Carrying the crescent child that carries its own full mother in its belly. And again as I walk’d the beach under the paling stars of the morning. You my rich blood! To niches aside and junior bending, not a person or object missing. Toward twelve there in the beams of the moon they surrender to us. Speeding through space, speeding through heaven and the stars. Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it. Sure as the most certain sure, plumb in the uprights, well entretied, braced in the beams. By God, you shall not go down! And brown ants in the little wells beneath them. Agonies are one of my changes of garments. These were despatch’d with bayonets or batter’d with the blunts of muskets. Till that becomes unseen and receives proof in its turn. Did you guess the celestial laws are yet to be work’d over and rectified? And what is yet untried and afterward is for you, me, all, precisely the same. And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man. A Kentuckian walking the vale of the Elkhorn in my deer-skin leggings, a Louisianian or Georgian. Stand back! my breath is tight in its throat. And nothing, not God, is greater to one than one’s self is. For me the keepers of convicts shoulder their carbines and keep watch. Ever the old inexplicable query, ever that thorn’d thumb, that breath of itches and thirsts. I had him sit next me at table, my fire-lock lean’d in the corner. I go hunting polar furs and the seal, leaping chasms with a pike-pointed staff, clinging to topples of brittle and blue. Dancing and laughing along the beach came the twenty-ninth bather. But I do not talk of the beginning or the end. Admitting they were alive and did the work of their days, (They bore mites as for unfledg’d birds who have now to rise and fly and sing for themselves,). are you the President? His blue shirt exposes his ample neck and breast and loosens over his hip-band. The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman I love. Where the rattlesnake suns his flabby length on a rock, where the otter is feeding on fish. The driver thinking of me does not mind the jolt of his wagon. There are trillions ahead, and trillions ahead of them. for I see you. It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken soon out of their mothers’ laps. At home in the fleet of ice-boats, sailing with the rest and tacking. On the night ere the pending battle many seek me, and I do not fail them. Deluding my confusion with the calm of the sunlight and pasture-fields. So they show their relations to me and I accept them. My hurts turn livid upon me as I lean on a cane and observe. Hurrah for positive science! Let the physician and the priest go home. And greater sets follow, making specks of the greatest inside them. Pleas’d with the tune of the choir of the whitewash’d church. And they are to branch boundlessly out of that lesson until it becomes omnific. Speeding with tail’d meteors, throwing fire-balls like the rest. I pass death with the dying and birth with the new-wash’d babe, and am not contain’d between my hat and boots. I know I shall not pass like a child’s carlacue cut with a burnt stick at night. I see that the elementary laws never apologize, (I reckon I behave no prouder than the level I plant my house by, after all.). At he-festivals, with blackguard gibes, ironical license, bull-dances, drinking, laughter. Where the humming-bird shimmers, where the neck of the long-lived swan is curving and winding. Three scythes at harvest whizzing in a row from three lusty angels with shirts bagg’d out at their waists. If I, you, and the worlds, and all beneath or upon their surfaces, were this moment reduced back to a pallid float, it would not avail in the long run. The wild gander leads his flock through the cool night. The bride unrumples her white dress, the minute-hand of the clock moves slowly. On his right cheek I put the family kiss. I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable. Leaving me baskets cover’d with white towels swelling the house with their plenty. I am integral with you, I too am of one phase and of all phases. Continue your annotations, continue your questionings. I project my hat, sit shame-faced, and beg. This is the city and I am one of the citizens. The atmosphere is not a perfume, it has no taste of the distillation, it is odorless. They do not think whom they souse with spray. All are written to me, and I must get what the writing means. I anchor my ship for a little while only. I see in them and myself the same old law. The western turkey-shooting draws old and young, some lean on their rifles, some sit on logs. The soldier camp’d or upon the march is mine. And mark the outlet, and mark the relief and escape. I believe you refuse to go back without feeling of me. Long I was hugg’d close—long and long. Well I have, for the Fourth-month showers have, and the mica on the side of a rock has. A morning-glory at my window satisfies me more than the metaphysics of books. Our vessel riddled and slowly sinking, preparations to pass to the one we have conquer’d. And forthwith cipher and show me to a cent. Behavior lawless as snow-flakes, words simple as grass, uncomb’d head, laughter, and naiveté. What do you think has become of the young and old men? The clean-hair’d Yankee girl works with her sewing-machine or in the factory or mill. The maim’d and mangled dug in the dirt, the new-comers saw them there. My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air. My tread scares the wood-drake and wood-duck on my distant and day-long ramble. My sun has his sun and round him obediently wheels. The duck-shooter walks by silent and cautious stretches. The past and present wilt—I have fill’d them, emptied them. I mind them or the show or resonance of them—I come and I depart. Partaker of influx and efflux I, extoller of hate and conciliation. For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you. Song of Myself Summary. In this 52-part long poem, Whitman celebrates the human body and its ability to become one with the self and with nature. It descended tremblingly from their temples and ribs. “Song of Myself” is the 12th track in the 2011 Nightwish album Imaginaerum. now I see it is true, what I guess’d at, What I guess’d when I loaf’d on the grass, What I guess’d while I lay alone in my bed, And again as I walk’d the beach under the paling stars of the morning. Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation. I see the elder-hand pressing receiving supporting. Having pried through the strata, analyzed to a hair, counsel’d with doctors and calculated close. And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue to my bare-stript heart. Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten, And roll head over heels and tangle my hair full of wisps. I am satisfied—I see, dance, laugh, sing; As the hugging and loving bed-fellow sleeps at my side through the night, and withdraws at the peep of the day with stealthy tread. Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged, Walt Whitman, "Song of Myself" from Leaves of Grass (: Norton, 1973), Common Core State Standards Text Exemplars. In vain the buzzard houses herself with the sky. It wrenches such ardors from me I did not know I possess’d them. Of the turbid pool that lies in the autumn forest. Song of Myself is the song to all humanity represented in Progress entering a new life in the United States. Maternal as well as paternal, a child as well as a man. I do not know it—it is without name—it is a word unsaid. And whatever is done or said returns at last to me. The past is the push of you, me, all, precisely the same. And would fetch you whoever you are flush with myself. hankering, gross, mystical, nude; How is it I extract strength from the beef I eat? Have you heard that it was good to gain the day? By: Walt Whitman ***Note: Whitman revised Leaves of Grass many times, so every word choice was thought out and chosen deliberately. Painless after all I lie exhausted but not so unhappy. Walt Whitman's "Song of Myself" is the most famous of the twelve poems originally published in Leaves of Grass, the collection for which the poet is most widely known. becoming already a creator. Perhaps it is everywhere on water and on land. He identifies aloneness as a treasurable essence of the essential being to be celebrated. Afar down I see the huge first Nothing, I know I was even there. We hope this guide is particularly helpful for teachers and students to better understand its significance, as well as its contribution to the genre of Transcendentalism. My dinner, dress, associates, looks, compliments, dues. Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same. And went where he sat on a log and led him in and assured him. I lift the gauze and look a long time, and silently brush away flies with my hand. His nostrils dilate as my heels embrace him. Easily written loose-finger’d chords—I feel the thrum of your climax and close. Esta canción está incluida dentro del disco Imaginaerum. That which fills its period and place is equal to any. Thanks for exploring this SuperSummary Plot Summary of “Song of Myself” by Walt Whitman. Something I cannot see puts upward libidinous prongs. Upon the race-course, or enjoying picnics or jigs or a good game of base-ball. This day before dawn I ascended a hill and look’d at the crowded heaven. But roughs and little children better than they. look to your arms! For me children and the begetters of children. They bring me tokens of myself, they evince them plainly in their possession. The crowd laugh at her blackguard oaths, the men jeer and wink to each other, (Miserable! For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you. Whatever interests the rest interests me, politics, wars, markets, newspapers, schools. What is commonest, cheapest, nearest, easiest, is Me. The butcher-boy puts off his killing-clothes, or sharpens his knife at the stall in the market. In Leaves of Grass (1855, 1891-2), he celebrated democracy, nature, love, and friendship. I carry the plenum of proof and every thing else in my face. A tenor large and fresh as the creation fills me. Do you not know O speech how the buds beneath you are folded? I hear the key’d cornet, it glides quickly in through my ears. I am mad for it to be in contact with me. The pure contralto sings in the organ loft. The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it. O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues. Who goes there? The mother of old, condemn’d for a witch, burnt with dry wood, her children gazing on. We pass the colossal outposts of the encampment, we pass with still feet and caution. what have you to confide to me? My tongue, every atom of my blood, form’d from this soil, this air. (This day I am jetting the stuff of far more arrogant republics.). The youngster and the red-faced girl turn aside up the bushy hill. And to those themselves who sank in the sea! To me the converging objects of the universe perpetually flow. I skirt sierras, my palms cover continents. At the cider-mill tasting the sweets of the brown mash, sucking the juice through a straw. Nor the cause of the friendship I emit, nor the cause of the friendship I take again. A Yankee bound my own way ready for trade, my joints the limberest joints on earth and the sternest joints on earth. Unrequited love or a slight cutting him worse than sharp steel cuts. Wherever he goes men and women accept and desire him. On all sides prurient provokers stiffening my limbs. Twenty-eight young men bathe by the shore. Long have you timidly waded holding a plank by the shore. what am I? Of the builders and steerers of ships and the wielders of axes and mauls, and the drivers of horses. will you prove already too late? Delicate sniffs of sea-breeze, smells of sedgy grass and fields by the shore, death-messages given in charge to survivors. And what I assume you shall assume, But call any thing back again when I desire it. A modern alternative to SparkNotes and CliffsNotes, SuperSummary offers high-quality study guides that feature detailed chapter summaries and analysis of major themes, characters, quotes, and essay topics. Kindling a fire and broiling the fresh-kill’d game. I can eat and sleep with them week in and week out. The slow march play’d at the head of the association marching two and two, (They go to guard some corpse, the flag-tops are draped with black muslin. And supple, tail dusting the ground but wallow and filth and giving them to an song of myself my... 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