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O CAPTAIN, MY CAPTAIN! O Captain, my Captain!

O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain, my Captain, rise up and hear the bells.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse

Exult O shores, and ring O bells, But I with mournful tread Walk the deck my Captain lies, To analyze

my Captain!

O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies Fallen cold and dead. O Captain!

my Captain!

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse

But I with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, The most prejudiced will not deny that that

What I experience or portray shall go from my composition without a shred of my composition.

I lie in the night air in my red shirt… the pervading hush is for my sake.

We close with him: the yards entangled… the masts touched: My captain lashed fast with his own hands.

I laughed content when I heard the voice of my little captain— `We have not struck,' he composedly cried

Serene stood the little captain: He was not hurried…his voice was neither high or low— His eyes gave

He explains his inspiration thus: Speech is the twin of my vision, it is unequal to measure itself, It

He explains the limit of his happiness: I merely stir, press, feel with my fingers, and am happy, To

touch my person to some one else's is about as much as I can stand .

Whenever he does this he writes lines that will live—notably, his "O Captain, my Captain," inspired by

describes himself well enough in the lines, I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable — , I sound my

He says (p. 31): Clear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not my soul.

His tribute to Abraham Lincoln (p. 262), beginning "O Captain! my Captain!"

Bless the Lord,O my soul!

lengthening shadows, prepare my starry nights.

poems which have rhyme and the stanza, the rhymes are of the crudest and the stanzas are fetters: O Captain

my Captain! our fearful trip is done.

O,the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.

indeed, mattered little to him, for he has bided his time patiently and serenely, and when such captains

I wish to see my benefactor, and have felt much like striking my tasks and visiting New York to pay you

my respects.

The air tastes good to my palate.

Another song on the death of Lincoln, "Oh Captain! My Captain!"

by the indolent waves, I am exposed, cut by bitter and poisoned hail Steeped amid honeyed morphine , my

darkness Our vessel riddled and slowly sinking—preparations to pass to the one we had conquered— The captain

Earth of the limpid gray of clouds brighter and clearer for my sake! Far-swooping elbowed earth!

darkness , Our vessel riddled and slowly sinking…preparations to pass to the one we had conquered, The captain

bit of pathos—indubitably human—in my eye, confess now am I not a man and a brother?"

place, with my own day, here."

my dwell- dwelling .)"

'O the life of my senses and flesh, transcending my senses and flesh.'

my South! O quick mettle, rich blood, impulse and love! good and evil! O all dear to me!"

my South!O quick mettle, rich blood, impulse and love! good and evil! O all dear to me!"

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

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air, Born here of parents born here from

stuck up, and am in my place.

Now comes a passage remarkable for its nobility: "With music strong I come, with my cornets and my drums

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

My feet strike an apex of the apices of the stairs, On every step bunches of ages, and larger bunches

Cycles ferried my cradle, rowing and rowing like cheerful boatmen, For room to me stars kept aside in

I open my scuttle at night and see the far-sprinkled systems, And all I see multiplied as high as I can

; No friend of mine takes his ease in my chair;— I have no chair, no church, no philosophy, I lead no

man to a dinner-table, library, exchange; But each man and each woman of you I lead upon a knoll, My

I cannot tell how my ankles bend . . . . nor whence the cause of my faintest wish, Nor the cause of the

To walk up my stoop is unaccountable . . . . I pause to consider if it really be.

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

Speech is the twin of my vision . . . . it is unequal to measure itself.

I merely stir, press, feel with my fingers, and am happy, To touch my person to some one else's is about

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

The smoke of my own breath, Echoes, ripples, buzzed whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and vine

, My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing of blood and air through my lungs

The sound of the belched words of my voice, words loosed to the eddies of the wind, A few light kisses

Our poet goes on to say (105): I know I am august, I do not trouble my spirit to vindicate itself or

since, after the closest inquiry, "I find no sweeter fat than sticks to my own bones."

If I worship any particular thing, it shall be some the spread of my own body."

As for Mine, Mine has the idea of my own, and what's Mine is my own, and my own is all Mine and believes

in your and my name, the Present time. 6.

I lie in the night air in my red shirt—the pervading hush is for my sake, Painless after all I lie, exhausted

." ***** "O despairer, here is my neck, You shall not go down! Hang your whole weight upon me."

