And the numberless unknown heroes equal to the greatest heroes known! 19 This is the meal equally set, this the meat for natural hunger, It is for the wicked just same as the righteous, i make appointments with all, i will not have a single person slighted or left away, the kept-woman, sponger, thief, are hereby. This is the press of a bashful hand, this the float and odor of hair, This the touch of my lips to yours, this the murmur of yearning, This the far-off depth and height reflecting my own face, this the thoughtful merge of myself, and. Do you guess I have some intricate purpose? Well I have, for the fourth-month showers have, and the mica on the side of a rock has. Do you take it I would astonish? Does the daylight astonish?
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(The moth and the fish-eggs are in their place, the bright suns I afrikaans see and the dark suns I resume cannot see are in their place, the palpable is in its place and the impalpable is in its place.) 17 These are really the thoughts. This is the grass that grows wherever the land is and the water is, This the common air that bathes the globe. 18 With music strong I come, with my cornets and my drums, i play not marches for accepted victors only, i play marches for conquer'd and slain persons. Have you heard that it was good to gain the day? I also say it is good to fall, battles are lost in the same spirit in which they are won. I beat and pound for the dead, i blow through my embouchures my loudest and gayest for them. Vivas to those who have fail'd! And to those whose war-vessels sank in the sea! And to those themselves who sank in the sea! And to all generals that lost engagements, and all overcome heroes!
The sharp-hoof'd moose of the north, the cat on the house-sill, the chickadee, the prairie-dog, The litter of the grunting sow as they tug at her teats, The brood of the turkey-hen and she with her half-spread wings, i see in them and myself the. The press of my foot to the earth springs a hundred affections, They scorn the best I can do to relate them. I am enamour'd of growing out-doors, Of men that live among cattle or taste of the ocean or woods, Of the builders and steerers of ships and the wielders of axes and mauls, and the drivers of horses, i can eat and sleep with them. What is commonest, cheapest, nearest, easiest, is me, me going in for my chances, spending for vast returns, Adorning myself to bestow myself on the first that will take me, not asking the sky to come down to my good will, Scattering it freely forever. 15 The pure contralto sings in the organ loft, The carpenter dresses his plank, the tongue of his foreplane whistles its wild ascending lisp, The married and unmarried children ride home to their Thanksgiving dinner, The pilot seizes the king-pin, he heaves down with. I do not laugh at your oaths nor jeer you the President holding a cabinet council is surrounded by the great Secretaries, On the piazza walk three matrons stately and friendly with twined arms, The crew of the fish-smack pack repeated layers of halibut. 16 i am of old and young, of the foolish as much as the wise, regardless of others, ever regardful of others, maternal as well revelation as paternal, a child as well as a man, Stuff'd with the stuff that is coarse and stuff'd with the. I resist any thing better than my own diversity, breathe the air but leave plenty after me, and am not stuck up, and am in my place.
From the cinder-strew'd threshold I follow their movements, The lithe sheer of their waists plays even with their massive arms, overhand the hammers swing, overhand so slow, overhand so sure, they do not hasten, each man hits in his place. 13 The negro holds firmly the reins of his four horses, the block swags underneath on its tied-over chain, The negro that drives the long dray reviews of the stone-yard, steady and tall he stands pois'd on one leg on the string-piece, his blue shirt exposes. I behold the picturesque giant and love him, and I do not stop there, i go with the team also. In me the caresser of life wherever moving, backward as well literature as forward sluing, to niches aside and junior bending, not a person or object missing, Absorbing all to myself and for this song. Oxen that rattle the yoke and chain or halt in the leafy shade, what is that you express in your eyes? It seems to me more than all the print I have read in my life. My tread scares the wood-drake and wood-duck on my distant and day-long ramble, they rise together, they slowly circle around. I believe in those wing'd purposes, And acknowledge red, yellow, white, playing within me, and consider green and violet and the tufted crown intentional, And do not call the tortoise unworthy because she is not something else, and the in the woods never studied the. 14 The wild gander leads his flock through the cool night, ya-honk he says, and sounds it down to me like an invitation, The pert may suppose it meaningless, but I listening close, find its purpose and place up there toward the wintry sky.
For I see you, you splash in the water there, yet stay stock still in your room. Dancing and laughing along the beach came the twenty-ninth bather, The rest did not see her, but she saw them and loved them. The beards of the young men glisten'd with wet, it ran from their long hair, little streams pass'd all over their bodies. An unseen hand also pass'd over their bodies, It descended tremblingly from their temples and ribs. The young men float on their backs, their white bellies bulge to the sun, they do not ask who seizes fast to them, They do not know who puffs and declines with pendant and bending arch, They do not think whom they souse with spray. 12 The butcher-boy puts off his killing-clothes, or sharpens his knife at the stall in the market, i loiter enjoying his repartee and his shuffle and break-down. Blacksmiths with grimed and hairy chests environ the anvil, each has his main-sledge, they are all out, there is a great heat in the fire.
