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1—Poem of Walt Whitman, an American.

I CELEBRATE 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.

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 it.

The atmosphere is not a perfume, it has no taste          of the distillation, it is odorless,

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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 for it to be in contact with me.

The smoke of my own breath,

Echoes, ripples, buzzed whispers, love-root, silk-          thread, crotch, 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 and dark-colored sea-rocks, and of          hay in the barn,

The sound of the belched words of my voice,          words loosed to the eddies of the wind,

A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching          around of arms,

The play of shine and shade on the trees as the          supple boughs wag,

The delight alone, or in the rush of the streets, or          along the fields and hill-sides,

The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song          of me rising from bed and meeting the sun.

Have you reckoned a thousand acres much?          have you reckoned the earth much?

Have you practiced so long to learn to read?

Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of          poems?

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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 through the eyes of the dead,          nor feed on the spectres in books,

You shall not look through my eyes either, nor          take things from me,

You shall listen to all sides, and filter them from          yourself.

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.

Urge, and urge, and urge,

Always the procreant urge of the world.

Out of the dimness opposite equals advance —          always substance and increase, always sex,

Always a knit of identity, always distinction,          always a breed of life.

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To elaborate is no avail—learned and unlearned          feel that it is so.

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;

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As the hugging and loving Bed-fellow sleeps at          my side through the night, and withdraws at          the peep of the day,

And leaves for me baskets covered with white          towels, swelling the house with their plenty,

Shall I postpone my acceptation and realization,          and scream at my eyes,

That they turn from gazing after and down the          road,

And forthwith cipher and show me to a cent,

Exactly the contents of one, and exactly the con-          tents of two, and which is ahead?

Trippers and askers surround me,

People I meet—the effect upon me of my early          life, of the ward and city I live in, of the          nation,

The latest news, discoveries, inventions, societies,          authors old and new,

My dinner, dress, associates, looks, work, compli-          ments, dues,

The real or fancied indifference of some man or          woman I love,

The sickness of one of my folks, or of myself, or          ill-doing, or loss or lack of money, or depress-          ions or exaltations,

They come to me days and nights and go from          me again,

But they are not the Me myself.

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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,

Looks with its side-curved head, curious what will          come next,

Both in and out of the game, and watching and          wondering at it.

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.

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 cus-          tom or lecture, not even the best,

Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.

I mind how we lay in June, such a transparent          summer morning,

You settled your head athwart my hips, and gently          turned over upon me,

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And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and          plunged your tongue to my bare-stript heart,

And reached till you felt my beard, and reached          till you held my feet.

Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace          and joy and knowledge that pass all the art          and 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 bro-          thers, and the women my sisters and lovers,

And that a kelson of the creation is love,

And limitless are leaves, stiff or drooping in the          fields,

And brown ants in the little wells beneath them,

And mossy scabs of the worm-fence, heaped stones,          elder, mullen, pokeweed.

A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me          with full hands;

How could I answer the child? I do not know          what it is any more than he.

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,

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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?

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, and from          women, and from offspring taken soon out of          their mothers' laps,

And here you are the mothers' laps.

This grass is very dark to be from the white heads          of old mothers,

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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.

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 ceased the moment life appeared.

All goes onward and outward—nothing collapses,

And to die is different from what any one sup-          posed, and luckier.

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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 it.

I pass death with the dying, and birth with the          new-washed babe, and am not contained be-          tween my hat and boots,

And peruse manifold objects, no two alike, and          every one good,

The earth good, and the stars good, and their ad-          juncts 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 me mine,          male and female,

For me those 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 sweetheart 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.

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Who need be afraid of the merge?

Undrape! 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 can never be shaken away.

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,

It is so—I witnessed the corpse—there the          pistol had fallen.

The blab of the pave, the tires of carts, sluff of          boot-soles, talk of the promenaders,

The heavy omnibus, the driver with his interrogat-          ing thumb, the clank of the shod horses on          the granite floor,

The snow-sleighs, the clinking, shouted jokes,          pelts of snow-balls,

The hurrahs for popular favorites, the fury of          roused mobs,

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The flap of the curtained litter, the sick man in-          side, 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,

The souls moving along—are they invisible,          while the least of the stones is visible?

What groans of over-fed or half-starved who fall          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 restrained by decorum,

Arrests of criminals, slights, adulterous offers          made, acceptances, rejections with convex lips,

I mind them or the resonance of them—I come          and I depart.

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 packed to the sagging mow;

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I am there, I help, I came stretched 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          of wisps.

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-killed game,

Soundly falling asleep on the gathered leaves, my          dog and gun by my side.

The Yankee clipper is under her three 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          stopped for me,

I tucked 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,

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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 shoulders,

On a bank lounged the trapper, he was dressed          mostly in skins, his luxuriant beard and curls          protected his neck,

One hand rested on his rifle, the other hand held          firmly the wrist of the red girl,

She had long eyelashes, her head was bare, her          coarse straight locks descended upon her          voluptuous limbs and reached to her feet.

The runaway slave came to my house and          stopped outside,

I heard his motions crackling the twigs of the          wood-pile,

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 in          and assured him,

And brought water and filled a tub for his sweated          body and bruised feet,

And gave him a room that entered from my own,          and gave him some coarse clean clothes,

And remember perfectly well his revolving eyes          and his awkwardness,

And remember putting plasters on the galls of his          neck and ankles;

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He staid with me a week before he was recuper-          ated and passed north,

I had him sit next me at table—my fire-lock          leaned in the corner.

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? 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 glistened with wet,          it ran from their long hair,

Little streams passed all over their bodies.

An unseen hand also passed over their bodies,

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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.

The butcher-boy puts off his killing-clothes, or          sharpens his knife at the stall in the mar-          ket,

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.

From the cinder-strewed threshold I follow their          movements,

The lithe sheer of their waists plays even with          their massive arms,

Overhand the hammers roll, overhand so slow,          overhand so sure,

They do not hasten, each man hits in his place.

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The negro holds firmly the reins of his four          horses, the block swags underneath on its          tied-over chain,

The negro that drives the huge dray of the stone-          yard, steady and tall he stands poised on one          leg on the string-piece,

His blue shirt exposes his ample neck and breast,          and loosens over his hip-band,

His glance is calm and commanding, he tosses the          slouch of his hat away from his forehead,

The sun falls on his crispy hair and moustache,          falls on the black of his polish'd and perfect          limbs.

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, back-          ward as well as forward slueing,

To niches aside and junior bending.

Oxen that rattle the yoke or halt in the 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 winged purposes,

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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 mocking-bird in the swamp never studied          the gamut, yet trills pretty well to me,

And the look of the bay mare shames silliness out          of me.

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 listen          close,

I find its purpose and place up there toward the          November sky.

The sharp-hoofed 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 same old law.

The press of my foot to the earth springs a hun-          dred affections,

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They scorn the best I can do to relate them.

I am enamoured of growing outdoors,

Of men that live among cattle, or taste of the          ocean or woods,

Of the builders and steerers of ships, of the wield-          ers of axes and mauls, of the drivers of          horses,

I can eat and sleep with them week in and week          out.

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.

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 a strong arm,

The mate stands braced in the whale-boat, lance          and harpoon are ready,

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The duck-shooter walks by silent and cautious          stretches,

The deacons are ordained with crossed hands at          the altar,

The spinning-girl retreats and advances to the          hum of the big wheel,

The farmer stops by the bars of a Sunday and          looks at the oats and rye,

The lunatic is carried at last to the asylum, a con-          firmed case,

He will never sleep any more as he did in the cot          in his mother's bedroom;

The jour printer with gray head and gaunt jaws          works at his case,

He turns his quid of tobacco, his eyes get blurred          with the manuscript;

The malformed limbs are tied to the anatomist's          table,

What is removed drops horribly in a pail;