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Walt Whitman Poem Packet
Page history
last edited
by Russell 14 years, 2 months ago
Whitman Reader
Beginning my Studies
BEGINNING my studies, the first step pleas’d me so much,
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The mere fact, consciousness—these forms—the power of motion,
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The least insect or animal—the senses—eyesight—love;
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The first step, I say, aw’d me and pleas’d me so much,
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I have hardly gone, and hardly wish’d to go, any farther,
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But stop and loiter all the time, to sing it in extatic songs.
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A Noiseless Patient Spider
A NOISELESS, patient spider,
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I mark’d, where, on a little promontory, it stood, isolated;
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Mark’d how, to explore the vacant, vast surrounding,
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It launch’d forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself;
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Ever unreeling them—ever tirelessly speeding them.
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And you, O my Soul, where you stand,
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Surrounded, surrounded, in measureless oceans of space,
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Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing,—seeking the spheres, to connect them;
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Till the bridge you will need, be form’d—till the ductile anchor hold;
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Till the gossamer thread you fling, catch somewhere, O my Soul.
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From Paumanok Starting
FROM Paumanock starting, I fly like a bird,
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Around and around to soar, to sing the idea of all;
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To the north betaking myself, to sing there arctic songs,
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To Kanada, till I absorb Kanada in myself—to Michigan then,
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To Wisconsin, Iowa, Minnesota, to sing their songs, (they are inimitable;)
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Then to Ohio and Indiana to sing theirs—to Missouri and Kansas and Arkansas, to sing theirs,
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To Tennessee and Kentucky—to the Carolinas and Georgia, to sing theirs,
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To Texas, and so along up toward California, to roam accepted everywhere;
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To sing first, (to the tap of the war-drum, if need be,)
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The idea of all—of the western world, one and inseparable.
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And then the song of each member of These States.
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I Hear America Singing
I HEAR America singing, the varied carols I hear;
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Those of mechanics—each one singing his, as it should be, blithe and strong;
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The carpenter singing his, as he measures his plank or beam,
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The mason singing his, as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work;
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The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat—the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck;
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The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench—the hatter singing as he stands;
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The wood-cutter’s song—the ploughboy’s, on his way in the morning, or at the noon intermission, or at sundown;
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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 her, and to none else;
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The day what belongs to the day—At night, the party of young fellows, robust, friendly,
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Singing, with open mouths, their strong melodious songs.
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A March in the Ranks, Hard-prest
A MARCH in the ranks hard-prest, and the road unknown;
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A route through a heavy wood, with muffled steps in the darkness;
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Our army foil’d with loss severe, and the sullen remnant retreating;
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Till after midnight glimmer upon us, the lights of a dim-lighted building;
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We come to an open space in the woods, and halt by the dim-lighted building;
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’Tis a large old church at the crossing roads—’tis now an impromptu hospital;
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—Entering but for a minute, I see a sight beyond all the pictures and poems ever made:
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Shadows of deepest, deepest black, just lit by moving candles and lamps,
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And by one great pitchy torch, stationary, with wild red flame, and clouds of smoke;
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By these, crowds, groups of forms, vaguely I see, on the floor, some in the pews laid down;
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At my feet more distinctly, a soldier, a mere lad, in danger of bleeding to death, (he is shot in the abdomen;)
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I staunch the blood temporarily, (the youngster’s face is white as a lily;)
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Then before I depart I sweep my eyes o’er the scene, fain to absorb it all;
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Faces, varieties, postures beyond description, most in obscurity, some of them dead;
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Surgeons operating, attendants holding lights, the smell of ether, the odor of blood;
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The crowd, O the crowd of the bloody forms of soldiers—the yard outside also fill’d;
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Some on the bare ground, some on planks or stretchers, some in the death-spasm sweating;
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An occasional scream or cry, the doctor’s shouted orders or calls;
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The glisten of the little steel instruments catching the glint of the torches;
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These I resume as I chant—I see again the forms, I smell the odor;
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Then hear outside the orders given, Fall in, my men, Fall in;
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But first I bend to the dying lad—his eyes open—a half-smile gives he me;
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Then the eyes close, calmly close, and I speed forth to the darkness,
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Resuming, marching, ever in darkness marching, on in the ranks,
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The unknown road still marching.
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Beat! Beat! Drums!
1
BEAT! beat! drums!—Blow! bugles! blow!
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Through the windows—through doors—burst like a ruthless force,
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Into the solemn church, and scatter the congregation;
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Into the school where the scholar is studying;
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Leave not the bridegroom quiet—no happiness must he have now with his bride;
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Nor the peaceful farmer any peace, plowing his field or gathering his grain;
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So fierce you whirr and pound, you drums—so shrill you bugles blow.
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2
Beat! beat! drums!—Blow! bugles! blow!
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Over the traffic of cities—over the rumble of wheels in the streets:
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Are beds prepared for sleepers at night in the houses? No sleepers must sleep in those beds;
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No bargainers’ bargains by day—no brokers or speculators—Would they continue?
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Would the talkers be talking? would the singer attempt to sing?
