning while Uranus flies

It pulls so many embers out of me that I didn't even know I had them.

I sail, I dry my bare feet, they are licked by the lazy waves,

I am struck by bitter and angry hail, I lose my breath,

Soaked in morphine with honey, my windpipe suffocated in the appearance of death

Finally letting go again to feel the riddle of riddles,

And that is what we call being.


Being in any form, what is it?

(In circles we all go, and we always come back there)

If nothing else developed, the Quahaug in his calloused shell would suffice.

Mine is not a calloused shell,

I have instant drivers everywhere, whether I'm passing or stopping,

They grab all the objects and pass them harmlessly to me.

I just touch, press, feel with my fingers and rejoice

Touching my person with someone else's is what I can bear.


So this is a touch? take me to a new identity

Flames and ether run through my veins,

Saying advice from me please contact them and push to help them,

My flesh and my blood shine to reach the little different from me,

From all sides rampant provocateurs hardening my limbs,

Stretching the udder of my heart after its contained drip,

No restrictions with me, no accepting denials,

Deprive myself of my best taste for a reason

Unbutton my clothes, hug me by the bare waist

Fooling my confusion with the calm of the sunlight and the willows,

immodestly rejecting fellowship,

I bribed her to share touches and walk and brush the edges of me

Without regard, without regard for my lack of strength or my anger,

Gather the rest of the herd to enjoy them for a while

Then they all stand together on a promontory and I worry.

The guards leave every other part of me

I was left helpless by a red raider

They all come to the promontory to testify against me and help.

I am forsaken by traitors

I'm talking crazy, I've lost my mind, me and no one else is the biggest traitor

I went first to the promontory, my own hands carried me there.

you villain! What are you doing? My breath is tight in your throat

Open your floodgates, you are too much for me.


Blind loving fighting touch, sheathed touch, sharp-toothed!

Did it hurt so much to leave me?

Farewell upon arrival, eternal repayment of the eternal loan,

Rich baths and richer rewards later.

The shoots sprout and gather, remain fertile and vital on the sidewalk,

Male landscapes, life-size, projected gilt.


All truths wait in all things

They neither rush nor oppose their own surrender,

You don't need the surgeon's tweezers,

The insignificant is as big to me as everyone else,

(What is less or more than a touch?)

Logic and sermons never convince

The humidity of the night penetrates deeply into my soul.

(Only what proves every man and woman is so,

Only what nobody disputes is so.)

A minute and a drop of my calm my brain

I believe that the wet clods will become lovers and lamps,

And a compendium of compendiums is the flesh of a man or a woman,

And a beak and a flower is the feeling they have for each other

And they will branch infinitely from this lesson until it becomes comprehensive,

And until we all like them and we like them.


I believe that a blade of grass is nothing less than the journey of a star,

And pismir is as perfect as a grain of sand and a wren's egg,

And the tree frog is a work of art for the supreme,

And the thorn would adorn the halls of heaven,

And the thinnest hinge in my hand despises all machines

And the cow that munches with bowed head surpasses any statue,

And a mouse is miracle enough to shake sextillions of infidels.

I find I have gneiss, coal, long filamentous moss, fruits, grains, sculpted roots,

And I'm decked out with four-legged friends and birds,

And distance what's behind me for a good reason

But call me for anything if I want.

En vano apuro or timidity,

In vain the plutonic rocks cast their ancient heat against my approach,

In vain the mastodon takes refuge under its own dusty bones,

In vain objects lie miles away and assume various forms,

In vain the ocean sinks into holes and the great monsters lie in the depths,

In vain the vulture dwells with the sky,

In vain the serpent slithers through the vines and the trunks of the trees,

In vain the elk wanders through the inner passages of the woods,

In vain the sword sails north of Labrador,

I follow quickly, climb to the nest in the crevice of the cliff.


I think I could manage and live with the animals, they are so peaceful and self-sufficient,

I stand there and look at her for a long time.

They don't sweat and complain about their condition,

They don't lie awake in the dark and cry over their sins,

You don't make me sick when I talk about your duty to God,

No one is dissatisfied, no one is mad with possessiveness,

He neither kneels before another, nor before his kind that lived thousands of years ago,

In all the earth no one is respectable or unhappy.

Then they show me their relationships and I accept them.

They bring me signs of myself, they clearly show them in their power.

I wonder where they get these chips from

I passed by here a long time ago and carelessly dropped them?

I move on then and now and forever

Collect and display faster and faster,

Infinite and omnipotent, and such among them,

Not very exclusive to the ranges of my memories.

Pick one here that I love and go brotherly with him now.

A gigantic beauty of a stallion, cool and receptive to my touch,

head high in the forehead, wide between the ears,

Bright flexible limbs, tail pollinating the ground,

Eyes full of twinkling mischief, ears finely carved and flexibly articulated.

His nostrils flare as my heels hug him.

Its shapely limbs tremble with pleasure as we run and return.

I'll just use you for a minute and then I'll give you a stud

Why do I need your steps if I myself surpass them?

Whether standing or sitting, I will pass faster than you.


Space and time! Now I see that what I suspected is true

What I felt when walking on the grass

What I felt while lying alone in my bed

And again while walking on the beach under the pale morning stars.

My bonds and ballast leave me, my elbows rest in the cracks of the sea,

I circle the mountains, my palms cover continents,

I'm on the road with my vision.

