City whose gleeful tides continually rush or recede, march! Here rises the fluid and attaching character, The fluid and attaching character is the freshness and of itself, Speaking of any thing else, but never of itself. The Body and the Soul Whitman is a poet of both these elements in man, the body and the soul. Though he suffered at times severely, he never became dejected or impatient. O'Connor's Good Grey Poet, and a valuable appendix of con- temporary American notices; the Glasgow edition having a similar list of English ones compiled by Professor Dowden. I follow you, whoever you are, from the present hour; My words itch at your ears till you understand them. What oceanic currents, eddies, underneath; the great tides of humanity also, with ever shifting movements. Brady is under pressure from local drug lord Pug Rothbaum to expand his sales.
He may turn out the least of a braggart of all, having a better right to be confident. Despite needing money to repay a debt to Rothbaum, Brady refuses. But at the war's end it was not the same robust, virile man who came out of that hospital tent. To his work without flinching the accoucheur comes; I see the elder-hand, pressing, receiving, supporting; I recline by the sills of the exquisite flexible doors, And mark the outlet, and mark the relief and escape. How they contort, rapid as lightning, with spasms, and spouts of blood! And the numberless unknown heroes, equal to the greatest heroes known. All goes onward and outwardnothing collapses; And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier. The only danger is that in accepting this new tendency, we may neglect the great virtues of past modes.
In Leaves of Grass 1855, 1891-2 , he celebrated democracy, nature, love, and friendship. Smile, for your lover comes! Bill is forced to stay in Tulsa for a long recuperation after his injury, allowing him time to heal his relationship with his mother and develop his romance with Janet. It is a triflethey will more than arrive there, every one, and still pass on. His idea of social and political democracy — that all men are equal before the law and have equal rights — is harmonized with his concept of spiritual democracy — that people have immense possibilities and a measureless wealth of latent power for spiritual attainment. You light surfaces onlyI force surfaces and depths also. This minute that comes to me over the past decillions, There is no better than it and now.
The latter volume was also revised, and its arrangement unified, certain of the poems which repeated what was also given in others being left out, and the whole re-touched and altered so as to give a certain epic unity that was rather lacking before. I hear bravuras of birds, bustle of growing wheat, gossip of flames, clack of sticks cooking my meals; I hear the sound I love, the sound of the human ; I hear all sounds running together, combined, fused or ; Sounds of the city, and sounds out of the citysounds of the day and night; Talkative young ones to those that like the loud laugh of work-people at their meals; The angry base of disjointed friendshipthe faint tones of the sick; The judge with hands tight to the desk, his pallid lips pronouncing a death-sentence; The heaveeyo of stevedores unlading ships by the wharvesthe refrain of the anchor-lifters; The ring of alarm-bellsthe cry of firethe whirr of swift-streaking engines and hose-carts, with premonitory tinkles, and colord lights; The steam-whistlethe solid roll of the train of approaching cars; The slow-march playd at the head of the association, marching two and , They go to guard some corpsethe flag-tops are draped with black muslin. Firm masculine colter, it shall be you. He call'd on his mate, He pour'd forth the meanings which I of all men know. Only a lot of boys and girls? Every condition promulges not only itselfit promulges what grows after and out of itself, And the dark hush promulges as much as any. The boy I love, the same becomes a man, not through derived power, but in his own right, Wicked, rather than virtuous out of conformity or fear, Fond of his sweetheart, relishing well his steak, Unrequited love, or a slight, cutting him worse than sharp steel , First-rate to ride, to fight, to hit the bulls eye, to sail a skiff, to sing a song, or play on the banjo, Preferring scars, and the beard, and faces pitted with small-pox, over all latherers, And those well tannd to those that keep out of the. Yes, when the stars glisten'd, All night long on the prong of a moss-scallop'd stake, Down almost amid the slapping waves, Sat the lone singer wonderful causing tears.
They, many of them, look with something of derision at this san- guine devotion to new ideals, and haply utter smiling protests against the deceptive charms of all things novel. And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing. Not alone on those warlike fields the Mother of All, With dilated form and lambent eyes watch'd you. They do not sweat and whine about their condition; They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins; They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God; Not one is dissatisfiednot one is demented with the mania of owning things; Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago; Not one is respectable or industrious over the whole earth. Give me a little time beyond my cuffd head, slumbers, dreams, gaping; I discover myself on the verge of a usual mistake.
Absolutely stated, prose is the equivalent of speech in all its range; verse, of song. To Whitman, all matter is as divine as the soul; since the body is as sacred and as spiritual as the soul, when he sings of the body or its performances, he is singing a spiritual chant. Through me forbidden voices; Voice of sexes and lustsvoices veild, and I remove the veil; Voices indecent, by me clarified and transfigurd. Am I being too unfair? What have you to confide to me? The log at the wood-pile, the axe supported by it, The sylvan hut, the vine over the doorway, the space persons despairing, The hell of war, the cruelties of creeds, The list of all executive deeds and words just or unjust, The power of personality just or unjust. For him a prostitute is worth as much as a nobleman. Add to this, that he is passionately contemporary, dealing always with the ordinary surroundings, facing directly the apparently unbeautiful and unheroic phenomena of the everyday life, and not asking his readers away into some airy outer-where of pain- ful return, and it will be found that the new seeing he gives is of immediate and constant effect, making perpetually for love and manliness and natural life. There is nothing trendy in his poetry—he was a member of no movement.
His verse has tremendous energy. 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. And I do not see one cause or result lamentable at last sounding, passing, Those heart-beats of a Nation in the night. No shutterd room or school can commune with me, But roughs and little children better than they. Do you see, O my brothers and sisters? The many editions of Leaves of Grass show a transformation in the author's thinking during his lifetime. List to the story as my grandmothers father, the sailor, told it to.
Or that ship sails are white-gray? I see where the Mother of All, With full-spanning eye gazes forth, dwells long, And counts the varied gathering of the products. Loafe with me on the grassloose the stop from your throat; Not words, not music or rhyme I wantnot custom or lecture, not even the best; Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice. The limitations of the average run of readers have been, as far as they could be surmised, the limitations of the book, and upon the head of that unaccountable class, who have in the past been guilty of not a few poets' and prophets' maltreatment, rest any odium the thorough-paced disciple of Walt Whitman may attach to the present venture. But there are times when he comes through more our contemporary than many other writers I read. Whitman's poetry is his artistic expression of various aspects of his mystical experience. I read it from mid-winter through mid-spring.
But poetry, beauty, romance, love. It was criticized because of Whitmans exaltation of the body and sexual love and also because of its innovation in verse formthat is, the use of free verse in long rhythmical lines with a natural, organic structure. The words and ideas are woven around each other like a vine growing around a tree, producing a poem that lives and breathes—so freshly harvested from his mind, that even now it seems to still have dirt and roots clinging to it. Do not be decoy'd elsewhere, That is the whistle of the wind, it is not my voice, That is the fluttering, the fluttering of the spray, Those are the shadows of leaves. For three years, he visited soldiers during his spare time, dressing wounds and giving solace to the injured.