Walt Whitman

Walt Whitman

1819–1892 · lived 72 years US US

Walt Whitman was an American poet, essayist, journalist, and a deliberate humanist who became one of the most influential figures in American poetry. He is often called the "father of free verse." His seminal work, "Leaves of Grass," was a radical departure from the conventional poetry of its time, celebrating the individual, democracy, the body, and the spirit in expansive, cataloging lines. Whitman's poetry embraced a wide range of subjects, from the natural world and urban life to the experiences of laborers and soldiers. His work is characterized by its inclusive spirit, its celebration of the sensual and the spiritual, and its democratic vision. He sought to capture the diverse American experience in all its complexity and vitality, making him a truly unique voice in literature.

n. 1819-05-31, West Hills · m. 1892-03-26, Camden

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Years Of The Modern

Years Of The Modern

YEARS of the modern! years of the unperform'd!
Your horizon rises--I see it parting away for more august dramas;
I see not America only--I see not only Liberty's nation, but other


nations preparing;
I see tremendous entrances and exits--I see new combinations--I see
the solidarity of races;
I see that force advancing with irresistible power on the world's
stage;
(Have the old forces, the old wars, played their parts? are the acts
suitable to them closed?)
I see Freedom, completely arm'd, and victorious, and very haughty,

with Law on one side, and Peace on the other,
A stupendous Trio, all issuing forth against the idea of caste;
--What historic denouements are these we so rapidly approach?
I see men marching and countermarching by swift millions; 10
I see the frontiers and boundaries of the old aristocracies broken;
I see the landmarks of European kings removed;
I see this day the People beginning their landmarks, (all others give

way;)
--Never were such sharp questions ask'd as this day;
Never was average man, his soul, more energetic, more like a God;
Lo! how he urges and urges, leaving the masses no rest;
His daring foot is on land and sea everywhere--he colonizes the

Pacific, the archipelagoes;
With the steam-ship, the electric telegraph, the newspaper, the
wholesale engines of war,
With these, and the world-spreading factories, he interlinks all
geography, all lands;
--What whispers are these, O lands, running ahead of you, passing
under the seas? 20
Are all nations communing? is there going to be but one heart to the
globe?
Is humanity forming, en-masse?--for lo! tyrants tremble, crowns grow
dim;
The earth, restive, confronts a new era, perhaps a general divine
war;
No one knows what will happen next--such portents fill the days and
nights;
Years prophetical! the space ahead as I walk, as I vainly try to

pierce it, is full of phantoms;
Unborn deeds, things soon to be, project their shapes around me;
This incredible rush and heat--this strange extatic fever of dreams,


O years!
Your dreams, O year, how they penetrate through me! (I know not
whether I sleep or wake!)
The perform'd America and Europe grow dim, retiring in shadow behind
me,
The unperform'd, more gigantic than ever, advance, advance upon
me. 30
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Bio

Identification and basic context

Walt Whitman was an American poet, essayist, journalist, and humanist. Born on Long Island, New York, he is considered one of the most influential figures in American literature. He wrote in English.

Childhood and education

Whitman's formal schooling was limited; he left school at the age of eleven to work. He became a printer and later worked as a journalist, editor, and teacher. This practical experience exposed him to a wide range of society and ideas, which deeply informed his writing. He was largely self-educated, voraciously reading literature, philosophy, and the Bible, and absorbing the democratic ideals of his time.

Literary trajectory

Whitman began his literary career as a journalist and editor, writing essays, short stories, and editorials. His major turning point was the publication of the first edition of 'Leaves of Grass' in 1855, a collection of poems that he would revise and expand throughout his life. This work was controversial but also groundbreaking, establishing his unique voice and style. He continued to write and publish new poems and editions of 'Leaves of Grass' for the rest of his life, self-publishing some editions and revising extensively.

Works, style, and literary characteristics

Whitman's magnum opus is 'Leaves of Grass,' first published in 1855 and issued in numerous expanded editions until his death. Other notable works include 'Democratic Vistas' (prose essays) and 'Specimen Days' (autobiographical sketches). Whitman's poetry is characterized by its radical use of free verse, lengthy, incantatory lines, and an expansive, catalogues approach to imagery. He celebrated the "self" as a microcosm of humanity and the cosmos, championing democracy, equality, the physical body, sensuality, nature, and the spiritual interconnectedness of all things. His tone is often prophetic, embracing, and deeply democratic. His language is robust, colloquial, and American, incorporating a vast vocabulary and a direct, unadorned style that sought to capture the essence of American experience.