Around the houses of the town square - in log cabins, camping with lumberjacks,

Along the potholes in the road, along the dry canyon and creek bed,

Clear my patch of onions or cut rows of carrots and parsnips, cross savannahs, walk in forests,

prospecting, digging for gold, girdling the trees for a new acquisition,

Burned ankle in hot sand, dragging my boat through the shallow river

Where the panther paces to and fro on a branch above him, where the deer rages against the hunter,

Where the rattlesnake basks on a rock, where the otter eats fish,

Where the alligator sleeps with stiff spines in the swamp

Where the black bear searches for roots or honey, where the beaver beats the mud with its paddle-shaped tail;

Above the sugar crop, above the yellow blooming cotton, above the rice in its slightly damp field,

Above the spiky farm, with its scallop foam and dim gutters,

Above the western persimmon, above the long-leaved corn, above the delicate blue-flowered flax,

On white and brown buckwheat, a lobster and a howler monkey with the rest,

On the monotonous green of the rye, that waves and tints in the wind;

Climb mountains, lift me gently, hold on to the low, jagged branches,

He walks the worn path in the grass and beats through the leaves of the bush,

Where the quail whistles between the forest and the wheat field,

Where the bat flies on the night of the seventh month, where the great golden beetle falls in the dark,

Where the stream emerges from the roots of the old tree and flows into the meadow,

Where the cattle stop and scare away the flies with the trembling of their skins,

Where gauze hangs in the kitchen, where andirons cover the stove, where cobwebs fall in garlands from the rafters;

Where the hammers break, where the press turns its cylinders,

Wherever the human heart beats with terrible pain below the ribs,

Where the pear-shaped balloon floats in the air

Where the chariot of life is drawn in the sling, where the heat hatches pale green eggs in the beaten sand,

Where the whale woman swims with her calf and never leaves,

where the steam carries its long stream of smoke,

Where the shark's fin sticks out of the water like a black splinter,

Where the half-burnt brig rides unknown currents,

Where the clams grow up to their slimy shell, where the dead perish below;

Where the star-studded banner is hoisted at the head of the regiments,

Approaching Manhattan from Long Island,

Beneath Niagara the waterfall falls like a veil over my face,

In a doorway, on the block of wood outside,

At the track, at the picnic or at the jigs, or at a good game of baseball,

At parties, with dishonest columns, ironic restraints, bullfighting, drunkenness, laughter,

In the mill, taste the sweetness of the chestnut puree, suck the juice through a straw,

When peeling apples I want kisses for all the berries I find

At gatherings, beach parties, friendly bees, shelling, home elevators;

Where the thrush sounds its delicious gurgling, cackling, screeching, crying,

Where the haystack is in the corral, where the dry stalks are scattered, where the calf cow waits in the hut,

Where the bull advances to his manly task, where the stallion stops the mare, where the rooster kicks the hen,

Where heifers graze, where geese choke their feed with brief jerks,

Where the shadows of the sun stretch across the boundless and lonely prairie,

Where buffalo herds creep across square miles from far and near,

Where the hummingbird shines, where the long-lived neck of the swan bends and twists,

Where the black-headed gull runs to the beach, where it laughs with its almost human laugh,

Where the beehives sit on a gray bench in the garden, half hidden by tall weeds,

Where wry-necked partridges sleep in a circle on the ground, with their heads outstretched,

Where hearses pass through the arched gates of the graveyard,

Where winter wolves bark amid snowy deserts and icy trees,

Where the yellow-billed heron comes to the edge of the marsh at night and feeds on small crabs,

Where the splash of bathers and divers cools the midday heat,

Where katy-did works her color palette in walnut over the fountain,

Through patches of lemons and silver-leaf cucumbers,

Through the salt pan or the clearing of the orange tree or under the conical fir trees,

Through the gym, through the corridor of curtains, through the office or the public room;

Content with natives and content with strangers, content with new and old,

Pleased with the ugly woman as much as with the beautiful,

Pleased with the Quaker as he takes off his hat and speaks melodiously,

Pleased with the tune of the whitewashed church choir,

Satisfied with the solemn words of the sweating Methodist minister, seriously impressed at the camp;

Window-shopping on Broadway all morning, pressing the flesh of my nose against the thick glass,

That same afternoon, when I was facing the clouds or walking down an alley or on the beach,

My right and left arm together with two friends and me in the middle;

Riding home with the dark cheeked silent boy (Behind me he rides the curtain of day)

Far from settlements studying animal tracks or moccasin tracks,

From the hospital cradle handing out lemonade to a feverish patient

Near the corpse in the coffin, when everything is quiet, examining with a candle;

Travel to each port to fight and adventure,

Run with the modern crowd, as eager and fickle as everyone else,

Hot for someone I hate, ready to stab him in my madness

Alone at midnight in my backyard, my thoughts are gone

Wandering the ancient Judean hills with the just and gracious God by my side,

Running through space, running through the sky and the stars

Between the seven satellites and the wide ring and the diameter of eighty thousand roaring leagues,

Running with meteor tails, throwing fireballs like the rest,

Carrying the growing child, carrying his own complete mother in his womb,

Storm, enjoy, plan, love, warn,

Baking and things, appear and disappear,

I walk these streets day and night.

I visit Kugelhaine and see the product,

And look at the mature quintillion and look at the green quintillion.

I fly in these flights of a liquid and devouring soul

My course is below the bearings.

I use material and immaterial,

No guard can lock me up, no law stops me.

I only anchor my boat for a short time,

My couriers keep traveling or returning it to me.

I hunt polar furs and seals, leap over chasms with a sharp staff, and cling to fragile blue cliffs.

(Video) Song of Myself by Walt Whitman: 46

I get in the car in front

I take my place in the crow's nest late at night

We're sailing across the arctic sea, it's clear enough

Through the clear atmosphere I stretch around the wondrous beauty

The huge masses of ice pass me and I pass them, the landscape is flat in all directions,

The mountains with the white peaks appear in the distance, I throw my fantasies on them,

We are approaching a great battlefield in which we will soon be involved,

We passed the colossal outposts of the camp, we walked with a firm and cautious step,

Or we enter the suburbs of a large and ruined city,

The blocks and architecture collapsed more than all the living cities in the world.

I'm a free guy, I camp through encroaching fires

I'll get the groom out of bed and bring the bride myself.

I press them on my thighs and lips all night.

My voice is the voice of the woman, the creak on the railing,

They take out my husband's body, dripping and drowning.

I understand the big hearts of heroes.

The courage of the present and of all time,

When the captain saw the crowded and rudderless wreckage of the steamer and death chased him up and down the storm,

How he strove and did not budge an inch and was faithful by day and faithful by night

And chalk in large letters on a blackboardBe of good cheer, we will not fail you;

how he followed them and rode with them for three days and did not give up,

When he finally saved the floating company,

How the slender, loosely clad women looked when they were kicked over the side of their prepared graves,

Like the silent children with the old faces and the sick servants and the unshaven men with the sharp lips;

I swallow it all, it tastes good to me, it tastes good to me, it becomes mine,

I'm the guy, I suffered, I was there.

