The Sunday Night Poem - Walt Whitman

Walt Whitman (1819-1892), regarded as one of our nation's greatest poets, broke many barriers with his writing, resulting in criticism, controversy and of course worldwide and everlasting fame. His use of freestyle verse, his audacious (for the times) description of sexuality and his egocentric weltanschauung, paired with his genius for the poetic voice have cemented his reputation as a poet who should be on the bookshelf in every home.

The following two excepts are the beginning and then (below the fold) the ending of the 52 sections of "Song of Myself," the first poem published in Whitman's major opus Leaves of Grass (1855 version). The reader may recall these lines being read by an English teacher a long, long time ago...in a distant classroom. They still captivate me thirty years after I first discovered them.

From "Song of Myself"

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.

[from Section 52 of "Song of Myself"]

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 fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.