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WALT WHITMAN.

1   I CELEBRATE myself,

And what I assume you shall assume,

For every atom belonging to me, as good belongs          to you.

2   I loafe and invite my Soul,

I lean and loafe at my ease, observing a spear of          summer grass.

3   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.

4   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 for it to be in contact with me.

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5   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 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.

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

Have you practised so long to learn to read?

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

7   Stop this day and night with me, and you shall pos-          sess 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.

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

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

8   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.

9   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.

10   Urge, and urge, and urge,

Always the procreant urge of the world.

11   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.

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

13   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.

14   Clear and sweet is my Soul, and clear and sweet is          all that is not my Soul.

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15   Lack one lacks both, and the unseen is proved by the          seen,

Till that becomes unseen, and receives proof in its          turn.

16   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.

17   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.

18   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,

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 contents          of two, and which is ahead?

19   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,

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

My dinner, dress, associates, looks, work, compliments,          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 depressions          or exaltations,

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

But they are not the Me myself.

20   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, and watching and          wondering at it.

21   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.

22   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.

23   Loafe with me on the grass—loose the stop from          your throat,

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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.

24   I mind how once we lay, such a transparent summer          morning,

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

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.

25   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 brothers,          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, and heaped          stones, elder, mullen, and pokeweed.

26   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.

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27   I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of          hopeful green stuff woven.

28   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?

29   Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced          babe of the vegetation.

30   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.

31   And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of          graves.

32   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.

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

Darker than the colorless beards of old men,

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Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of          mouths.

34   O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues!

And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of          mouths for nothing.

35   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.

36   What do you think has become of the young and          old men?

And what do you think has become of the women          and children?

37   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.

38   All goes onward and outward—nothing collapses,

And to die is different from what any one supposed,          and luckier.

39   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.

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

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

The earth good, and the stars good, and their          adjuncts all good.

41   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.

42   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.

43   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.

44   The little one sleeps in its cradle,

I lift the gauze and look a long time, and silently          brush away flies with my hand.

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45   The youngster and the red-faced girl turn aside up          the bushy hill,

I peeringly view them from the top.

46   The suicide sprawls on the bloody floor of the          bedroom;

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

47   The blab of the pave, the 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, the clinking, shouted jokes, pelts of          snow-balls,

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

The flap of the curtained 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,

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,

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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 show or resonance of them—I          come and I depart.

48   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.

49   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.

50   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, with          my dog and gun by my side.

51   The Yankee clipper is under her three sky-sails—          she cuts the sparkle and scud,

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My eyes settle the land—I bend at her prow, or shout          joyously from the deck.

52   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.

53   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 moccasons 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 volup-          tuous limbs and reached to her feet.

54   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,

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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;

He staid with me a week before he was recuperated          and passed north,

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

55   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.

56   She owns the fine house by the rise of the bank,

She hides, handsome and richly drest, aft the blinds          of the window.

57   Which of the young men does she like the best?

Ah, the homeliest of them is beautiful to her.

58   Where are you off to, lady? for I see you,

You splash in the water there, yet stay stock still in          your room.

59   Dancing and laughing along the beach came the          twenty-ninth bather,

The rest did not see her, but she saw them and loved          them.

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60   The beards of the young men glistened with wet, it          ran from their long hair,

Little streams passed all over their bodies.

61   An unseen hand also passed over their bodies,

It descended tremblingly from their temples and          ribs.

62   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.

63   The butcher-boy puts off his killing-clothes, or sharp-          ens his knife at the stall in the market,

I loiter, enjoying his repartee and his shuffle and          break-down.

64   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.

65   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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66   The negro holds firmly the reins of his four horses          —the blocks 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 polished and perfect          limbs.

67   I behold the picturesque giant and love him—and          I do not stop there,

I go with the team also.

68   In me the caresser of life wherever moving—back-          ward as well as forward slueing,

To niches aside and junior bending.

69   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.

70   My tread scares the wood-drake and wood-duck, on          my distant and day-long ramble,

They rise together—they slowly circle around.

71   I believe in those winged purposes,

And acknowledge red, yellow, white, playing within          me,

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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.

72   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          wintry sky.

73   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.

74   The press of my foot to the earth springs a hundred          affections,

They scorn the best I can do to relate them.

75   I am enamoured of growing outdoors.

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

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