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few pieces which are marked by the "piano-tune" quality that he derides—the true and tender lyric of "My
Captain" and the fine poem on "Ethiopia Saluting the Colors."
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
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."
Whitman's poems, though possessing individuality of their own: "Primary chief bard am I to Elphin, And my
I was with my Lord in the highest sphere, On the fall of Lucifer into the depth of hell; I have borne
been in Asia with Noah in the ark; I have seen the destruction of Sodom and Gomorra; I have been with my
whole universe; I shall be until the day of doom on the face of the earth; And it is not known whether my
Echoes of camps, with all th[gap] Trooping tumultuous, all[gap] bending me powerless[gap] Entering my
Dozens of pages of his rhythmic prose are not worth "My Captain," which among all his compositions comes
If Whitman, after the same length of time, proves more fortunate, it will be because he wrote "My Captain
are famous everywhere; and, though later efforts have been less happy, the one exquisite song, "O, Captain
My Captain!" written on the death of Lincoln, would make him one of our honored poets forever.
future," "You do not understand me, you cannot understand me, but I can wait hundreds of years for my
— The words of my book nothing, the drift of it everything.
"Not objecting to special revelations, considering a curl of smoke or a hair on the back of my hand just
I, the Titan, the hard-mouthed mechanic, spending my life in the hurling of words.
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.
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.
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!
my special word to thee. Who can be a companion of thy course!
lengthening shadows, prepare my starry nights.
my Captain! our fearful trip is done.
O,the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.
There is a lawless saying, fit only for the wise, but full of meaning for poets and great captains,—
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.
Me, master, years a hundred since from my parents sundered.
It still maintains: I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable; I sound my barbaric yawp over
communed to- gether together Mine too such wild arrays, for reasons of their own; Was't charged against my
Skirting the river road, (my forenoon walk, my rest,) Skyward in air a sudden muffled sound, the dalliance
That sport'st amid the lightning flash and thunder cloud, In them, in thy experiences, had'st thou my
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.
Was't charged against my chants they had forgotten art?
Another song on the death of Lincoln, "Oh Captain! My Captain!"
"O my brave soul! O farther, farther sail! O daring joy, but safe!
) For that, O God—be it my latest word — here on my knees, Old, poor, and paralysed—I thank thee.
"My terminus near, The clouds already closing in upon me, The voyage balk'd, the course disputed, lost
, I yield my ships to .
"My hands, my limbs, grow nerveless; My brain feels rack'd, bewilder'd; Let the old timbers part I will
reckon,’ he adds, with quaint colloquial arrogance, ‘I reckon I behave no prouder than the level I plant my
afternoons and sitting by him, and he liked to have me—liked to put out his arm and lay his hand on my
were hurt by being blamed by his officers for something he was entirely innocent of—said ‘I never in my
Evidently very intelligent and well-bred—very affectionate—held on to my hand, and put it to his face
not live another day; I cannot can not rest, O God — eat Or drink or sleep, till I put forth myself, My
West, where "In a far-away faraway northern county, in the placid, pas- toral pastoral region, Lives my
farmer-friend farmer friend , the theme of my recitative, a famous Tamer of Oxen ." : This is a worthy
One of his own countrymen (a press correspondent) thus writes of him— The only American prophet to my
He has no respect for artificial barriers to poetic inspiration:— "In my opinion the time has arrived
In my opinion, I say, while admitting that the venerable and heavenly forms of chiming versification
"Yes, my brethren, oh!
And thee, My Soul! Joys, ceaseless exercises, exaltations!
The only American prophet to my knowledge who enjoys a fame in England not accorded him in his own country
, strolling tides, Companions, travelers, gossiping as they journey; And he sends it out 'partly as my
And thee, My Soul! Joys, ceaseless exercises, exaltations!
Thee for my recitative!
Roll through my chant with all thy lawless music!
grave illness, I gather up the pieces of prose and poetry left over since publishing a while since my
For some reason—not explainable or definite to my own mind, yet secretly pleasing and satisfactory to
And thee, My Soul! Joys, ceaseless exercises, exaltations!
Thee for my recitative!
Roll through my chant with all thy lawless music!
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."