The contempt and calm of the martyrs,

The old woman condemned the witch, burned with dry wood, her children watch,

The tormented slave, giving up his run, leans against the fence, blows, covered with sweat,

The needle-like points in the legs and throat, the murderous shot and the bullets,

I feel or am all this.

I am the hunted slave, I shudder at the bite of dogs,

Hell and despair are upon me, cracking and breaking the shooters again,

I cling to the fence bars, my blood drips, diluted in the mud of my skin,

I fall into the brush and onto the rocks

Riders spur their reluctant horses, come closer,

Make my ears dizzy and beat me brutally over the head with whips.

Agony is one of my changes of clothes,

I don't ask the wounded how they are, I become the wounded.

My pain makes me pale as I lean on a cane and watch.

I'm the trampled firefighter with the broken sternum

Collapsed walls buried me in their rubble

The heat and smoke inspired me, I heard the shrill cries of my comrades,

I heard the distant click of your picks and shovels

They cleaned the beams, they emphasize me tenderly.

I lie in the red shirt in the night air, the silence is my fault,

Still no pain, I go to bed exhausted but not that miserable

White and fair are the faces that surround me, the heads are stripped of their fiery caps,

The kneeling crowd disappears in the light of the torches.

revive distant and dead,

They appear as dials or move as my hands, I myself am the clock.

I am an old artilleryman, I count the bombardment of my fort,

I returned.

Again the long roll of the drums,

Again the attacking guns, mortars,

Again the cannon responded to my attentive ears.

I participate, see and hear the whole,

The shouts, the curses, the roars, the applause for the accurate shots,

The ambulance slowly dragging its red drop

Workers looking for damage, making necessary repairs,

The shells breaking through the torn ceiling, the fan-shaped explosion,

The hum of limbs, heads, stone, wood, iron, high in the air.

My dying general's mouth gurgles again, he waves his hand angrily,

He sighs through the clotDon't worry about me, consider the trenches.


Now I am going to tell you what I knew when I was a teenager in Texas.

(I'm not counting the fall of the Alamo,

No one escaped telling the fall of the Alamo

The hundred and fifty remain silent in the Alamo,)

It is the story of the cold-blooded murder of four hundred and twelve young men.

When they left, they stood in a hollow place with their parapet packs,

Nine hundred lives from the surrounding enemies, nine times their number, was the price they charged beforehand,

Your colonel has been wounded and has run out of ammunition,

They dealt with an honorable surrender, received letters and stamps, surrendered their weapons, and returned as prisoners of war.

They were the glory of the Ranger race,

Incomparable with horse, weapon, music, dinner, courtship,

Tall, boisterous, generous, handsome, proud and affectionate,

Bearded, sunburned, dressed in the free suit of hunters,

None over thirty.

On the second morning of the first day they were brought in squads and slaughtered, it was a fine early summer,

Work started at five and finished at eight.

No one obeyed the order to kneel

Some made a helpless mad dash, some stood stiff and upright,

Some fell all at once, shot in the temple or in the heart, the living and the dead lay side by side,

The mutilated and the mutilated dug in the earth, the newcomers saw them there,

Some half dead tried to escape

These were shot with bayonets or struck with musket butts,

A young man under the age of seventeen held his killer until two more came to free him,

All three were mangled and covered in the child's blood.

At eleven o'clock the cremation of the bodies began;

This is the story of the murder of the four hundred and twelve young men.


Would you hear of an old battleship?

By the light of the moon and the stars, would you know who won?

List the story as it was told to me by my grandmother's father the sailor.

Our enemy was not a poacher on his ship, I tell you, (he said)

His was a taciturn English courage, and there is nothing harsher or truer, and never was, and never will be;

At night he came in fear and crawled towards us.

We close with him, the yards involved, the shot hit,

My captain whipped him with his bare hands.

We've got some eighteen pound shots underwater,

On our lower deck, two large pieces exploded on the first shot, killing everyone and exploding above us.

fighting at sunset, fighting in the dark,

Ten o'clock at night, full moon, our leaks going up and five feet of water reported,

The Gunsmith frees the prisoners held in the Afterhold to give them a chance.

Transportation to and from the magazine is now stopped by the post office,

They see so many strange faces that they don't know who to trust.

Our frigate catches fire

The other asks, do we charge for the rooms?

When our colors are defeated and the fight is over?

Now I laugh happily because I hear the voice of my little captain

we do not attackcries quietlywe have just begun our part of the fight.

Only three guns are in action,

One is directed by the captain himself against the enemy mast,

Two grape and can pits silence your muskets and clear your decks.

Only the spikes sustain the fire of this small battery, especially the main spike,

They bravely persevered throughout the action.

don't stop for a moment

The leaks increase rapidly in the pumps, the fire advances towards the powder magazine.

One of the bombs exploded, it is believed that we are sinking.

The little captain remains calm,

He's not in a hurry, his voice is neither high nor low,

Your eyes give us more light than our battle lanterns.

Around noon they are delivered to us there by moonlight.


Stretched out and midnight still lies,

Two great hooves immobile in the bosom of darkness,

Our ship is riddled and slowly sinking, preparing to move towards what we have achieved,

The captain on the quarterdeck coldly gives his orders with a pale expression,

Next to the corpse of the boy who served in the cabin,

The dead face of an old salt, with long white hair and neatly curled whiskers,

The flames flicker despite what can be done, up and down,

The hoarse voices of the two or three officers continue to perform their duty,

Shapeless heaps of bodies and separate bodies, blisters of flesh on posts and posts,

Cut ropes, let the rigging swing, calm the slight tremor of the waves,

Black and impassive weapons, packets of gunpowder, strong smell,

Some great stars above us, still sadly shining,

Delicate touches of the sea breeze, smells of reeds and fields on the coast, messages of death to the survivors,

The hiss of the surgeon's scalpel, the gnawing of the teeth of his saw,

Sighs, gurgles, falling streams of blood, short wild screams and long, low, high-pitched moans,

Those yes, those irrecoverable.


