The beautiful uncut hair of graves. Quote by Walt Whitman: “And now it [grass] seems to me the beautiful un...” 2019-02-02

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Walt Whitman: Poems “A child said, What is the grass?” Summary and Analysis

the beautiful uncut hair of graves

At the age of twelve, Whitman began to learn the printer's trade, and fell in love with the written word. And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing. Earth of the limpid gray of clouds, brighter and clearer for my sake! 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. Or I guess if 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? Logic and sermons never convince; The damp of the night drives deeper into my soul. Redfield, 1870 Leaves of Grass William E. I plead for my brothers and sisters. Along with , he is considered one of America's most important poets.

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A poem of his says grass is the beautiful uncut hair of graves Jeopardy Answer

the beautiful uncut hair of graves

We had receiv’d some eighteen pound shots under the water; On our lower-gun-deck two large pieces had burst at the first fire, killing all around, and blowing up overhead. A pile of rocks toppled into Gwen's stomach as the idea sank in, the finite and definite knowledge that in her long and eventful life, so full of surprises and strangeness and beauty, Tosh had never lived. I dote on myself—there is that lot of me, and all so luscious; Each moment, and whatever happens, thrills me with joy. He had also been sending money to his widowed mother and an invalid brother. The blab of the pave, the tires of , 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 , the clinking, shouted jokes, pelts of snowballs; 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 ; What groans of over-fed or half-starv’d who sun-struck, 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. Only three guns are in use; One is directed by the captain himself against the enemy’s mainmast; Two, well served with grape and canister, his musketry and his decks.

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Poetry Chaikhana

the beautiful uncut hair of graves

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord, A scented gift and remembrancer, designedly , Bearing the owner’s name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say, Whose? Breast that presses against other breasts, it shall be you! He remarks that the grass is very dark to have come from the white hair of old mothers or the colorless beards of old men. Behavior lawless as snow-flakes, words simple as grass, uncomb’d head, laughter, and naivetĂ©, Slow-stepping feet, common features, common modes and emanations; They descend in new forms from the tips of his fingers; They are wafted with the odor of his body or breath—they fly out of the glance of his eyes. He asks for the 's opinion on what happened to these men, women, and children but then answers his own question. Tragedy and pain are not ignored in this poem, but rather acknowledged as part of an endless renewal and cycle of life. Writing and talk do not prove me; I carry the plenum of proof, and everything else, in my face; With the hush of my lips I confound the skeptic. Flowers are fragile; most require certain locations to grow, certain temperatures among other fickle things. An unseen hand also pass’d over their bodies; It descended tremblingly from their temples and ribs.


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The Beautiful Uncut Hair of Graves, a torchwood fanfic

the beautiful uncut hair of graves

You are also asking me questions, and I hear you; I answer that I cannot answer—you must find out for yourself. He moved his hand to gently tuck a stray piece of hair behind her ear. What do you think has become of the young and old men? Prodigal, you have given me love! Perhaps I might tell more. The pleasures of heaven are with me, and the pains of hell are with me; The first I graft and increase upon myself—the latter I translate into a new tongue. Whitman would probably prefer that there be no coffin between the corpse and dirt, either way, coffins are built of impermanence and can decay as well.

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'A child said, What is the grass?' by Walt Whitman

the beautiful uncut hair of graves

I know I am august; I do not trouble my spirit to vindicate itself or be understood; I see that the elementary laws never apologize; I reckon I behave no prouder than the level I plant my house by, after all. This is the city, and I am one of the citizens; Whatever interests the rest interests me—politics, wars, markets, newspapers, , Benevolent societies, improvements, banks, tariffs, steamships, , stocks, stores, real estate, and personal estate. And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves. GradeSaver, 16 August 2014 Web. . I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven. When Tosh and Owen had died, they had taken her Ianto with them.

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The beautiful uncut hair of graves. ... by Walt Whitman

the beautiful uncut hair of graves

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord, A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropped, Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say Whose? Will you prove already too late? Root of wash’d sweet flag! Births have brought us richness and variety, And other births will bring us richness and variety. The earth by the sky staid with—the daily close of their junction; The heav’d challenge from the east that moment over my head; The mocking taunt, See then whether you shall be master! Every kind for itself and its own—for me mine, male and female; For me that have been boys, and that love women; For me the man that is proud, and feels how it stings to be slighted; For me the sweet-heart and the old maid—for me mothers, and the mothers of mothers; For me lips that have smiled, eyes that have shed tears; For me children, and the begetters of children. And what do you think has become of the women and children? The grass grows, dies, and is reborn in a constant cycle, and Whitman believes that human life is the same. Somehow I have been stunn’d. I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable, I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world. I cannot tell how my ankles bend, nor whence the cause of my faintest wish; Nor the cause of the friendship I emit, nor the cause of the friendship I take again. That I could forget the mockers and insults! 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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A child said, What is the grass? by Walt Whitman