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
Who would suspect that this comic strain proceeded from the author of "My Study Window," and "Among my
I'm dull at prayers: I could not keep awake Counting my beads.
I love my fellow-men: the worst I know I would do good to.
Now, when storms of fate o'ercast Darkly my Present and my Past, Let my Future radiant shine With sweet
The "In Memoriam" explains itself,—the "Watchman of Ephriam," as Osee says, "was with my God."
captain!
Leave you not the little spot Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.
O captain, my captain, rise up and hear the bells; Rise up, for you the flag is flung, for you the bugle
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 silent tread Walk the spot my captain lies We have quoted enough, we think, even in these
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!"
succeeding poem, we have him clearly in trance, and the impressing spirit speaking through him:— Take my
see Hermes, unsuspected, dying, well-beloved, saying to the people, Do not weep for me, This is not my
Here is one which again proclaims his purpose:— I stand in my place, with my own day, here.
And what are my miracles? 2.
side, and some behind, and some embrace my arms and neck.
my captain! our fearful trip is done!
Leave you not the little spot Where on the deck my captain lies, Fallen Cold and Dead. O captain!
my captain! rise up and hear the bells! Rise up!
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 silent tread, Walk the spot; my captain lies Fallen cold and dead.
"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!
are not, in any respect, worse than undetected persons— and are not in any respect worse than I am my
; Or rude in my home in Dakotah's woods, my diet meat, my drink from the spring; Or withdrawn to muse
He even dates from the United States era; in 1856, he writes: In the Year 80 of the States, My tongue
place, with my own day, here.
List close, my scholars dear!
I approached him, gave my name and reason for searching him out, and asked him if he did not find the
results—and I will show that nothing can happen more beautiful than death; And I will thread a thread through my
has yet to be known; May-be seeming to me what they are (as doubtless they indeed but seem) as from my
do I not see my love fluttering out there among the breakers?
Loud I call to you, my love!
who I am, my love.
Hither, my love! Here I am! Here!
But my love no more, no more with me! We two together no more!
O harsh surrounding cloud that will not free my soul!
Softly I lay my right hand upon you—you just feel it; I do not argue—I bend my head close, and half-
single line or verse picked out here and there from the midst of his descriptions:— "Evening—me in my
room—the setting sun, The setting summer sun shining in my open windows window , showing the swarm of
take one breath from my tremulous lips; Take one tear, dropped aside as I go, for thought of you, Dead
I meant that you should discover me so, by my faint indirections; And I, when I meet you, mean to discover
has yet to be known; May-be seeming to me what they are (as doubtless they indeed but seem) as from my
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
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.
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.
coffin that slowly passes, I give you my sprig of lilac.
Phantoms welcome, divine and tender, Invisible to the rest, henceforth become my companions; Follow me
Perfume therefore my chant, O Love! immortal Love!
For that we live, my brethren—that is the mission of Poets.
the sisters Death and Might, incessantly softly wash again, and ever again, this soil'd world. … For my
where he lies, white-faced and still in the coffin—I draw near; I bend down and touch lightly with my
earth, she cried—I charge you, lose not my sons!
d; And you trees, down in your roots, to bequeath to all future trees, My dead absorb—my young mens
coffin that slowly passes, I give you my sprig of lilac.
And how shall I deck my song for the large sweet soul that has gone?
And what shall my perfume be, for the grave of him I love?
"Song of my Cid" is an epic poem of the mid-12th century and the earliest surviving work of Spanish literature
My days I sing, and lands Lands —with interstice I knew of hapless war War .
Inflating my throat—you, divine average!
Open mouth of my , uttering gladness, Eyes of my , seeing perfection, Natural life of me, faithfully
My other item relates to one of whose merits as an author opinions differ widely.
"My days I sing, and the lands, with interstice I knew of hapless war.
"One doubt nauseous undulating like a snake, crawl'd on the ground before me, Continually preceding my
and near, (rousing, even in dreams, a devilish exultation, and all the old mad joy, in the depths of my
Here it is copied from [the] volume before us:— O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! O Captain! my Captain!
Leave you not the little spot, 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 spot my Captain lies, Compare with this, for poetic or pathetic feeling