Stragglers standing guard! look at your arms!

They crowd towards the conquered gates! I am obsessed!

Incarnates all outlaw presences or suffering,

Look at me in jail like another man

And feel the dull and incessant pain.

For me, jailers load their carbines and stand guard

I let them out in the morning and close them at night.

No mutineer goes to prison in handcuffs, but I am handcuffed to him and walk by his side,

(I am less happy and more sullen with sweat on my trembling lips.)

No minor is arrested for theft, but I also go up and am tried and convicted.

No cholera patient is on his last breath, but I am also on his last breath.

My face is pale, my tendons are twisted, people run from me.

The interrogators incarnate in me and I incarnate them,

I design my hat, feel ashamed and pray.


Enough! enough! enough!

Somehow I was stunned. Step back!

Give me a little time beyond my bound head, doze, dream, yawn,

I am on the verge of a common error.

That I could forget about the taunts and insults!

That I could forget the dripping of tears and the pounding of clubs and hammers!

That I could look at my own crucifixion and bloody coronation with a separate perspective.

I remember now,

I guess the fracture I survived,

The stone tomb multiplies what has been entrusted to it or any tomb,

The bodies rise, the wounds heal, the fortifications move away from me.

I go out full of supreme power, one of a petty procession without end,

We go inland and towards the coast and pass all the border lines,

Our ordinances rush across the land,

The flowers we wear on our hats are the growth of millennia.

Elves, greetings! introduce oneself!

Continue your comments, continue your interrogations.


The flowing friendly savage, who is he?

Does it wait for civilization or does it go through and dominate it?

Is he a Southwestern bred outdoors? he is Canadian

Are you from the country of Mississippi? Iowa, Oregon, California?

The mountains? Prairie life, bush life? or sea sailor?

Wherever he goes, men and women accept and desire him,

They want you to like them, to touch them, to talk to them, to stay with them.

Lawless behavior like snowflakes, simple words like grass, disheveled head, laughter and naivety,

Slow feet, common features, common manners and emanations,

They descend in new forms from your fingertips,

They are carried away by the smell of your body or your breath, they fly out of sight of your eyes.


Sunshine boasts that I don't need you to sunbathe, lie down!

You only lighten surfaces, I also force surfaces and depths.

Land! You seem to be looking for something in my hands

Tell me, old lock, what do you want?

Man or woman, I could tell you how much I like you, but I can't

And I could tell what's in me and what's in you, but I can't

And I could say that I miss you, this pulsar of my nights and days.

Behold, I neither preach nor give alms,

When I give, I give.

You there, defenseless, on loose knees,

Open your sideburns with handkerchiefs until sand blows on you,

Open the palms of the hands and lift the pocket flaps,

I'm undeniable, I'm pushing, I have a lot of supplies and spare parts,

And all I have I give.

I don't ask who you are, I don't care

You can do nothing and be nothing but what I breathe in you.

I bow to the hand of the cotton field or private cleaner,

On your right cheek I place the family kiss,

And in my soul I swear that I will never deny it.

For women who can conceive, I start with bigger, more agile babies.

(Today I inject material from much more arrogant republics).

For every dying person, I rush and turn the doorknob.

Turn the sheets over at the foot of the bed,

Let the doctor and the priest go home.

I seize the offspring and lift it up with irresistible will,

Oh despair, here is my neck,

By God, you will not perish! Hang all your weight on me

I stretch you with a tremendous breath, I apply to you,

I fill every room in the house with an armed force,

My lovers, narcotics of graves.

Sleep - you and I woke up all night,

Surely no death will dare to lay its fingers on you,

I hugged you and from now on I belong to you,

And when you get up in the morning, you will find what I tell you.


I am the one who brings relief to the sick while they pant on their backs,

And to the strong and upright men, I bring more needed help.

I heard what was said about the universe.

Heard and heard for several thousand years;

It's mediocre as far as it goes, but is that it?

Zoom in and apply I come,

Overcoming the wary old merchants at first,

I take exact measurements from Jehovah,

Lithographed Kronos, his son Zeus and his grandson Hercules,

Buy Osiris, Isis, Belus, Brahma, Buddha,

In my folder I vaguely place Manito, Allah engraved on a sheet, the crucifix,

With Odin and the abominable Mexitli and all the idols and images,

Take them for what they're worth and not a penny more

They admitted they were alive and doing their days work,

(They used mites as featherless birds, which must now get up and fly and sing to themselves.)

I accept the crude divine sketches to fill them better and give them to all the men and women I see,

Discover as much or more in a framer framing a house

Higher standards for him there with his sleeves rolled up driving a hammer and chisel

I have no objection to private revelations, considering a puff of smoke or a hair on the back of my hand as strange as any revelation,

Companions holding fire trucks and ropes of hooks and ladders no less than the gods of ancient wars,

Remember their voices echo through the rumble of destruction

Their strong limbs glide safely over charred slats, their white foreheads whole and unharmed by the flames;

Through the mechanic's wife with her baby on her nipple, defending every human being that is born,

Three reaper scythes swinging in a line of three lusty angels with baggy shirts on their hips,

The red-haired, hook-toothed innkeeper who redeems past and future sins,

Selling everything he owns, traveling on foot to pay his brother's lawyers, and sitting next to him while he's accused of forgery;

What was more extended when I extended the square around myself and then did not fill the square,

The bull and the beast never loved each other enough

Dung and filth more admirable than dreamed,

The unimportant supernatural, myself biding my time to be one of the tallest,

The day that will be ready for me when I will do as much good as my best and be so wonderful;

For my lumps of life! you already became a breeder

Ambush the shadows here and now.


A cry in the crowd

My own voice, totally immersive and definitive.

come my children

Come, boys and girls, wives of mine, familiar and intimate,

Now that the performer is getting nervous, he spent his prelude on the inner reeds.

Easily written chords with loose fingers - I feel the rumble of its climax and finale.

My head is spinning around my neck

the music plays, but not from the organ,

There are people around me, but they are not my family.

