Whitman wonders why he should adhere to the old ways — prayer or ceremony. I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I know it. In chant 47, we are reminded that he must act as our tongue. This materialization evolved out of the Age of Reason, when the question of using reason a conscious state or faith an unconscious state as a basis for establishing a set of beliefs divided people into secular and non-secular groups. Whoever degrades another degrades me, And whatever is done or said returns at last to me. How is its work accomplished? 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 of their mothers' laps, And here you are the mothers' laps.
Night of south winds night of the large few stars! While Whitman normally revels in this kind of symbolic indeterminacy, here it troubles him a bit. Myself moving forward then and now and forever, Gathering and showing more always and with velocity, Infinite and omnigenous, and the like of these among them, Not too exclusive toward the reachers of my remembrancers, Picking out here one that I love, and now go with him on brotherly terms. Earlier, in stnaza 26, he writes about listening, listing off the sounds of the world around him. One of that centripetal and centrifugal gang I turn and talk like a man leaving charges before a journey. At church, when I did go to church, my favorite thing was the annual service about Mother Nature. Your facts are useful, and yet they are not my dwelling, I but enter by them to an area of my dwelling.
They were the glory of the race of rangers, Matchless with horse, rifle, song, supper, courtship, Large, turbulent, generous, handsome, proud, and affectionate, Bearded, sunburnt, drest in the free costume of hunters, Not a single one over thirty years of age. What is a man anyhow? The two can be discussed separately or they can be related to each other. I speak the pass-word primeval, I give the sign of democracy, By God! I fly those flights of a fluid and swallowing soul, My course runs below the soundings of plummets. Love, religion, and war are some favorites. However, there is an enigmatic few that are more than mere pawns in the game of existence.
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, The snow-sleighs, clinking, shouted jokes, pelts of snow-balls, The hurrahs for popular favorites, the fury of rous'd mobs, The flap of the curtain'd litter, a sick man inside borne to the hospital, The meeting of enemies, the sudden oath, the blows and fall, The excited crowd, the policeman with his star quickly working his passage to the centre of the crowd, The impassive stones that receive and return so many echoes, What groans of over-fed or half-starv'd who fall sunstruck or in fits, What exclamations of women taken suddenly who hurry home and give birth to babes, What living and buried speech is always vibrating here, what howls restrain'd by decorum, Arrests of criminals, slights, adulterous offers made, acceptances, rejections with convex lips, I mind them or the show or resonance of them I come and I depart. 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 the outlet again. Since all these objectives bear upon the primary charge, the enunciation of an identity, the fullest treatment of this theme would require an examination of all of them. Where are you off to, lady? This is why the poet in relating the revelation of this event must shift to the present tense. Whitman offers the point of view of a child when asking the questions.
Walt Whitman celebrates the freedom he sees as inherent in America through his verse. The unmastered becomes his realm of mastery; sympathy, his password; and division, the permanent interior drama of the self. In what became Section 6 of the final edition lines 90-121 of the 1855 edition Whitman himself addresses this sort of 'meta-question' of interpretation. Also at the outset we are introduced to the terms of our apprenticeship. It is his cry for democracy, giving each of us a voice through his poetry. All that mattered was how good you were at conquering the tree. He felt and wrote that it is important to stand up for the things in which one believes in.
Having pried through the strata, analyzed to a hair, counsel'd with doctors and calculated close, I find no sweeter fat than sticks to my own bones. Like the Tao Te Ching ideas are expressed in enigmatic verse and each stanza is a Zen koan waiting to be meditated on and puzzled out. His mastery of verbiage draws readers into the poem, as few other poets can. Their lifestyles and writing styles were extremely different, as they shared little in common. .
My head slues round on my neck, Music rolls, but not from the organ, Folks are around me, but they are no household of mine. His love of his own body is introduced in the second chant and recurs throughout, appearing with no greater intensity in the first lines of chant 45 than in this first presentation. That I could forget the trickling tears and the blows of the bludgeons and hammers! Like Whitman, many modern authors have used their writing to explore the idea that as humans, our idea of who we are may be much more vast than we think. There is not a linear development in the Song. Learning to see for ourselves, with a vision as alert to the particular as his, we will come to appreciate the divinity in ourselves. 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. Chapin, 1867 Drum Taps William E.
His new harbor is a of safety, like a place where ships come to dock after their long voyages. America, the great melting pot, was founded for freedom and democracy, and this poem is his way of re-instilling these lost American ideals. Neither a chronologically nor a thematically ordered narrative, Song of Myself is rather an incantatory stream of self-presentations the first lines of which already announce the fruit of the process. The two can be discussed separately or they can be related to each other. He is very much on this earth in the wonderful chant 46, within whispering distance of us, as he leads us upon a knoll and points the way to the road we must travel for ourselves. Redfield, 1870 Leaves of Grass William E.
There is an assertive, striding, embracing Walt Whitman who leads the celebration, but there is also a passive, tender, delicate Whitman attuned to darkness and doubt. The poet, Whitman reminds us, is, as we encounter him, now disembodied as a physical human being and instead embodied in the pages of the book. Man or woman, I might tell how I like you, but cannot, And might tell what it is in me and what it is in you, but cannot, And might tell that pining I have, that pulse of my nights and days. Some of these may be humorous and take on the realities of human nature while others stir something inside ourselves that cause us to take a deeper look at life. It took out the strategy of which branch to climb. 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 week in and week out.