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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"
We closed with him, the yards entangled, the cannon touch'd, My captain lash'd fast with his own hands
Now I laugh content, for I hear the voice of my little captain, We have not struck, he composedly cries
Only three guns are in use, One is directed by the captain himself against the enemy's main- mast main-mast
Serene stands the little captain, He is not hurried, his voice is neither high nor low, His eyes give
The black ship mail'd with iron, her mighty guns in her turrets— but the pluck of the captain and engineers
WHEN LILACS LAST IN THE DOORYARD BLOOM'D . . . 255 O CAPTAIN, MY CAPTAIN . . . . . . . . 262 HUSH'D BE
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!
or "To the Leaven'd Soil they Trod," Or "Captain! My Captain!"
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
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." . . . .
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.
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
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."
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!
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
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
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."
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!
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.
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.
It still maintains: I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable; I sound my barbaric yawp over
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!"
WHEN LILACS LAST IN THE DOORYARD BLOOM'D . . . 255 O CAPTAIN, MY CAPTAIN . . . . . . . . 262 HUSH'D BE
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!
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse
We closed with him, the yards entangled, the cannon touch'd, My captain lash'd fast with his own hands
Now I laugh content, for I hear the voice of my little captain, We have not struck, he composedly cries
Only three guns are in use, One is directed by the captain himself against the enemy's main- mast main-mast
Serene stands the little captain, He is not hurried, his voice is neither high nor low, His eyes give
The black ship mail'd with iron, her mighty guns in her turrets— but the pluck of the captain and engineers
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
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!"
We closed with him—the yards entangled—the can- non cannon touch'd; My captain lash'd fast with his own
Now I laugh content, for I hear the voice of my little captain, We have not struck, he composedly cries
Only three guns are in use; One is directed by the captain himself against the ene- my's enemy's main-mast
Serene stands the little captain; He is not hurried—his voice is neither high nor low; His eyes give
The black ship, mail'd with iron, her mighty guns in her turrets—but the pluck of the captain and engineers
We closed with him—the yards entangled—the can- non cannon touch'd; My captain lash'd fast with his own
Now I laugh content, for I hear the voice of my little captain, We have not struck, he composedly cries
Only three guns are in use; One is directed by the captain himself against the ene- my's enemy's main-mast
Serene stands the little captain; He is not hurried—his voice is neither high nor low; His eyes give
The black ship, mail'd with iron, her mighty guns in her turrets—but the pluck of the captain and engineers
"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!
O joy of my spirit uncaged—it hops like a bird on the grass mounds of earth.
O joy of my spirit
The first several lines of "Pictures" (not including this line) were revised and published as "My Picture-Gallery
A similar line in that poem reads: "O the joy of my spirit! It is uncaged!
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.
Now I laugh content, for I hear the voice of my little captain,(says my grandmother's father;) We have
my Captain!
O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! 1 O CAPTAIN! my captain!
Leave you not the little spot, Where on the deck my captain lies.
Fallen cold and dead. 2 O captain! my captain!
We closed with him—the yards entangled—the cannon touch'd; My captain lash'd fast with his own hands.
Now I laugh content, for I hear the voice of my little captain,(says my grandmother's father;) We have
Only three guns are in use; One is directed by the captain himself against the enemy's main-mast; Two
Serene stands the little captain; He is not hurried—his voice is neither high nor low; His eyes give
The black ship mail'd with iron, her mighty guns in her turrets—but the pluck of the captain and engineers
Myself": "Looking in at the shop-windows in Broadway the whole forenoon . . . . pressing the flesh of my
It seem to me more than all the print I have read in my life."
See, for instance: "I take my place among you as much as among any," (1855, p. 48); "Nor do I understand
levee in life,— After death Now when I am looked back upon, I will I hold levee, after death, I lean on my
left elbow—I take ten thousand lovers, one after another, by my right hand.— I have all lives, all effects
O my body, that gives me identity! O my organs !
Underfoot, the divine soil— Overhead, the sun.— Afford foothold to my poems, you Nourish my poems, Earth
In Poem The earth, that is my model of poems model ?
The body of a man, is my model—I do not reject what I find in my body—I am not ashamed—Why should I be
My Darling (Now I am maternal— a child bearer— bea have from my womb borne a child, and observe it For
whom we knew not before Then the great authors take him for an author And the great soldiers for a captain
O laugh when my eyes settle the land The imagery and phrasing of these lines bears some resemblance to
and dwells serenely behind it.— When out of a feast I eat bread only corn and roast potatoes fo for my
dinner, through my own voluntary choice it is very well and I much content, but if some arrogant head
inspiration . . . . the beating of my heart . . . . the passing of blood and air through my lungs.
first poem of the 1855 edition of Leaves of Grass , later called "Song of Myself": "I do not trouble my
The first several lines of the notebook (not including this line) were revised and published as "My Picture-Gallery
just granting his request, with great commiseration, when an old lady from the gallery cries out "O my
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.
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
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
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!
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!
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
We closed with him—the yards entangled—the cannon 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
Only three guns were in use, One was directed by the captain himself against the enemy's main-mast, Two
Serene stood the little captain, He was not hurried—his voice was neither high nor low, His eyes gave
Then the mechanics take him for a mechanic, And the soldiers suppose him to be a captain, and the sailors