Cultural and historical context

Whitman lived and wrote during a period of immense national transformation in the United States, including westward expansion, industrialization, and the tumultuous lead-up to and aftermath of the Civil War. He was a staunch advocate for democracy and envisioned a uniquely American poetry that reflected the diverse peoples and landscapes of the nation. His work was informed by Transcendentalist ideas, particularly the writings of Emerson, and he engaged with the social and political issues of his day, notably abolitionism.

Personal life

Whitman's personal life was complex and somewhat elusive. He never married and had no children. He served as a volunteer nurse in army hospitals during the Civil War, an experience that deeply affected him and led to poems like "The Wound-Dresser." His intense friendships, often with men, were significant, and he celebrated physical and spiritual connection. He lived a relatively simple life, often in poverty, but remained committed to his poetic vision.

Recognition and reception

Whitman's work was met with both fierce criticism and enthusiastic praise during his lifetime. While initially seen as scandalous and incomprehensible by many, he gradually gained recognition from literary figures like Emerson and was eventually hailed as a major American poet. His reputation grew posthumously, and he is now considered a cornerstone of American literature.

Influences and legacy

Whitman was influenced by Emerson, the Bible, and classical literature, but he forged a completely new poetic voice. He profoundly influenced the development of American poetry, paving the way for free verse and modern poetic sensibilities. His celebration of the individual, democracy, and the body continues to inspire poets and thinkers worldwide.

Interpretation and critical analysis

Critical interpretations of Whitman's poetry often center on his innovative use of free verse, his democratic ideals, his embrace of the body and sexuality, and his complex exploration of American identity. Debates have occurred regarding the sincerity of his democratic vision and the autobiographical elements within his work.

Curiosities and lesser-known aspects

Whitman was known for his distinctive appearance, often sporting a beard and informal clothing. He was also a skilled carpenter and builder in his youth. His extensive revisions of 'Leaves of Grass' show his meticulous attention to craft, despite his unconventional style.

Death and memory

Whitman died in Camden, New Jersey. He is remembered as one of America's most important and original poets, a visionary voice who captured the spirit of a nation in transformation and celebrated the inherent dignity of all human beings.

Poems

168

To A Certain Cantatrice

To A Certain Cantatrice

HERE, take this gift!

I was reserving it for some hero, speaker, or General,

One who should serve the good old cause, the great Idea, the progress

and freedom of the race;

Some brave confronter of despots--some daring rebel;

--But I see that what I was reserving, belongs to you just as much as

to any.
387

To A Common Prostitute

To A Common Prostitute

To a Common Prostitute

BE composed--be at ease with me--I am Walt Whitman, liberal and lusty

as Nature;
Not till the sun excludes you, do I exclude you;
Not till the waters refuse to glisten for you, and the leaves to


rustle for you, do my words refuse to glisten and rustle for
you.

My girl, I appoint with you an appointment--and I charge you that you
make preparation to be worthy to meet me,
And I charge you that you be patient and perfect till I come.

Till then, I salute you with a significant look, that you do not
forget me.
371

Thought

Thought

OF obedience, faith, adhesiveness;

As I stand aloof and look, there is to me something profoundly
affecting in large masses of men, following the lead of those
who do not believe in men.
362

Thou Orb Aloft Full-Dazzling

Thou Orb Aloft Full-Dazzling

THOU orb aloft full-dazzling! thou hot October noon!
Flooding with sheeny light the gray beach sand,
The sibilant near sea with vistas far and foam,
And tawny streaks and shades and spreading blue;
O sun of noon rufulgent! my special word to thee.

Hear me illustrious!
Thy lover me, for always I have loved thee,
Even as basking babe, then happy boy alone by some wood edge, thy


touching-distant beams enough,
Or man matured, or young or old, as now to thee I launch my
invocation.


