I do not know what it is any more than he. Sit a while, dear ; Here are biscuits to eat, and here is milk to drink; But as soon as you sleep, and renew yourself in sweet clothes, kiss you with a good-bye kiss, and open the gate for your egress hence. The fact that Whitman allows death into his vision here creates, for me at least, the notion of an eternal cycle of life and death — of death breeding life and life breeding death, and so on. Every kind for itself and its ownfor me mine, male and female; For me 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 maidfor 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. He asks for the 's opinion on what happened to these men, women, and children but then answers his own question.
I do not know what it is any more than he. O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues! The little plentiful mannikins, skipping around in collars and taild , I am aware who they are they are not worms or fleas. This is the press of a bashful handthis is the float and odor of hair; This is the touch of my lips to yoursthis is the murmur of yearning; This is the far-off depth and height reflecting my own face; This is the thoughtful merge of myself, and the outlet again. These were vital notions for , who had lived through the Civil War, and seen so much violence, death and suffering over the question of slavery. The mentioning of atoms in the beginning reminded me of 7th grade science class and the theory that all life forms ultimately come from stardust or something like that. I take partI see and hear the whole; The cries, curses, roarthe plaudits for well-aimd shots; The ambulanza slowly passing, trailing its red drip; Workmen searching after damages, indispensable repairs; The fall of grenades through the rent roofthe fan-shaped explosion; The whizz of limbs, heads, stone, wood, iron, high in the air.
His face was earnest, eyes clear and blue and looking at her and finally, finally present. And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing. Along with , he is considered one of America's most important poets. Where are you off to, lady? All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses, And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier. All forces have been steadily employd to complete and delight me; Now on this spot I with my robust Soul. The pure contralto sings in the organloft, The carpenter dresses his plank. I do not know what it is any more than he.
Failing to fetch me at first, keep encouraged; Missing me one place, search another; I stop somewhere, waiting for you. And I to mankind, Be not curious about God, For I, who am curious about each, am not curious about God; No array of terms can say how much I am at peace about God, and about death. I'm trying to do what needs to be done, and I'm not doing it right. The suicide sprawls on the bloody floor of the bed-room; I the corpse with its dabbled hairI note where the pistol has fallen. I loafe and invite my soul, I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass. For me the keepers of convicts shoulder their carbines and keep watch; It is I let out in the morning, and barrd at night. Cycles ferried my cradle, rowing and rowing like cheerful boatmen; For room to me stars kept aside in their own rings; They sent influences to look after what was to hold me.
I but use you a moment, then I resign you, stallion; Why do I need your paces, when I myself out-gallop? The little light fades the immense and diaphanous shadows; The air tastes good to my palate. One world is aware, and by far the largest to me, and that is myself; And whether I come to my own to-day, or in ten thousand or ten million years, I can cheerfully take it now, or with equal cheerfulness I can wait. She'd asked Jack, once, where Ianto went, but he hadn't known. Each who passes is considerdeach who stops is considerdnot a single one can it fail. In the early 1870s, Whitman settled in Camden, New Jersey, where he had come to visit his dying mother at his brother's house.
When her name comes up in connection to past cases, or I notice her developer signature while running a program, and it hits me that she's gone. Smile, for your lover comes! The disdain and calmness of martyrs; The mother, condemnd for a witch, burnt with dry wood, her children gazing on; The hounded slave that flags in the race, leans by the fence, blowing, coverd with sweat; The twinges that sting like needles his legs and neckthe murderous buckshot and the bullets; All these I feel, or am. In the following two stanzas, he answers this question himself. Whimpering and truckling fold with powders for invalidsconformity goes to the fourth-removd; I my hat as I please, indoors or out. Do you not know, O , how the buds beneath you are folded? Walter Whitman May 31, 1819 - March 26, 1892 was an American poet, essayist, journalist, and humanist.
Then the sky broke, and everything else broke, too. Divine am I inside and out, and I make holy whatever I touch or am touchd from; The scent of these arm-pits, aroma finer than prayer; This head more than churches, bibles, and all the. 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. Ever the hard, unsunk ground; Ever the eaters and drinkersever the upward and downward sunever the air and the ceaseless tides; Ever myself and my neighbors, refreshing, wicked, real; Ever the old inexplicable queryever that thornd thumbthat breath of itches and thirsts; Ever the vexers hoot! I swear I will never mention love or death inside a house, And I swear I will never translate myself at all, only to him or her who privately stays with me in the open air. Down-hearted doubters, dull and excluded, Frivolous, sullen, moping, angry, affected, disheartend, atheistical; I know every one of I know the sea of torment, doubt, despair and unbelief.
Mixd tussled hay of head, beard, brawn, it shall be you! Sometimes she's just gone again. In 1836, at the age of seventeen, he began his career as teacher in the one-room school houses of Long Island. In 1848, Whitman left the Brooklyn Daily Eagle to become editor of the New Orleans Crescent. Toss to the moaning gibberish of the dry limbs. I accept , and dare not question it; Materialism first and last imbuing. I help myself to material and immaterial; No guard can shut me off, nor law prevent.
That kind of love, now, would certainly destroy her. Nor life, nor force, nor any visible thing; Appearance must not foil, nor shifted sphere confuse thy brain. The person who could be taken away from her in the space of that same heartbeat. That I walk up my! And the sight of her there, with her real and uninformed emotion at her daughter's death, had scared Gwen so badly, had made her feel so disconnected and so entrenched in her own incredibly unlikely life that she had never returned to Tosh's gravesite. He remarks that the grass is very dark to have come from the white hair of old mothers or the colorless beards of old men. The young mechanic is closest to mehe knows me well; The woodman, that takes his axe and jug with him, shall take me with him all day; The farm-boy, ploughing in the field, feels good at the sound of my voice; In vessels that sail, my sailI go with fishermen and seamen, and love them.
And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves. I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven. A child said, What is the grass? 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 of my own, And I know that the spirit of God is 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 heapd stones, elder, mullen and poke-weed. I pass death with the dying, and birth with the new-washd babe, and am not containd 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 myself am good fortune. Whitman showcases his belief that death marks a beginning rather than an ending. The blab of the pave, the tires of , 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 , the clinking, shouted jokes, pelts of snowballs; The hurrahs for popular favorites, the fury of rousd mobs; The flap of the curtaind 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 ; What groans of over-fed or half-starvd who sun-struck, 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 herewhat howls restraind by decorum; Arrests of criminals, slights, adulterous offers made, acceptances, rejections with convex lips; I mind them or the show or resonance of themI come, and I.