My moral constitution may be hopelessly tainted or—too sound to be tainted, as the critic wills, but

, Earth of the limpid grey of clouds brighter and clearer for my sake! Far swooping elbowed earth!

The damp of the night drives deeper into my soul."

———Under Niagara, the cataract falling like a veil over my countenance ."

with a secret wish that I had not begun to read and a vow that I would never do the like again), by my

Lowell voices in the best way it can be voiced this limitation, or to my mind wrong poetic notion, in

"Behind the hill, behind the sky, Behind my inmost thought, he sings; No feet avail; to hear it nigh,

—you say in "New York;" but I had my hearing of most of those you mention elsewhere.

Sidney Morse . ∗ "Good-Bye, my Fancy!" Walt Whitman. 1891. The Second Annex to "Leaves of Grass"

I rubbed my eyes a little, to see if this sunbeam were no illusion; but the solid sense of the book is

head at nightfall, and he is fain to say,— I too am not a bit tamed—I too am untranslatable; I sound my

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

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

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

I know perfectly well my own egotism. . . .

I will put in my poems, that with you is heroism, upon land and sea. . . .

On my way a moment I pause, Here for you! And here for America!

of my own, And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women my sisters and lovers,

Earth of the limpid gray of clouds, brighter and clear- er clearer for my sake!

philosopher's life in the quiet woodland ways, Where if I cannot be gay let a passionless peace be my

And my heart is a handful of dust, And the wheels go over my head, And my bones are shaken with pain,

What I experience or portray shall go from my composition without a shred of my composition.

You shall stand by my side, and look in the mirror with me."

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

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

I know I am august; I do not trouble my spirit to vindicate itself, or be understood; I see that the

My foothold is tenon'd and mortis'd in granite; I laugh at what you call dissolution; And I know the

My feet strike an apex of the apices of the stairs; On every step bunches of ages, and larger bunches

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

I loafe, and invite my soul; I lean and loafe at my ease— Observing a spear of Summer grass."

I know that the hand of God is the elderhand of my own, And I know that the spirit of God is the eldest

brother of my own, And that all the men ever born are also my brothers…and the women my sisters and

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

is as big to me as any, Logic and sermons never convince, The damp of the night drives deeper into my

I do not press my finger across my mouth, I keep as delicate around the bowels as around the head and

Amelioration is my lesson, he says with calm voice, and progress is my lesson and the lesson of all things

I am the teacher of athletes, He that by me spreads a wider breast than my own proves the width of my

own, He most honors my style who learns under it to destroy the teacher.

What is commonest and cheapest and nearest and easiest is Me, Me going in for my chances, spending for

"What I experience or portray shall go from my composition without a shred of my composition.

You shall stand by my side and look in the mirror with me."

"I am the teacher of Athletes; He that by me spreads a wider breast than my own, proves the width of

my own; He most honors my style who learns under it to destroy the teacher; The boy I love, the same

I cannot tell how my ankles bend, nor whence the causes of my faintest wish, Nor the cause of the friendship

That I walk up my stoop, I pause to consider if it really be.

A morning glory at my window satisfies me more than the meta- physics metaphysics of books."

I blow through my embouchures my loudest and gayest music to them. Vivas to those who have failed.

In the faces of men and women I see God, and in my own face in the glass.

To-day my soul is full of the love of the body.

"Clear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not my soul. ∗∗∗∗∗ While they discuss

The first doubt lodged in my mind against the claims of the Christian Church and ministry was the first

To my surprise and horror, they spent the whole time in regaling one another with smutty yarns.

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

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

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air.

My special word to thee. Hear me illustrious!

woodedge, thy touching-distant beams enough, or man matured, or young or old, as now to thee I launch my

lengthening shadows, prepare my starry nights.

over waves, towards the house of maternity, the land of migrations, look afar, Look off the shores of my

"My days I sing, and the land's:" this is the key-note.

I cannot tell how my ankles bend, nor whence the cause of my faintest wish, Nor the cause of the friendship

That I walk up my stoop!