(Thou canst not with thy dumbness me deceive, 10
I know before the fitting man all Nature yields,
Though answering not in words, the skies, trees, hear his voice--and

thou O sun,
As for thy throes, thy perturbations, sudden breaks and shafts of
flame gigantic,
I understand them, I know those flames, those perturbations well.)

Thou that with fructifying heat and light,
O'er myriad farms, o'er lands and waters North and South,
O'er Mississippi's endless course, o'er Texas' grassy plains,


Kanada's woods,
O'er all the globe that turns its face to thee shining in space,
Thou that impartially infoldest all, not only continents, seas,
Thou that to grapes and weeds and little wild flowers givest so


liberally, 20
Shed, shed thyself on mine and me, with but a fleeting ray out of thy
million millions,
Strike through these chants.

Nor only launch thy subtle dazzle and thy strength for these,
Prepare the later afternoon of me myself--prepare my lengthening
shadows,
Prepare my starry nights.
345

This Compost

This Compost

SOMETHING startles me where I thought I was safest;
I withdraw from the still woods I loved;
I will not go now on the pastures to walk;
I will not strip the clothes from my body to meet my lover the sea;
I will not touch my flesh to the earth, as to other flesh, to renew


me.

O how can it be that the ground does not sicken?
How can you be alive, you growths of spring?
How can you furnish health, you blood of herbs, roots, orchards,


grain?
Are they not continually putting distemper'd corpses within you?
Is not every continent work'd over and over with sour dead? 10

Where have you disposed of their carcasses?
Those drunkards and gluttons of so many generations;
Where have you drawn off all the foul liquid and meat?
I do not see any of it upon you to-day--or perhaps I am deceiv'd;
I will run a furrow with my plough--I will press my spade through the


sod, and turn it up underneath;
I am sure I shall expose some of the foul meat.


Behold this compost! behold it well!
Perhaps every mite has once form'd part of a sick person--Yet behold!
The grass of spring covers the prairies,
The bean bursts noislessly through the mould in the garden, 20
The delicate spear of the onion pierces upward,
The apple-buds cluster together on the apple-branches,
The resurrection of the wheat appears with pale visage out of its


graves,
The tinge awakes over the willow-tree and the mulberry-tree,
The he-birds carol mornings and evenings, while the she-birds sit on

their nests,
The young of poultry break through the hatch'd eggs,
The new-born of animals appear--the calf is dropt from the cow, the

colt from the mare,
Out of its little hill faithfully rise the potato's dark green
leaves,
Out of its hill rises the yellow maize-stalk--the lilacs bloom in the
door-yards;
The summer growth is innocent and disdainful above all those strata
of sour dead. 30

What chemistry!
That the winds are really not infectious,
That this is no cheat, this transparent green-wash of the sea, which


is so amorous after me,
That it is safe to allow it to lick my naked body all over with its
tongues,
That it will not endanger me with the fevers that have deposited



themselves in it,
That all is clean forever and forever.
That the cool drink from the well tastes so good,
That blackberries are so flavorous and juicy,
That the fruits of the apple-orchard, and of the orange-orchard--that

melons, grapes, peaches, plums, will none of them poison me,
That when I recline on the grass I do not catch any disease, 40
Though probably every spear of grass rises out of what was once a

catching disease.

Now I am terrified at the Earth! it is that calm and patient,
It grows such sweet things out of such corruptions,
It turns harmless and stainless on its axis, with such endless


successions of diseas'd corpses,
It distils such exquisite winds out of such infused fetor,
It renews with such unwitting looks, its prodigal, annual, sumptuous

crops,
It gives such divine materials to men, and accepts such leavings from
them at last.
459

This Dust Was Once The Man

This Dust Was Once The Man

THIS dust was once the Man,
Gentle, plain, just and resolute--under whose cautious hand,
Against the foulest crime in history known in any land or age,
Was saved the Union of These States.
363

Thick-Sprinkled Bunting

Thick-Sprinkled Bunting

THICK-SPRINKLED bunting! Flag of stars!
Long yet your road, fateful flag!--long yet your road, and lined with


bloody death!
For the prize I see at issue, at last is the world!
All its ships and shores I see, interwoven with your threads, greedy

banner!
--Dream'd again the flags of kings, highest born, to flaunt
unrival'd?
O hasten, flag of man! O with sure and steady step, passing highest

flags of kings,
Walk supreme to the heavens, mighty symbol--run up above them all,
Flag of stars! thick-sprinkled bunting!
410

