And as to you Corpse I think you are good manure, but that does not offend me. My messengers continually cruise away or bring their returns to me. Voices of sexes and lusts, voices veil’d and I remove the veil. I will not have a single person slighted or left away. A Song Of Myself. Showing the best and dividing it from the worst age vexes age. The great Camerado, the lover true for whom I pine will be there. I hear bravuras of birds, bustle of growing wheat, gossip of flames, clack of sticks cooking my meals. A few fell at once, shot in the temple or heart, the living and dead lay together. And all I see multiplied as high as I can cipher edge but the rim of the farther systems. And the good or bad I say of myself I say of them. The excited crowd, the policeman with his star quickly working his passage to the centre of the crowd. I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard. Comrade of raftsmen and coalmen, comrade of all who shake hands and welcome to drink and meat. I answer that I cannot answer, you must find out for yourself. Immodestly sliding the fellow-senses away. I saw the marriage of the trapper in the open air in the far west, the bride was a red girl. My knowledge my live parts, it keeping tally with the meaning of all things, Happiness, (which whoever hears me let him or her set out in search of this day.). A few idly owning, and they the wheat continually claiming. Where the panther walks to and fro on a limb overhead, where the buck turns furiously at the hunter. 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. I teach straying from me, yet who can stray from me? Looking forth on pavement and land, or outside of pavement and land. He is not hurried, his voice is neither high nor low. To accrue what I hear into this song, to let sounds contribute toward it. At length let up again to feel the puzzle of puzzles, (Round and round we go, all of us, and ever come back thither,). Whatever interests the rest interests me, politics, wars, markets, newspapers, schools. I waited unseen and always, and slept through the lethargic mist. No friend of mine takes his ease in my chair. Ninguém nota. I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked. Or we are entering by the suburbs some vast and ruin’d city. It departed from traditional rhyme, metre, and form … Why should I wish to see God better than this day? In Leaves of Grass (1855, 1891-2), he celebrated democracy, nature, love, and friendship. Walking the old hills of Judæa with the beautiful gentle God by my side. Buying drafts of Osiris, Isis, Belus, Brahma, Buddha. And I leave them where they are, for I know that wheresoe’er I go. I do not despise you priests, all time, the world over. He tries to bite me, A mother visits her son, smiles to him through the bars, An arabesque girl enters an elevator with me, All dressed up fancy, a green butterfly on her neck. Picking out here one that I love, and now go with him on brotherly terms. 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. I dilate you with tremendous breath, I buoy you up. And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man. Before I was born out of my mother generations guided me. Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago. Monstrous sauroids transported it in their mouths and deposited it with care. Broad muscular fields, branches of live oak, loving lounger in my winding paths, it shall be you! Fetching the rest of the herd around to enjoy them a while. Now I laugh content, for I hear the voice of my little captain. 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 blab of the pave, tires of carts, sluff of boot-soles, talk of the promenaders. Es ist jeder Song of myself walt whitman meaning jederzeit im Internet auf Lager und kann direkt gekauft werden. They do not know who puffs and declines with pendant and bending arch. It takes guts to write a long epic poem about yourself, and Whitman was nothing if not gutsy. But abruptly to question, to leap beyond yet nearer bring; This printed and bound book—but the printer and the printing-office boy? And when you rise in the morning you will find what I tell you is so. The drover watching his drove sings out to them that would stray, The pedler sweats with his pack on his back, (the purchaser higgling about the odd cent;). My feet strike an apex of the apices of the stairs. Where the quail is whistling betwixt the woods and the wheat-lot. Embody all presences outlaw’d or suffering. Breast that presses against other breasts it shall be you! They have clear’d the beams away, they tenderly lift me forth. It has been credited as "representing the core of Whitman's poetic vision." I moisten the roots of all that has grown. The imagery and message is so incredibly deep and complex that it would take several pages to analytically explain. I behold from the beach your crooked inviting fingers. My sun has his sun and round him obediently wheels. Song of Myself, 2. The farm-boy ploughing in the field feels good at the sound of my voice. I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags. Many sweating, ploughing, thrashing, and then the chaff for payment receiving. They do not think whom they souse with spray. Over the white and brown buckwheat, a hummer and buzzer there with the rest. for I see you. The grave of rock multiplies what has been confided to it, or to any graves. The stumps stand thick round the clearing, the squatter strikes deep with his axe. Tickets buying, taking, selling, but in to the feast never once going. On the other hand, the total lack of sound in “The Wound-Dresser” contributes to the dream-like quality of narration, which in turn makes the men equal through a dearth of description and difference, rather than an emphasis of it. Whitman’s subject is himself, but it is clear that Whitman means more than just his physical self. And a summit and flower there is the feeling they have for each other. It is the concluding couplet of Song #6: All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses, And to die … Is this then a touch? The beards of the young men glisten’d with wet, it ran from their long hair. The sentries desert every other part of me. The snag-tooth’d hostler with red hair redeeming sins past and to come. I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the beginning and the end. The ambulanza slowly passing trailing its red drip. Pleas’d with the homely woman as well as the handsome. Afar down I see the huge first Nothing, I know I was even there. The rest did not see her, but she saw them and loved them. The boy I love, the same becomes a man not through derived power, but in his own right. And acknowledge red, yellow, white, playing within me. My words itch at your ears till you understand them. I believe in the flesh and the appetites. Not asking the sky to come down to my good will. And the numberless unknown heroes equal to the greatest heroes known! His well-built limbs tremble with pleasure as we race around and return. What is a man anyhow? What is commonest, cheapest, nearest, easiest, is Me. And nothing, not God, is greater to one than one’s self is. Man or woman, I might tell how I like you, but cannot. And the dark hush promulges as much as any. The flap of the curtain’d litter, a sick man inside borne to the hospital. 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