Always the hard and unsinkable ground,

Always the eaters and drinkers, always the rising and setting sun, always the air and the ceaseless tides,

Always me and my neighbors, refreshing, bad, real,

Always the old inexplicable question, always that pricking finger, that thirsty, itchy touch,

always the problemjoel! joel!Until we find where the smart one is hiding and get him out,

Always love, always the sobbing liquid of life,

Always the bandage under the chin, always the goats of death.

Walking here and there with pennies in my eyes

To feed the greed of the belly, the brain reaps bountifully,

Buy tickets, take them, sell them, but never go to the festival

Many sweat, plow, thresh and then weed to get paid,

Some are idle and are constantly demanding wheat.

This is the city and I am one of the citizens

What interests me, the rest interests me, politics, wars, markets, newspapers, schools,

The Mayor and Chambers, Banks, Customs, Steamships, Factories, Warehouses, Shops, Real Estate and Private Properties.

(Video) Lecture II on Walt Whitman's "Song of Myself"

The small and numerous hopping males with collars and tails,

I am aware of who they are (definitely not worms or fleas)

I recognize duplicates of myself, the weakest and most superficial is immortal,

What I do and say, the same awaits you,

Every thought that twists in me twists in them.

I know very well my own egoism,

Meet my omnivorous lines and you won't write less,

And I would take you with whoever I went with.

No routine words, this is my song.

But ask sharply, jump further, come even closer;

This printed and bound book, but the printer and the printer's hand?

The photos well taken, but your wife or girlfriend tight and tight in your arms?

The black ship with its iron armor, its powerful guns in its turrets, but the courage of the captain and engineers?

In houses, china, food and furniture, but the host and hostess and the look in their eyes?

The sky above, but here or to the side or in front?

The saints and wise men of history, but you?

Sermons, creeds, theology, but the inscrutable human brain,

And what is the reason? and what is love and what is life


I do not despise you priests at all times, throughout the world,

My faith is the biggest faith and the smallest faith,

Integral worship ancient and modern and everything between ancient and modern,

Believing that after five thousand years I will return to earth,

Waiting for answers from the oracles, honoring the gods, greeting the sun,

Fetish the first stone or stump, harass with sticks in the circle of Obis,

Help the Lama or Brahmin to fix the idol lamps,

A gymnosophist still dances through the streets in a phallic procession, ecstatic and austere in the woods,

Drinking mead from the cup of the skull, for the admirer of Shastas and Vedas, observing the Qur'an,

Walking on the Teokallis, covered in stone and knife blood, beating the snakeskin drum,

Accept the gospels, accept the crucified, knowing with certainty that he is divine,

To the crowd that kneels, or the Puritan's prayer is raised, or sits patiently on a bench,

Rage and look at my insane crisis, or wait like a dead man for my spirit to wake me up,

In front of the pavement and ground or off the pavement and ground,

Pertaining to the circuit coils of circuits.

From that centripetal and centrifugal group, I turn around and speak like someone who leaves the loads before a trip.

Little vagabonds, obtuse and excluded,

frivolous, taciturn, gloomy, angry, sorrowful, despondent, atheist,

I know each one of you, I know the sea of ​​torment, doubt, despair and disbelief.

How leeches splatter!

How they writhe at lightning speed, spasming and spattering blood!

Have peace, cursed bloodsuckers of the disbelievers and of the sad afflictions,

I take my place among you, as among all,

The past pushes you, me, everyone equally

And the inexperienced and then it is for you, for me, exactly the same.

I don't know what is inexperienced and then,

But I know that in turn it will be enough and it cannot fail.

Everyone who passes is counted, everyone who stays is counted, no one can be wrong.

The young man who died and was buried cannot fail,

Even the young woman who died and was put by his side

Not even the boy who looked through the door and then stepped back and was never seen again,

Nor the old man who lived aimlessly and feels it with a bitterness worse than gall,

Nor him in the asylum overloaded with rum and bad trouble

Neither the countless slaughtered and destroyed, nor the brutal koboos called the plague of mankind,

Nor the bags that only swim with their mouths open so that the food comes out,

Neither anything on earth nor in the oldest graves on earth,

Neither in the myriads of spheres, nor in the myriads of myriads that inhabit them,

Not even the present, not the smallest known fragment.


It's time to explain myself, let's get up.

what is known the rest

I am sending all men and women with me into the unknown.

The clock shows the moment, but what does eternity show?

We've exhausted trillions of winters and summers so far,

There are billions ahead of us and billions ahead of them.

Births brought us richness and diversity,

And other births will bring us richness and variety.

I don't mention a major and a minor,

What fills its time and place is the same for all.

Was humanity murderous or jealous of you, my brother, my sister?

I feel sorry for you, they are not murderers or jealous of me,

Everything was kind to me, I have no regrets,

(What do I have to do with the processes?)

I am a pinnacle of things accomplished and an encapsulator of things to come.

My feet hit the top of a ladder,

At each stage, age groups and larger groups between stages,

Everyone below has traveled due, and I keep going up and up.

Climb after climb, subdue the ghosts behind me,

Down there I see the huge first nothing, I know I've even been there

I waited unseen and forever and slept through the lethargic haze,

And I did not rush and did not hurt myself with stinking coal.

They have held me tight for a long, long time.

Immense were the preparations for me,

Faithful and kind the arms that helped me.

Bicycles rode in my cradle, rowing and rowing like merry sailors,

For space for me Stars held aside in their own rings

They sent influences to take care of what should sustain me.

Before I was born from my mother, generations guided me,

My embryo was never slow, nothing could cover that.

To do this, the nebula was united into a ball,

The long slow layers stacked for lounging

Rich vegetables gave him nourishment,

Monstrous sauroids took it to their mouths and deposited it carefully.

All powers were constantly employed to complete and please me,

This is where I am now with my robust soul.


Oh period of youth! Always pushed elasticity!

Oh virility, balanced, flourishing and full.

my lovers suffocate me

Urgently my lips, thick in the pores of my skin,

Push me through streets and public rooms, come naked at night,

Crying by day Oh! Of river rocks that sway and sing above my head,

Screaming my name from flower beds, vines, tangled undergrowth,

illuminating every moment of my life,

Transporting my body with soft balsamic buses

Quietly distribute handfuls of your hearts and give them to me.

