Walt Whitman (1819-1892)
Walt Whitman was born in 1819 on Long Island (the Paumanok of many of his poems). During his early years he trained as a printer, then became a teacher, and finally a journalist and editor. He was less than successful; his stridently radical views made him unpopular with readers. After an 1848 sojourn in the South, which introduced him to some of the variety of his country, he returned to New York and began to write poetry.
In 1855 he self-published the first edition of Leaves of Grass, which at the time consisted of only twelve poems. The volume was widely ignored, with one significant exception. Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote him a congratulatory letter, in which he offered his “greet[ings]... at the beginning of a great career.” Whitman promptly published another edition of Leaves of Grass, expanding it by some twenty poems and appending the letter from Emerson, much to the latter’s discomfort. 1860 saw another edition of a now much larger Leaves—containing some 156 poems—which was issued by a trade publisher.
At the outset of the Civil War Whitman volunteered as a nurse in army hospitals; he also wrote dispatches as a correspondent for the New York Times. The war inspired a great deal of poetry, which was published in 1865 as Drum Taps. Drum Taps was then incorporated into an 1867 edition of Leaves of Grass, as was another volume of wartime poetry, Sequel, which included the poems written on Lincoln’s assassination.
Whitman’s wartime work led to a job with the Department of the Interior, but he was soon fired when his supervisor learned that he had written the racy poems of Leaves of Grass. The failure of Reconstruction led him to write the best known of his prose works, Democratic Vistas, which, as its title implies, argues for the maintenance of democratic ideals. This volume came out in 1871, as did yet another edition of Leaves of Grass, expanded to include more poems. The 1871 edition was reprinted in 1876 for the centennial. Several other prose works followed, then a further expanded version of Leaves of Grass, in 1881.
Whitman’s health had been shaky since the mid-1870s, and by 1891 it was clear he was dying. He therefore prepared his so-called “Deathbed” edition of Leaves of Grass, which contained two appendices of old-age poems as well as a review essay in which he tries to justify his life and work. The “Deathbed Edition” came out in 1892; Whitman died that year.
Whitman’s lifetime saw both the Civil War and the rise of the United States as a commercial and political power. He witnessed both the apex and the abolition of slavery. His poetry is thus centered on ideas of democracy, equality, and brotherhood. In response to America’s new position in the world, Whitman also tried to develop a poetry that was uniquely American, that both surpassed and broke the mold of its predecessors. Leaves of Grass, with its multiple editions and public controversies, set the pattern for the modern, public artist, and Whitman, with his journalistic endeavors on the side, made the most of his role as celebrity and artist.
In 1855 he self-published the first edition of Leaves of Grass, which at the time consisted of only twelve poems. The volume was widely ignored, with one significant exception. Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote him a congratulatory letter, in which he offered his “greet[ings]... at the beginning of a great career.” Whitman promptly published another edition of Leaves of Grass, expanding it by some twenty poems and appending the letter from Emerson, much to the latter’s discomfort. 1860 saw another edition of a now much larger Leaves—containing some 156 poems—which was issued by a trade publisher.
At the outset of the Civil War Whitman volunteered as a nurse in army hospitals; he also wrote dispatches as a correspondent for the New York Times. The war inspired a great deal of poetry, which was published in 1865 as Drum Taps. Drum Taps was then incorporated into an 1867 edition of Leaves of Grass, as was another volume of wartime poetry, Sequel, which included the poems written on Lincoln’s assassination.
Whitman’s wartime work led to a job with the Department of the Interior, but he was soon fired when his supervisor learned that he had written the racy poems of Leaves of Grass. The failure of Reconstruction led him to write the best known of his prose works, Democratic Vistas, which, as its title implies, argues for the maintenance of democratic ideals. This volume came out in 1871, as did yet another edition of Leaves of Grass, expanded to include more poems. The 1871 edition was reprinted in 1876 for the centennial. Several other prose works followed, then a further expanded version of Leaves of Grass, in 1881.
Whitman’s health had been shaky since the mid-1870s, and by 1891 it was clear he was dying. He therefore prepared his so-called “Deathbed” edition of Leaves of Grass, which contained two appendices of old-age poems as well as a review essay in which he tries to justify his life and work. The “Deathbed Edition” came out in 1892; Whitman died that year.
Whitman’s lifetime saw both the Civil War and the rise of the United States as a commercial and political power. He witnessed both the apex and the abolition of slavery. His poetry is thus centered on ideas of democracy, equality, and brotherhood. In response to America’s new position in the world, Whitman also tried to develop a poetry that was uniquely American, that both surpassed and broke the mold of its predecessors. Leaves of Grass, with its multiple editions and public controversies, set the pattern for the modern, public artist, and Whitman, with his journalistic endeavors on the side, made the most of his role as celebrity and artist.
"I Hear America Singing"
I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,
Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong,
The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work,
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand
singing on the steamboat deck,
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands,
The wood-cutter's song, the ploughboy's on his way in the morning, or
at noon intermission or at sundown,
The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of
the girl sewing or washing,
Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,
The day what belongs to the day—at night the party of young fellows,
robust, friendly,
Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.
Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong,
The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work,
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand
singing on the steamboat deck,
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands,
The wood-cutter's song, the ploughboy's on his way in the morning, or
at noon intermission or at sundown,
The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of
the girl sewing or washing,
Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,
The day what belongs to the day—at night the party of young fellows,
robust, friendly,
Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.
"Song of Myself" Number 1 of 52
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 loaf and invite my soul,
I lean and loaf at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.
My tongue, every atom of my blood, formed 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 awhile 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.
"Song of Myself" Number 6 of 52
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 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 mother's laps,
And here you are the mother's 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,
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?
What do you think has become of the women and
children?
They are alive and well somewhere;
The smallest sprouts show 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. . . .and nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and
luckier.
"Song of Myself" Number 32 of 52
I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and
self-contain'd,
I stand and look at them long and long.
They do not sweat and whine about their condition,
They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins,
They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God,
Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of
owning things,
Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of
years ago,
Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth.
So they show their relations to me and I accept them,
They bring me tokens of myself, they evince them plainly in their
possession.
I wonder where they get those tokens,
Did I pass that way huge times ago and negligently drop them?
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.
A gigantic beauty of a stallion, fresh and responsive to my caresses,
Head high in the forehead, wide between the ears,
Limbs glossy and supple, tail dusting the ground,
Eyes full of sparkling wickedness, ears finely cut, flexibly moving.
His nostrils dilate as my heels embrace him,
His well-built limbs tremble with pleasure as we race around and return.
I but use you a minute, then I resign you, stallion,
Why do I need your paces when I myself out-gallop them?
Even as I stand or sit passing faster than you.
"Song of Myself" Number 33 of 52
I understand the large hearts of heroes,
The courage of present times and all times,
How the skipper saw the crowded and rudderless wreck of the
steamship, and Death chasing it up and down the storm,
How he knuckled tight and gave not back an inch, and was faithful of
days and faithful of nights,
And chalk'd in large letters on a board, Be of good cheer, we will
not desert you;
How he follow'd with them and tack'd with them three days and
would not give it up,
How he saved the drifting company at last,
How the lank loose-gown'd women look'd when boated from the
side of their prepared graves,
How the silent old-faced infants and the lifted sick, and the
sharp-lipp'd unshaved men;
All this I swallow, it tastes good, I like it well, it becomes mine,
I am the man, I suffer'd, I was there.
The disdain and calmness of martyrs,
The mother of old, condemn'd for a witch, burnt with dry wood, her
children gazing on,
The hounded slave that flags in the race, leans by the fence,
blowing, cover'd with sweat,
The twinges that sting like needles his legs and neck, the murderous
buckshot and the bullets,
All these I feel or am.
I am the hounded slave, I wince at the bite of the dogs,
Hell and despair are upon me, crack and again crack the marksmen,
I clutch the rails of the fence, my gore dribs, thinn'd with the
ooze of my skin,
I fall on the weeds and stones,
The riders spur their unwilling horses, haul close,
Taunt my dizzy ears and beat me violently over the head with
whip-stocks.
Agonies are one of my changes of garments,
I do not ask the wounded person how he feels, I myself become the
wounded person,
My hurts turn livid upon me as I lean on a cane and observe.
I am the mash'd fireman with breast-bone broken,
Tumbling walls buried me in their debris,
Heat and smoke I inspired, I heard the yelling shouts of my
comrades,
I heard the distant click of their picks and shovels,
They have clear'd the beams away, they tenderly lift me forth.
I lie in the night air in my red shirt, the pervading hush is for my
sake,
Painless after all I lie exhausted but not so unhappy,
White and beautiful are the faces around me, the heads are bared
of their fire-caps,
The kneeling crowd fades with the light of the torches.
Distant and dead resuscitate,
They show as the dial or move as the hands of me, I am the clock
myself.
I am an old artillerist, I tell of my fort's bombardment,
I am there again.
Again the long roll of the drummers,
Again the attacking cannon, mortars,
Again to my listening ears the cannon responsive.
I take part, I see and hear the whole,
The cries, curses, roar, the plaudits for well-aim'd shots,
The ambulanza slowly passing trailing its red drip,
Workmen searching after damages, making indispensable repairs,
The fall of grenades through the rent roof, the fan-shaped
explosion,
The whizz of limbs, heads, stone, wood, iron, high in the air.
Again gurgles the mouth of my dying general, he furiously waves
with his hand,
He gasps through the clot Mind not me - mind - the entrenchments.
"Song of Myself" Number 52 of 52
The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains
of my gab and my loitering.
I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.
The last scud° of day holds back for me,
It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow’d wilds,
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.
I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
I effuse° my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.
I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.
You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fiber your blood.
Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.
of my gab and my loitering.
I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.
The last scud° of day holds back for me,
It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow’d wilds,
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.
I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
I effuse° my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.
I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.
You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fiber your blood.
Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.