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Would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case before the judge?
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Then rattle quicker, heavier drums—you bugles wilder blow.
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3
Beat! beat! drums!—Blow! bugles! blow!
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Make no parley—stop for no expostulation;
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Mind not the timid—mind not the weeper or prayer;
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Mind not the old man beseeching the young man;
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Let not the child’s voice be heard, nor the mother’s entreaties;
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Make even the trestles to shake the dead, where they lie awaiting the hearses,
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So strong you thump, O terrible drums—so loud you bugles blow.
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O Captain! My Captain!
1
O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
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The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;
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The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
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While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
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But O heart! heart! heart!
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O the bleeding drops of red,
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Where on the deck my Captain lies,
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Fallen cold and dead.
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2
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
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Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills;
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For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;
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For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
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Here Captain! dear father!
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This arm beneath your head;
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It is some dream that on the deck,
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You’ve fallen cold and dead.
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My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
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My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
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The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
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From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;
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Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
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But I, with mournful tread,
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Walk the deck my Captain lies,
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Fallen cold and dead.
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On the Beach at Night, Alone
ON the beach at night alone,
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As the old mother sways her to and fro, singing her husky song,
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As I watch the bright stars shining—I think a thought of the clef of the universes, and of the future.
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A VAST SIMILITUDE interlocks all,
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All spheres, grown, ungrown, small, large, suns, moons, planets, comets, asteroids,
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All the substances of the same, and all that is spiritual upon the same,
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All distances of place, however wide,
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All distances of time—all inanimate forms,
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All Souls—all living bodies, though they be ever so different, or in different worlds,
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All gaseous, watery, vegetable, mineral processes—the fishes, the brutes,
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All men and women—me also;
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All nations, colors, barbarisms, civilizations, languages;
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All identities that have existed, or may exist, on this globe, or any globe;
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All lives and deaths—all of the past, present, future;
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This vast similitude spans them, and always has spann’d, and shall forever span them, and compactly hold them, and enclose them.
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I Sit and Look Out
I sit and look out upon all the sorrows of the world, and upon all oppression and shame,
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I hear secret convulsive sobs from young men at anguish with themselves, remorseful after deeds done,
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I see in low life the mother misused by her children, dying, neglected, gaunt, desperate,
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I see the wife misused by her husband, I see the treacherous seducer of young women,
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I mark the ranklings of jealousy and unrequited love attempted to be hid, I see these sights on earth
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I see the workings of battle, pestilence, tyranny, I see martyrs and prisoners,
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I observe a famine at sea, I observe the sailors casting lots who shall be kill’d to preserve the lives of the rest,
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I observe the slights and degradations cast by arrogant persons upon laborers, the poor, and upon negroes,
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and the like;
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All these – all the meanness and agony without end I sitting look out upon,
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See, hear, and am silent.
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Song of Myself
(an exerpt)
1
I CELEBRATE myself;
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And what I assume you shall assume;
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For every atom belonging to me, as good belongs to you.
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I loafe and invite my Soul;
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I lean and loafe at my ease, observing a spear of summer grass.
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Houses and rooms are full of perfumes—the shelves are crowded with perfumes;
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I breathe the fragrance myself, and know it and like it;
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The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it.
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The atmosphere is not a perfume—it has no taste of the distillation—it is odorless;
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It is for my mouth forever—I am in love with it;
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I will go to the bank by the wood, and become undisguised and naked;
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I am mad for it to be in contact with me.
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2
The smoke of my own breath;
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Echoes, ripples, buzz’d whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and vine;
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My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing of blood and air through my lungs;
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The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore, and dark-color’d sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn;
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The sound of the belch’d words of my voice, words loos’d to the eddies of the wind;
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A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms;
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The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag;
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The delight alone, or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields and hill-sides;
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The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising from bed and meeting the sun.
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Have you reckon’d a thousand acres much? have you reckon’d the earth much?
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Have you practis’d so long to learn to read?
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Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?
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Stop this day and night with me, and you shall possess the origin of all poems;
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You shall possess the good of the earth and sun—(there are millions of suns left;)
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You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the
spectres in books;
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You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me:
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You shall listen to all sides, and filter them from yourself.
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Selected Sources and Study Aids
1) Introduction to Walt Whitman
a) General introductory information at poets.org: http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/126
b) A thorough, excellent online biography: http://www.whitmanarchive.org/biography/biographymainindex.html
c) FAQs answered by a professor: http://www.wsu.edu/~campbelld/amlit/whitstruc.html
d) Free poetry e-book of 354 of Whitman’s poems: http://www.poemhunter.com/walt-whitman/ (then look for the download link)
2) “Song of Myself”
a) Web text of the poem with hyperlinks to helpful explanations and background: http://www.vcu.edu/engweb/transcendentalism/roots/legacy/whitman/songofmyselfweb.html
b) The text with line numbers at bartleby.com: www.bartleby.com/142/14.html
c) A study guide with comments on structure, meaning, and study questions: http://www.csustan.edu/english/reuben/pal/chap4/whitman.html
Walt Whitman Poem Packet
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