Age rises magnificently! Oh welcome, ineffable grace of the last days!

Each state not only announces itself, but announces what gradually grows out of itself,

And the gloomy silence announces as much as any other.

I open my hatch at night and see the systems scattered

And everything I see is multiplied as much as I can, except the edge of the furthest systems.

They keep expanding, expanding, expanding,

Out and out and forever out.

My sun has its sun and obediently revolves around it,

He brings together a group of superior circles with his associates,

And larger sets follow, forming patches of the larger one.

There is no stagnation and can never be stagnant.

If I, you, and the worlds, and everyone below or on their surfaces, were reduced to a pale swimmer right now, it would be useless in the long run,

Where we are now, surely we must resume,

And certainly go much further, and then further and further.

Some quadrillion ages, some octillion cubicles, don't jeopardize the gap and impatient it,

They are only parts, everything is only a part.

See so far there's unlimited space outside of it

Count so much, there is unlimited time around you.

My appointment is scheduled, it's safe

The Lord will be there waiting for me to arrive in perfect condition,

There will be the great cameraman, the true lover that I so desire.


I know I have the best time and space and I have never been measured and will never be measured.

I'm hitchhiking on an everlasting ride (come on everybody!)

My signs are a waterproof cloak, good shoes and a staff cut from the forest,

No friend of mine relaxes in my chair

I have no chair, no church, no philosophy,

I don't take anyone to a table, to a library, to an exchange,

But every man and woman of you I will take to a high place,

My left hand holds you around the waist,

My right hand points to landscapes of continents and the public road.

Not me, no one else can walk this path for you

You have to walk yourself.

It's not far, it's within reach

Maybe you've been around since you were born and didn't know

Maybe it is everywhere in the water and on land.

Throw your clothes over your shoulder, dear son, and I'll fetch mine, and let's hurry.

Wonderful cities and free nations we'll take when we're gone.

When you get tired, give me the two loads and put the breath of your hand on my hip,

And in due time you will reward me for the same service,

Because once we start, we are never wrong.

That day, before dawn, I climbed a hill and looked up at the sky full of people,

And I told my spiritWhen we become the shells of these spheres and the joy and knowledge of all within them, will we be satisfied and satisfied?

and my spirit saidNo, we level this elevator to go through and continue.

You also ask me questions and I listen to you

I answer that I cannot answer, you have to find out for yourself.

Sit down, my dear son,

Here's a cookie to eat and here's milk to drink

But as soon as you sleep and renew yourself in sweet clothes, I kiss you goodbye and open the door for your departure from now on.

For too long you've dreamed worthless dreams

Now I'm washing the gum from your eyes

You have to get used to the brightness of the light and every moment of your life.

For a long time you waded timidly with a plank on the shore,

Now I want you to be a brave swimmer

Jump in the middle of the sea, get up again, greet me, shout and shake your hair with laughter.


I am the master of athletes,

Whoever opens in me a chest wider than mine, proves the width of mine,

Above all, it honors my style, which learns by destroying the teacher.

The boy I love does not become a man by derivative power, but in his own right,

More wicked than virtuous out of conformity or fear,

He loved his beloved, he enjoyed his steak well,

Unrequited love or a light piercing through it worse than sharp cuts of steel,

Riding first class, wrestling, hitting the target, sailing, singing a song or playing the banjo,

Preferring scars and beards and pockmarked faces to all sparkling wine,

And the well-tanned ones, the ones that stay out of the sun.

I teach to stray from myself, but who can stray from me?

I follow you, whoever you are, from the present hour,

My words sting in your ears until you understand them.

I don't say these things for a dollar or to kill time while I wait for a boat,

(You speak as much as I do, I am your language,

Trapped in her mouth, it begins to loosen in mine.)

I swear I'll never talk about love or death in a house again

And I swear that I will never translate, only for him or her who is with me in private outdoors.

If you know what I mean, go upstairs or to the beach,

The next mosquito is an explanation, and a drop or ripple is a clue,

The mouth, the rudder, the saw follow my words.

No locked room, no school can talk to me

But brutes and little children are better than them.

The young mechanic is closest to me, he knows me well,

The woodcutter who carries his ax and pitcher will carry me all day,

The farmer who plows the field feels good at the sound of my voice.

My words sail on ships, I walk with fishermen and sailors and I love them.

The soldier who camps or marches is mine,

On the night before the next battle, many come to me and I do not let them down,

On this solemn night (it may be the last) those who know me are looking for me.

My face rubs against the hunter's face as he lies alone on his blanket.

The driver who thinks of me doesn't care about the hit of his car,

The young mother and the old mother understand me,

The girl and the woman let the needle rest for a moment and forget where they are,

You and everyone would accept what I told you.


I said that the soul is not more than the body,

And I said that the body is nothing more than the soul

And nothing but God is greater to none than himself,

And the one who spends a year without compassion goes to his own funeral in his shroud,

And me or you penniless can buy the peak of the land,

And looking with one eye or showing a bean in a pod confuses learning for all ages,

And there is no trade or job, but the young man who follows it can become a hero,

And there is no object so smooth, but it forms a center for the rolled universe,

And I say to every man or woman: let your soul remain cool and serene before a million universes.

And I say to humanity: do not be curious about God,

Because I, who am curious about everyone, am not curious about God,

(No set of terms can express how comfortable I am with God and death.)

I hear and see God in every object, but I don't understand God at all,

I also don't understand who can be more wonderful than me.

Why would you want to see God better than today?

I see something of God every hour of the twenty-four, and then every moment

In the faces of men and women I see God, and in my own face in the mirror,

I find letters from God on the street and each one is signed in the name of God

And I leave them where they are because I know where I'm going

Others will arrive in time forever and ever.


And as for his death and his bitter acceptance of mortality, it's useless to try to upset me.

The acoucheur goes to work without blinking,

I see the older hand pushing, receiving support,

I recline on the sills of exquisite folding doors,

And mark the exit, and mark the relief and flight.

And as for you, corpse, I think you're a good dung, but that doesn't offend me,

I smell the white roses fragrant and growing,

I reach for the lush lips, I reach for the shiny breasts of the melons.