the beautiful uncut hair of graves

Whitman incorporates all facets of the human condition into his poetry because, in his opinion, death is a major part of life and nature. My breath is tight in its throat; Unclench your floodgates! In 1848, Whitman left the Brooklyn Daily Eagle to become editor of the New Orleans Crescent. Who wishes to walk with me? Retreating, they had form’d in a hollow square, with their baggage for breastworks; Nine hundred lives out of the surrounding enemy’s, nine times their number, was the price they took in advance; Their colonel was wounded and their ammunition gone; They treated for an honorable capitulation, receiv’d writing and seal, gave up their arms, and march’d back prisoners of war. I hear the chorus—it is a grand ; Ah, this indeed is music! What do you think has become of the women and children? Howler and scooper of storms! I and they keep guard all night; Not doubt—not decease shall dare to lay finger upon you; I have embraced you, and henceforth possess you to myself; And when you rise in the morning you will find what I tell you is so. Winds whose soft-tickling genitals rub against me, it shall be you! He stayed with his brother until the 1882 publication of Leaves of Grass James R. He took a job as a clerk for the Department of the Interior, which ended when the Secretary of the Interior, James Harlan, discovered that Whitman was the author of Leaves of Grass, which Harlan found offensive.

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The beautiful uncut hair of graves. ... by Walt Whitman

the beautiful uncut hair of graves

I tramp a perpetual journey— come listen! You could think of the speaker narrating the entire poem while sitting in the grass with his soul. She took a few deep breaths, eyes closed, putting this new information somewhere that didn't need constant analysis, that just was and was gone. If you tire, give me both burdens, and rest the chuff of your hand on my hip, And in due time you shall repay the same service to me; For after we start, we never lie by again. In vain the speeding or shyness; In vain the plutonic rocks send their old heat against my approach; In vain the mastodon retreats beneath its own powder’d bones; In vain objects stand leagues off, and assume manifold shapes; In vain the ocean settling in hollows, and the great monsters lying low; In vain the buzzard houses herself with the sky; In vain the snake slides through the creepers and logs; In vain the elk takes to the inner passes of the woods; In vain the razor-bill’d auk sails far north to Labrador; I follow quickly, I ascend to the nest in the fissure of the cliff. Vapors lighting and shading my face, it shall be you! From a talk I had lately with a German spiritualist. And to those whose war-vessels sank in the sea! 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.

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Visions of America Quotes: Song of Myself Page 1

the beautiful uncut hair of graves

On women fit for conception I start bigger and nimbler babes; This day I am jetting the stuff of far more arrogant republics. Now I laugh content, for I hear the voice of my little , We have not struck, he composedly cries, we have just begun our part of the fighting. What is a man, anyhow? These were vital notions for , who had lived through the Civil War, and seen so much violence, death and suffering over the question of slavery. Creeds and schools in abeyance, Retiring back 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. Whitman is among the most influential and controversial poets in the American canon.


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Visions of America Quotes: Song of Myself Page 1

the beautiful uncut hair of graves

Do you take it I would astonish? What do you think has become of the young and old men? I chant chant of dilation or pride; We have had ducking and deprecating about enough; I show that size is only development. Has our Maker created the grass so green and beautiful in order to draw our attention to His might and glory? Ah, the homeliest of them is beautiful to her. And from the way that Jack watched Ianto move back and forth across the Hub, his frown hovering under his worried eyes as Ianto performed his allotted tasks silently and with his own distant expression, Gwen knew that Jack was having no more luck than she was in trying to reach him. She walked up next to him. I am sorry for you—they are not murderous or jealous upon me; All has been gentle with me—I keep no account with lamentation; What have I to do with lamentation? I hear the violoncello ’tis the young man’s heart’s ; I hear the key’d —it glides quickly in through my ears; It shakes mad-sweet pangs through my belly and breast. A word of the faith that never balks; Here or henceforward, it is all the same to me—I accept Time,. Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am; Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary; Looks down, is erect, bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest, Looking with side-curved head, curious what will come ; Both in and out of the game, and watching and wondering at it.

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