The little light fades the immense and diaphanous shadows; The air tastes good to my palate.

more foolish than the rest of the volume:— "I too am not a bit tamed—I too am untranslatable, I sound my

The last scud of day holds back for me, It flings my likeness, after the rest, and true as any, on the

I depart as air—I shake my white locks at the run-away sun, I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it

Me, ruthless and devilish as any, that my wrists are not chain'd with iron or my ankles with iron?

do I exclude you, Not till the waters refuse to glisten for you and the leaves to rustle for you, do my

"The chief end I purpose to myself in all my labours," wrote Dean Swift, "is to vex the world rather

and flows": "This day, before dawn, I ascended a hill and look'd at the crowded heaven, And I said to my

And my spirit said ' No .'"

suddenly,—reservedly, with a beautiful paucity of communication, even silently, such was its effect on my

forced to remember another son of the people, Robert Burns, and one involuntarily thinks of his "O, my

Love's like a red, red rose, That's newly sprung in June: O my Love's like a melodie That's sweetly

(I loved a certain person ardently and my love was unreturned, Yet out of my love have I written these

hardly patience with a man who could offer the public lines like these, and call them poetry: "I tucked my

trowser-ends into my boots, and went and had a good time."

I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.

As every one is immortal, I know it is wonderful; but my eyesight is equally wonderful, and how I was

conceived in my mother's womb is equally wonderful.

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

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

knowledge that pass all the argument of the earth And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my

own And I know that the Spirit of God is the brother of my own And that all the men ever born are also

my brothers, and the women my sisters and lovers And that a kelson of the creation is love." . . . .

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

white locks at the runaway sun; I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags."

It seems to me more than all the print I have read in my life."

"Between my knees my forehead was,— My lips, drawn in, said not, Alas!

My hair was over in the grass, My naked ears heard the day pass."

Earth of the limpid gray of clouds brighter and clearer for my sake! Far-swooping elbowed earth!

the wounded person, My hurt turns livid upon me as I lean on a cane and observe.

Heat and smoke I inspired…I heard the yelling shouts of my comrades, I heard the distant click of their

I lie in the night air in my red shirt…the pervading hush is for my sake, Painless after all I lie, exhausted

"I, too, am not a bit tamed…I, too, am untransla- table untranslatable ; I sound my barbaric yawp over

To prepare for sleep, for bed—to look on my rose-coloured flesh, To be conscious of my body, so amorous

Have you learned the physiology, phrenology, politics, geography, pride, freedom, friendship, of my land

Earth of the limpid grey of clouds, brighter and clearer for my sake! Far-swooping elbowed Earth!

His text is—and it is a stalwart text: "I stand in my place, with my own day, here!" II.

"I resist anything better than my own diversity," he says.

Clifford in his essay on "Cosmic Emotion:" "I open my scuttle at night and see the far-sprinkled far-

"My sun has his sun, and round him obediently wheels, He joins with his partners a group of superior

Hence from my shuddering sight to never more return that Show of blacken'd mutilated corpses!

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

make the only growth by which I can be appreciated, I reject none, accept all, then reporduce all in my

For the great Idea, That, O my brethren, that is the mission of poets.

camping with lumber-men, Along the ruts of the turnpike . . . along the dry gulch and rivulet bed, Hoeing my

gold-digging . . . girdling the trees of a new purchase, Scorched ankle-deep by the hot sand . . . hauling my

"In the year 80 of the States, My tongue, every atom of my blood, formed from this soil, this air, Born

"Take my leaves, America! take them South, and take them North! Surround them, East and West!

"O my comrade! O you and me at last, and us two only! O to level occupations and the sexes!

If he worships any particular thing, he says it shall be "some of the spread of my own body."

One long passage commences thus: "O my body!

He rejoices to feel that he is "not stuck up and is in his [my] place," for "The moth and the fish eggs

How perfect is my soul! How perfect the earth and the minutest thing upon it!

Oh, my soul! If I realize you I have satisfaction. Laws of the earth and air!

For illustration, he gives utterance to phrases like this: "I effuse my flesh in eddies and drift it

He himself says, "Nor will my poems do good only, they will do just as much harm, perhaps more."

Earth of the limpid gray of clouds, brighter and clearer for my sake! Far swooping elbowed earth!

If I worship any particular thing, it shall be some of the spread of my own body."—p. 55.

If I worship any particular thing, it shall be some of the spread of my own body."—p. 55.

.—" He is a painter, carver and sculptor: "A gigantic beauty of a stallion, fresh and responsive to my

look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books : ; "You shall not look through my

beautiful, curious, breathing, laughing flesh is enough; To pass among them, or touch any one, or rest my

I sound triumphal drums for the dead—I fling thro' my embouchures the loudest and gayest music for them

It still maintains: I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable; I sound my barbaric yawp over