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SONG OF MYSELF.

1

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 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 it.

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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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 pass-          ing of blood and air through my lungs,

The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore and          dark-color'd sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn,

The sound of the belch'd words of my voice loos'd 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 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          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 your self.

3

I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the begin-          ning 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.

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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.

To elaborate is no avail, learn'd and unlearn'd 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;

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 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 value of one and exactly the value of two, and which          is ahead?

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, inventions, societies, authors old and          new,

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My dinner, dress, associates, looks, 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,

Battles, the horrors of fratricidal war, the fever of doubtful news,          the fitful events;

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

But they are not the Me myself.

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.

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 valvèd 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 my beard, and reach'd till you held my          feet.

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 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,

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And brown ants in the little wells beneath them,

And mossy scabs of the worm fence, heap'd stones, elder, mullein          and poke-weed.

6

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,

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 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,

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,

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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 chil-          dren?

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 it.

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 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 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.

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 cannot be          shaken away.

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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.

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.

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 of wisps.

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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 my dog and gun by my          side.

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 shoulders,

On a bank lounged the trapper, he was drest mostly in skins, his          luxuriant beard and curls protected his neck, he held his          bride by the hand,

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

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 in and assured him,

And brought water and fill'd a tub for his sweated body and bruis'd          feet,

And gave him a room that enter'd 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 pass'd          north,

I had him sit next me at table, my fire-lock lean'd in the corner.

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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? 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 bend-          ing 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.

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.

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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 of the stone-yard, steady and          tall he stands pois'd 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 mustache, 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, backward as well as          forward sluing,

To niches aside and junior bending, not a person or object miss-          ing,

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 jay in the woods never studied the gamut, yet trills pretty          well to me,

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

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.

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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 same old law.

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 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.

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 Thanks-          giving 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,

The duck-shooter walks by silent and cautious stretches,

The deacons are ordain'd with cross'd hands at the altar,

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

The farmer stops by the bars as he walks on a First-day loafe and          looks at the oats and rye,

The lunatic is carried at last to the asylum a confirm'd case,

(He will never sleep any more as he did in the cot in his mother's          bed-room;)

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

He turns his quid of tobacco while his eyes blurr with the manu-          script;

The malform'd limbs are tied to the surgeon's table,

What is removed drops horribly in a pail;

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The quadroon girl is sold at the auction-stand, the drunkard nods          by the bar-room stove,

The machinist rolls up his sleeves, the policeman travels his beat,          the gate-keeper marks who pass,

The young fellow drives the express-wagon, (I love him, though          I do not know him;)

The half-breed straps on his light boots to compete in the race,

The western turkey-shooting draws old and young, some lean on          their rifles, some sit on logs,

Out from the crowd steps the marksman, takes his position, levels          his piece;

The groups of newly-come immigrants cover the wharf or levee,

As the woolly-pates hoe in the sugar-field, the overseer views them          from his saddle,

The bugle calls in the ball-room, the gentlemen run for their part-          ners, the dancers bow to each other,

The youth lies awake in the cedar-roof'd garret and harks to the          musical rain,

The Wolverine sets traps on the creek that helps fill the Huron,

The squaw wrapt in her yellow-hemm'd cloth is offering moccasins          and bead-bags for sale,

The connoisseur peers along the exhibition-gallery with half-shut          eyes bent sideways,

As the deck-hands make fast the steamboat the plank is thrown for          the shore-going passengers,

The young sister holds out the skein while the elder sister winds it          off in a ball, and stops now and then for the knots,

The one-year wife is recovering and happy having a week ago          borne her first child,

The clean-hair'd Yankee girl works with her sewing-machine or in          the factory or mill,

The paving-man leans on his two-handed rammer, the reporter's          lead flies swiftly over the note-book, the sign-painter is          lettering with blue and gold,

The canal boy trots on the tow-path, the book-keeper counts at          his desk, the shoemaker waxes his thread,

The conductor beats time for the band and all the performers          follow him,

The child is baptized, the convert is making his first professions,

The regatta is spread on the bay, the race is begun, (how the          white sails sparkle!)

The drover watching his drove sings out to them that would          stray,

The pedler sweats with his pack on his back, (the purchaser hig-          gling about the odd cent;)

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The bride unrumples her white dress, the minute-hand of the clock          moves slowly,

The opium-eater reclines with rigid head and just-open'd lips,

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The prostitute draggles her shawl, her bonnet bobs on her tipsy          and pimpled neck,