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The blab of the pave, tires of carts, sluff of boot-soles, talk of the promenaders, The heavy omnibus, the driver with his interrogating thumb, the clank of the shod horses on the granite floor, resume The snow-sleighs, clinking, shouted jokes, pelts of snow-balls, The hurrahs for. 9 The big doors of the country barn stand open and ready, the dried grass of the harvest-time loads the slow-drawn wagon, The clear light plays on the brown gray and green intertinged, The armfuls are pack'd to the sagging mow. I am there, i help, i came stretch'd atop of the load, i felt its soft jolts, one leg reclined on the other, i jump from the cross-beams and seize the clover and timothy, and roll head over heels and tangle my hair full. 10 Alone far in the wilds and mountains I hunt, wandering amazed at my own lightness and glee, in the late afternoon choosing a safe spot to pass the night, kindling a fire and broiling the fresh-kill'd game, falling asleep on the gather'd leaves with. The yankee clipper is under her sky-sails, she cuts the sparkle and scud, my eyes settle the land, i bend at her prow or shout joyously from the deck. The boatmen and clam-diggers arose early and stopt for me, i tuck'd my trowser-ends in my boots and went and had a good time; you should have been with us that day round the chowder-kettle.
I saw the marriage of the trapper in the open air in the far west, the bride was a red girl, her father and his friends sat near cross-legged and dumbly smoking, they had moccasins to their feet and large thick blankets hanging from their. The runaway slave came to my house and stopt outside, i heard his motions crackling the twigs of the woodpile, through the swung half-door of the kitchen I saw him limpsy and weak, and went where he sat on a log and led him. 11 Twenty-eight young men bathe by the shore, twenty-eight young men and all so friendly; Twenty-eight years of womanly life and all so lonesome. She owns the fine house by the rise of the bank, she hides handsome and richly drest aft the blinds of the window. Which of the young men does she like the best? Ah the homeliest of them is beautiful to her. Where are you off to, lady?
I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women, And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their laps. What do you think has become of the young and old men? And what do you think has become of the women and children? They are alive and well somewhere, the smallest sprout shows there is really no death, And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it, And ceas'd the moment life appear'd. All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses, And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier. 7 Has any one supposed it lucky to be born?
I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and i know. I pass death with the dying and birth with the new-wash'd babe, and am not contain'd between my hat and boots, And peruse manifold objects, no two alike and every one good, The earth good and the stars good, and their adjuncts all good. I am not an earth nor an adjunct of an earth, i am the mate and companion of people, all just as immortal and fathomless as myself, (They do not know how immortal, but i know.) every kind for itself and its own, for. You are not guilty to me, nor stale nor discarded, i see through the broadcloth and gingham whether or no, and am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot be shaken away. 8 The little one sleeps in its cradle, i lift the gauze and look a long time, and silently brush away flies with my hand. The youngster and the red-faced girl turn aside up the bushy hill, i peeringly view them from the top. The suicide sprawls on the bloody floor of the bedroom, i witness the corpse with its dabbled hair, i note where the pistol has fallen.
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I do not know what it reviews is any more than. I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven. Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the lord, a scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt, bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say whose? Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation. Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic, And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones, Growing among black folks as among white, kanuck, tuckahoe, congressman, cuff, i give them the same, i receive them the same. And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves. Tenderly will i use you curling grass, It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men, It may be if I had known them I would have loved them, It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken soon out. This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers, darker than the colorless beards of old men, dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths. O i perceive after all so many uttering tongues, And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing.
4 Trippers and askers surround me, people i meet, the effect upon me of my early life or the ward and city i live in, or the nation, The latest dates, discoveries, finished inventions, societies, authors old and new, my dinner, dress, associates, looks, compliments, dues. Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what i am, Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary, looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest, looking with side-curved head curious what will come next, both in and out of the game. Backward I see in my own days where i sweated through fog with linguists and contenders, i have no mockings or arguments, i witness and wait. 5 I believe in you my soul, the other i am must not abase itself to you, and you must not be abased to the other. Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat, not words, not music or rhyme i want, not custom or lecture, not even the best, Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice. I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning, how you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turn'd over upon me, and parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue to my bare-stript heart, And reach'd till you felt. Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and 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. 6 A child said What is the grass? Fetching it to me with full hands; How could i answer the child?
no avail, learn'd and unlearn'd feel that it. 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. Clear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not my soul. Lack one lacks both, and the unseen is proved by the seen, till that becomes unseen and receives proof in its turn. Showing the best and dividing it from the worst age vexes age, knowing the perfect fitness and equanimity of things, while they discuss i am silent, and go bathe and admire myself. Welcome is every organ and attribute of me, and of any man hearty and clean, not an inch nor a particle of an inch is vile, and none shall be less familiar than the rest. 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, leaving me baskets cover'd with white towels swelling the house with their plenty, shall.
Have you reckon'd a thousand acres much? Have you reckon'd the earth much? Have you practis'd so long to learn to read? Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems? Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems, you shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions of suns left you shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look. 3 I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the beginning and the end, but I do not talk of the beginning or the end. There was never any more inception than there is now, nor any more youth or age than there is now, And will never be any more perfection than there is now, nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.
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Won't you help support daypoems? By, walt Whitman, i celebrate myself, and sing myself, And what i assume you shall assume, for every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you. 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, born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same, i, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin, hoping to cease not till death. Creeds and schools in abeyance, retiring back pdf a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten, i harbor for good or bad, i permit to speak at every hazard, nature without check with original energy. 2, houses and rooms are full of perfumes, the shelves are crowded with perfumes, i breathe the fragrance myself and know it and like it, The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let. The atmosphere is not a perfume, it has no taste of the distillation, it is odorless, It is for my mouth forever, i am in love with it, i will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked, i am mad. The smoke of my own breath, Echoes, ripples, buzz'd 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 sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore.