Song of Myself and Other Poems

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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,. 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,. 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,. The runaway slave came to my house and stopt outside,.

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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 remember perfectly well his revolving eyes and his awkwardness,. And remember putting plasters on the galls of his neck and ankles;. 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.

Featured Poem: from Song for Myself by Walt Whitman

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. 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 market,. I loiter enjoying his repartee and his shuffle and break-down. Blacksmiths with grimed and hairy chests environ the anvil,.

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Each has his main-sledge, they are all out, there is a great heat in the fire. 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. The negro holds firmly the reins of his four horses, the block swags underneath on its tied-over chain,. 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,. I behold the picturesque giant and love him, and I do not stop there,. 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 missing,. Oxen that rattle the yoke and chain or halt in the leafy shade, what is that you express in your eyes?

Song of Myself and Other Poems - eBook

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. 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. 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. 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,.

The press of my foot to the earth springs a hundred affections,. They scorn the best I can do to relate them. Of men that live among cattle or taste of the ocean or woods,.

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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,.

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Adorning myself to bestow myself on the first that will take me,. Not asking the sky to come down to my good will,. 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,.

The duck-shooter walks by silent and cautious stretches,. 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 jour printer with gray head and gaunt jaws works at his case,.

He turns his quid of tobacco while his eyes blurr with the manuscript;.

Song of Myself by Walt Whitman

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;.

Song of Myself by Walt Whitman (1892 Version) [Audiobook] - Performed by Frank Marcopolos

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 partners, the dancers bow to each other,.

Song of Myself and Other Poems Song of Myself and Other Poems
Song of Myself and Other Poems Song of Myself and Other Poems
Song of Myself and Other Poems Song of Myself and Other Poems
Song of Myself and Other Poems Song of Myself and Other Poems
Song of Myself and Other Poems Song of Myself and Other Poems
Song of Myself and Other Poems Song of Myself and Other Poems
Song of Myself and Other Poems Song of Myself and Other Poems
Song of Myself and Other Poems Song of Myself and Other Poems
Song of Myself and Other Poems Song of Myself and Other Poems

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