And as for your life, I think you are the legacy of many deaths,

(No doubt I myself have died ten thousand times.)

I hear you whisper there, oh stars in the sky,

Oh suns - Oh grass of the tombs - Oh continuous transfers and ascents,

If you don't say anything, how can I say anything?

From the dark pool that lies in the autumn forest,

Of the moon down the steep slopes of hasty twilight,

Throw away, sparks of day and dawn - Throw away the black stems that rot in the earth,

Throw yourself into the meaningless groan of withered limbs.

I rise from the moon, I rise from the night

I perceive that the frightful splendor is the reflection of the rays of the midday sun,

And it flows into the barn and the center of the large or small progeny.


It's in me, I don't know what it is, but I know it's in me.

Torn and sweaty, calm and cold then my body,

I sleep, I sleep a lot.

I don't know, it doesn't have a name, it's an unspoken word.

It is not in any dictionary, no statement, no symbol.

Something that vibrates more than the earth in which I vibrate

Your creation is the friend whose hug wakes me up.

Maybe it counts more. contours! I pray for my brothers and sisters.

Do you see, oh my brothers and sisters?

It is not chaos or death, it is form, unity, plan, it is eternal life, it is bliss.


The past and the present wither: I filled them, I emptied them,

And continue filling my next wrinkle of the future.

listeners up! What do you have to trust me?

Look at my face as I smell the page of night

(Speak honestly, no one else listens to you, and I'll stay another minute.)

Am I contradicting myself?

Well then I contradict myself

(I am big, I contain a lot.)

I focus on who is nearby, I wait at the door panel.

Who did the day's work? Who is most likely to finish dinner?

Who wants to take a walk with me?

Will you talk before I go? Will you prove it too late?


The spotted hawk comes flying and accuses me, complaining of my chatter and idleness.

I am not domesticated either, I am also untranslatable,

I let my barbaric yawns resound on the roofs of the world.

I get the last scud of the day

He projects my image after the rest and true as anyone in the dark desert,

It draws me into the mist and twilight.

I disappear like air, I sway my white hair in the setting sun,

I pour my meat in swirls and pound it into jagged peaks.

I give myself to the earth to grow in the grass that I love

If you love me again, look for me under the soles of your boots.

You'll hardly know who I am or what I mean

But I'll still be your good health,

And filter and fiber your blood.

Can't catch me first, cheer me up

I miss myself in one place, I look for another,

I'll stop somewhere and wait for you.


What is the main idea of Song of Myself by Walt Whitman? ›

There are three important themes: the idea of the self, the identification of the self with other selves, and the poet's relationship with the elements of nature and the universe. Houses and rooms represent civilization; perfumes signify individual selves; and the atmosphere symbolizes the universal self.

How do you cite a song of yourself? ›

CITATION INFORMATION (in MLA format): Whitman, Walt. Song of Myself. 1892 "Deathbed" Edition. Gleeditions, 17 Sept.

Why did Whitman wrote Song of Myself? ›

He used 'Song of Myself' to explore those ideas while preaching self-knowledge, liberty and acceptance for all. With its free-form and loose structure, its compelling rhythms, multiple themes and shifting narrators, 'Song of Myself' is widely considered one of the first truly modern poems.

How many editions of Song of Myself are there? ›

This book compiles both the first (1855) and final revised (1892) versions of Walt Whitman's masterpiece, "Song of Myself" in one volume, making it unique and valuable for students of American literature.

What identities does Whitman reveal in Song of Myself? ›

Whitman sees his identity split into at least three components: his everyday personality, the more inner "self" or "Me Myself," and the universal "Soul." He was attracted to the American Transcendentalist idea of the "Oversoul," or the soul that is somehow part of or connected to all other souls in the world.

Why is it called Song of Myself? ›

In 1860, Whitman shortened the title to "Song of Myself." This change is important because we suspect that "Walt Whitman" and "Myself" (or "Me Myself") might actually be different "characters" in the poem. This final title is also more democratic, and focuses our attention of the "Me Myself" persona.

Is Song of Myself about slavery? ›

Whitman, who wrote this poem a few years before the Civil War broke out, was firmly against slavery. He treats the wounds of the former slave and gives him food and shelter. He invites the slave to dine at his table and, tellingly, has no fear that the slave will ever try to take his rifle ("firelock").

What does Song of Myself say about equality? ›

Walt Whitman's 'Song of Myself' is one of the most important poems in the American literature, important for both its use of language and its vision of equality. Throughout the poem , Walt Whitman gives emphasis on equality of all men and women. To him all humans are equal and all professions are equally honorable.

Why Song of Myself is an epic poem? ›

The central epic theme of Walt Whitman's long poem "Song of Myself" is the celebration of the individual as expressed uniquely within the emerging, optimistic character of America itself.

Is Song of Myself a free verse poem? ›

Hass is the editor of the new collection Song of Myself and Other Poems by Walt Whitman. Along with Paul Ebenkamp, he annotated each word of Whitman's epic 52-part poem, one of the first ever to be written in extended free verse.

Who is the narrator of Song of Myself? ›

From the very first stanza, Whitman makes it clear that the narrator of “Song of Myself” is not an individual, but a common voice for the people; he is “of old and young, of the foolish as much as the wise” (203).

Which of the literary movements best represents Song of Myself? ›

Summary & Genre. Quite simply, Whitman's poem is an unabashed celebration all about himself, exemplifying the Transcendental Movement to a "T." The poem had no title when first published in his collection, Leaves of Grass (1855).

How do you reference a poem? ›

A POEM: Poet's Name. “Title of Work.” Title of Anthology, edited by before editor's name. Editor's name, Edition. (if available), Publisher, Year, pp.

Is Song of Myself a realist? ›

“Song of Myself” contains elements of both romanticism and realism; Section XV, however, focuses on the realistic aspects of city life in 1855. It exposes the going-ons of everyone in this city, from the scorned work of a prostitute to the fancy balls conducted by upper class gentlemen.

