And will never be any more perfection than there is now. By the city’s quadrangular houses—in log huts, camping with lumbermen.

Does the daylight astonish? The lithe sheer of their waists plays even with their massive arms. Where the laughing-gull scoots by the shore, where she laughs her near-human laugh. Fond of his sweetheart, relishing well his steak. I speak the pass-word primeval, I give the sign of democracy. I can cheerfully take it now, or with equal cheerfulness I can wait.

A boatman over lakes or bays or along coasts, a Hoosier, Badger, Buckeye; At home on Kanadian snow-shoes or up in the bush, or with fishermen off Newfoundland. Something I cannot see puts upward libidinous prongs. Throw your hands in the air, if youse a true player Houses and rooms are full of perfumes, the shelves are crowded with perfumes. Where winter wolves bark amid wastes of snow and icicled trees. And peruse manifold objects, no two alike and every one good. And greater sets follow, making specks of the greatest inside them.

With Odin and the hideous-faced Mexitli and every idol and image.

My left hand hooking you round the waist.

And consider green and violet and the tufted crown intentional.

Where the heifers browse, where geese nip their food with short jerks. In Leaves of Grass (1855, 1891-2), he celebrated democracy, nature, love, and friendship.

Prodigal, you have given me love—therefore I to you give love! What is a man anyhow? Ever the bandage under the chin, ever the trestles of death. I do not trouble my spirit to vindicate itself or be understood. Falling asleep on the gather’d leaves with my dog and gun by my side. The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it.

The Yankee clipper is under her sky-sails, she cuts the sparkle and scud. At home on the hills of Vermont or in the woods of Maine, or the Texan ranch, Comrade of Californians, comrade of free North-Westerners, (loving their big proportions,).

She owns the fine house by the rise of the bank. Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same.

Infinite and omnigenous, and the like of these among them.

now I see it is true, what I guess’d at. And the cow crunching with depress’d head surpasses any statue. For me the sweet-heart and the old maid, for me mothers and the mothers of mothers. At length let up again to feel the puzzle of puzzles, (Round and round we go, all of us, and ever come back thither,).

I am the poet of the woman the same as the man. for I see you. And whatever is done or said returns at last to me. Where the brook puts out of the roots of the old tree and flows to the meadow.

Nor any thing in the earth, or down in the oldest graves of the earth.

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. First-rate to ride, to fight, to hit the bull’s eye, to sail a skiff, to sing a song or play on the banjo. The young sister holds out the skein while the elder sister winds it off in a ball, and stops now and then for the knots.

I am mad for it to be in contact with me. Wicked rather than virtuous out of conformity or fear. One world is aware and by far the largest to me, and that is myself. We did not notice the figure over by the tree and what looks like a dog behind the figure until after we … How you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turn’d over upon me. I do not press my fingers across my mouth.

who will soonest be through with his supper? This is the city and I am one of the citizens.

And if each and all be aware I sit content. The hounded slave that flags in the race, leans by the fence, blowing, cover’d with sweat. Ah the homeliest of them is beautiful to her.

Minding their voices peal through the crash of destruction. And am stucco’d with quadrupeds and birds all over. I concentrate toward them that are nigh, I wait on the door-slab. Wandering amazed at my own lightness and glee.

Pleas’d with the homely woman as well as the handsome. The whizz of limbs, heads, stone, wood, iron, high in the air. I believe you refuse to go back without feeling of me. Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged, Walt Whitman, "Song of Myself" from Leaves of Grass (: Norton, 1973), Common Core State Standards Text Exemplars. 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.). Vapors lighting and shading my face it shall be you! I call to the earth and sea half-held by the night. Buying drafts of Osiris, Isis, Belus, Brahma, Buddha. The canal boy trots on the tow-path, the book-keeper counts at his desk, the shoemaker waxes his thread. One of the pumps has been shot away, it is generally thought we are sinking. Thoughts and deeds of the present our rouse and early start. Sea breathing broad and convulsive breaths. And acknowledge red, yellow, white, playing within me. To feed the greed of the belly the brains liberally spooning. I am satisfied—I see, dance, laugh, sing; As the hugging and loving bed-fellow sleeps at my side through the night, and withdraws at the peep of the day with stealthy tread.

My tread scares the wood-drake and wood-duck on my distant and day-long ramble.

Putting higher claims for him there with his roll’d-up sleeves driving the mallet and chisel. We pass the colossal outposts of the encampment, we pass with still feet and caution. In single file each shouldering his hod pass onward the laborers; Seasons pursuing each other the indescribable crowd is gather’d, it is the fourth of Seventh-month, (what salutes of cannon and small arms!). On Whitman's bicentennial, a contemporary poet finds a Whitmanic kinship with wonder, language, and the environment.

Who rock grooves and make moves with all the mommies These were despatch’d with bayonets or batter’d with the blunts of muskets.

Rise after rise bow the phantoms behind me.

Hell and despair are upon me, crack and again crack the marksmen.

In vain the buzzard houses herself with the sky. Outlines!

it shall be you!

Of the turbid pool that lies in the autumn forest.

The long slow strata piled to rest it on. At apple-peelings wanting kisses for all the red fruit I find. The President holding a cabinet council is surrounded by the great Secretaries. I witness the corpse with its dabbled hair, I note where the pistol has fallen. The insignificant is as big to me as any.

Shoulder your duds dear son, and I will mine, and let us hasten forth.

The runaway slave came to my house and stopt outside. The three were all torn and cover’d with the boy’s blood. Where the splash of swimmers and divers cools the warm noon. And proceed to fill my next fold of the future. Man can, first class sittin next to Vanna White If you wanna go and take a ride wit me We three wheelin in the four with the gold cv's Oh why do I look this way?

Looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest.

That I could forget the trickling tears and the blows of the bludgeons and hammers!

I pass death with the dying and birth with the new-wash’d babe, and am not contain’d between my hat and boots. Every room of the house do I fill with an arm’d force. Till that becomes unseen and receives proof in its turn. As the deck-hands make fast the steamboat the plank is thrown for the shore-going passengers. I play not marches for accepted victors only, I play marches for conquer’d and slain persons. Twenty-eight young men and all so friendly; Twenty-eight years of womanly life and all so lonesome. The woodman that takes his axe and jug with him shall take me with him all day.

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