These Carols

These Carols

THESE Carols, sung to cheer my passage through the world I see,
For completion, I dedicate to the Invisible World.
417

The Untold Want

The Untold Want

THE untold want, by life and land ne'er granted,
Now, Voyager, sail thou forth, to seek and find.
447

The Wound Dresser

The Wound Dresser

1

AN old man bending, I come, among new faces,
Years looking backward, resuming, in answer to children,
Come tell us, old man, as from young men and maidens that love me;
(Arous'd and angry, I'd thought to beat the alarum, and urge relentless war,
but soon my fingers fail'd me, my face droop'd and I resign'd myself,
To sit by the wounded and soothe them, or silently watch the dead
Years hence of these scenes, of these furious passions, these chances,
Of unsurpass’d heroes, (was one side so brave? the other was equally brave
Now be witness again—paint the mightiest armies of earth;
Of those armies so rapid, so wondrous, what saw you to tell us?
What stays with you latest and deepest? of curious panics,
Of hard-fought engagements, or sieges tremendous, what deepest remains?


2


O maidens and young men I love, and that love me,
What you ask of my days, those the strangest and sudden your talking recalls;
Soldier alert I arrive, after a long march, cover’d with sweat and dust;
In the nick of time I come, plunge in the fight, loudly shout in the rush of successful
charge;
Enter the captur’d works.... yet lo! like a swift-running river, they fade;
Pass and are gone, they fade—I dwell not on soldiers’ perils or soldiers’ joys;
(Both I remember well—many the hardships, few the joys, yet I was content.)


But in silence, in dreams’ projections,
While the world of gain and appearance and mirth goes on,
So soon what is over forgotten, and waves wash the imprints off the sand,
With hinged knees returning, I enter the doors—(while for you up there,
Whoever you are, follow me without noise, and be of strong heart.)


3


Bearing the bandages, water and sponge,
Straight and swift to my wounded I go,
Where they lie on the ground, after the battle brought in;
Where their priceless blood reddens the grass, the ground;
Or to the rows of the hospital tent, or under the roof’d hospital;
To the long rows of cots, up and down, each side, I return;
To each and all, one after another, I draw near—not one do I miss;



An attendant follows, holding a tray—he carries a refuse pail,
Soon to be fill’d with clotted rags and blood, emptied and fill’d again.


I onward go, I stop,
With hinged knees and steady hand, to dress wounds;
I am firm with each—the pangs are sharp, yet unavoidable;
One turns to me his appealing eyes—(poor boy! I never knew you,
Yet I think I could not refuse this moment to die for you, if that would save you.)


On, on I go!—(open doors of time! open hospital doors!)
The crush’d head I dress, (poor crazed hand, tear not the bandage away
The neck of the cavalry-man, with the bullet through and through, I examine;
Hard the breathing rattles, quite glazed already the eye, yet life struggles hard;
(Come, sweet death! be persuaded, O beautiful death!
In mercy come quickly.)


From the stump of the arm, the amputated hand,
I undo the clotted lint, remove the slough, wash off the matter and blood;
Back on his pillow the soldier bends, with curv’d neck, and side-falling head;
His eyes are closed, his face is pale, he dares not look on the bloody stump,
And has not yet look’d on it.


I dress a wound in the side, deep, deep;
But a day or two more—for see, the frame all wasted already, and sinking,
And the yellow-blue countenance see.


I dress the perforated shoulder, the foot with the bullet wound,
Cleanse the one with a gnawing and putrid gangrene, so sickening, so offensive,
While the attendant stands behind aside me, holding the tray and pail.


I am faithful, I do not give out;
The fractur’d thigh, the knee, the wound in the abdomen,
These and more I dress with impassive hand, (yet deep in my breast a fire, a burning
flame.)


4



Thus in silence, in dreams’ projections,
Returning, resuming, I thread my way through the hospitals;
The hurt and wounded I pacify with soothing hand,
I sit by the restless all the dark night—some are so young;
Some suffer so much—I recall the experience sweet and sad;
(Many a soldier’s loving arms about this neck have cross’d and rested,
Many a soldier’s kiss dwells on these bearded lips.)
646

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