How do you cite lines from a poem? ›

In the Works Cited entry, you start with the poet's name, followed by the title of the poem in quotation marks.
Poem in an anthology.
MLA formatAuthor last name, First name. “Poem Title.” Book Title, edited by Editor first name Last name, Publisher, Year, Page number(s).
MLA in-text citation(Heaney 150)
1 more row
9 Aug 2019

What are key characteristics of Whitman's poetry? ›

The most important techniques in Whitman's prosody are syntactic parallelism, repetition, and cataloguing. These stylistic innovations combine to create an expansive, oracular, and often incantatory effect.

What is the central symbol in Song of Myself? ›

Grass, a central symbol of this epic poem, suggests the divinity of common things. The nature and significance of grass unfold the themes of death and immortality, for grass is symbolic of the ongoing cycle of life present in nature, which assures each man of his immortality.

Is Song of Myself about death? ›

In this section, Whitman reprises another key theme of “Song of Myself”: death and life are an endless process, inseparable from each other.

Is Song of Myself a metaphor? ›

Answer and Explanation: In Walt Whitman's "Song of Myself," the author uses metaphor in several places. One example is this line: ''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.

What does Song of Myself say about America? ›

1. Song of Myself is a hymn to Democracy, to America, and to America's diverse working people. In the poem, Whitman travels America to express solidarity with the experiences of many different Americans in many different regions. He depicts Americans as a new kind of people, unique in the history of the world.

Is Song of Myself romanticism or transcendentalism? ›

Whitman's “Song of Myself” shows his transcendentalist thoughts, greatly influenced by Emerson while also having his distinguished understanding.

How does Song of Myself show democracy? ›

Democracy As a Way of Life

He imagined democracy as a way of interpersonal interaction and as a way for individuals to integrate their beliefs into their everyday lives. “Song of Myself” notes that democracy must include all individuals equally, or else it will fail.

What does the first line of Song of Myself mean? ›

In the first line, American poet Walt Whitman kindly informs us that he is going to celebrate himself, and throughout 52 glorious sections, he does just that. It takes guts to write a long epic poem about yourself, and Whitman was nothing if not gutsy.

What is the main purpose of an epic poem? ›

Epic poems are long stories written or recited in verse. They tell of the journey of a hero or group of heroes struggling against all odds to achieve a goal. The hero usually encounters gods, monsters, and mythical beings that help or hinder their quest, and often has the fate of the world at stake in their mission.

Why is the theme of the poem? ›

The theme of a poem is the message an author wants to communicate through the piece. The theme differs from the main idea because the main idea describes what the text is mostly about. Supporting details in a text can help lead a reader to the main idea.

In what poetic form is Song of Myself written? ›

The poem is written in Whitman's signature free verse style. Whitman, who praises words "as simple as grass" (section 39) forgoes standard verse and stanza patterns in favor of a simple, legible style that can appeal to a mass audience.

What are the three symbols in lilacs? ›

It sings "death's outlet song of life." This first section of the poem introduces the three principal symbols of the poem — the lilac, the star, and the bird. They are woven into a poetic and dramatic pattern.

What poetic devices are used in Song of Myself? ›

Examples of Sound Devices from "Song of Myself" by Walt Whitman
  • Alliteration: The smallest sprout shows there is really no death.
  • Assonance: My tongue, every atom of my blood, formed from this soil, this air.
  • Consonance: They are alive and well somewhere, and to die is different from what anyone supposed, and luckier.
20 Nov 2014

What is the speaker's tone in Song of Myself? ›

The speaker's tone is very serene and reflective and at times wistful; this is seen throughout the poem with the copious amounts of nature imagery and when the speaker states "They scorn the best I can do to relate them." Also seen through the speaker's diction choices that have strong connotations to freedom such as " ...

What are the romantic elements presented in Song of Myself? ›

The Romantic elements in Song of Myself can be found in Whitman's appreciation for nature. He sees that everything apart of himself has a purpose in the universe, and through science, literature, learning, and the natural world, we are all connected. These are the Romantic elements at the core of Song of Myself.

What paradox is at the heart of Song of Myself? ›

A CENTRAL PARADOX in Walt Whitman's "Song of Myself' is its simulta- neous championing of individuality and democracy. On one hand, Whitman positions the individual as the predominant vehicle and mea- suring stick of perception, judgment, and value.

What is the part of the song which is the main idea of the song? ›

The main theme is expressed in the chorus; the title of the song is usually included in the chorus too.

What is the main idea of a song called? ›

The terms chorus and refrain are often used interchangeably, both referring to a recurring part of a song. When a distinction is made, the chorus is the part that contains the hook or the "main idea" of a song's lyrics and music, and there is rarely variation from one repetition of the chorus to the next.

What is the purpose of the song? ›

As such a history suggests, songs are used for many purposes: to tell stories, express emotions, or convey a belief in faith. Sometimes they give instructions or help make difficult, repetitive work a little less tiresome.

What are the 4 main elements of a song? ›

The four elements of any type of music are melody, harmony, rhythm, and timbre. The melody of a piece of music is a particular sequence of notes.

What are the three main parts of a song? ›

Most of today's hit song structures are made up of of three different sections: Verse, Chorus, and Bridge.

What are the 5 key components of a song? ›

Basic song structure consists of an intro, verse, pre-chorus, chorus and bridge (many times, this is all tied together in an outro, too).

What are the 7 elements of a song? ›

Although the exact definition of music varies widely even in the West, music contains melody, harmony, rhythm, timbre, pitch, silence, and form or structure.

What is the most important element in a song? ›

We might consider melody to be the single most important element within a song. In everyday language, this is the element we call 'the tune'. In technical terms, however, the melody is a series of pitches, or notes, that are organised to form a shape or pattern.


1. from "Song of Myself" by Walt Whitman (Favorite Poem Project)
(The Favorite Poem Project)
2. Night School 004: Song of Myself (1892 version) Pt. 1
(Alexander Schmid)
3. "Song of Myself" Walt Whitman
(Walt Whitman and Emily Dickinson at SIUE)
4. Night School 005: Song of Myself (1892) Pt. 2
(Alexander Schmid)
5. 3 poems from Songs of myself || leaves of grass || Walt Whitman || Vir_The Wordsmith
(Vir-The Wordsmith)
6. Song of Myself, section-1, line by line Bangla meaning
(English for Today and Tomorrow)
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