Song of the Open Road, I by Walt Whitman, 1819 - 1892

Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road,
Healthy, free, the world before me,
The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose. 

Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune,
Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing,
Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms,
Strong and content I travel the open road.

The earth, that is sufficient,
I do not want the constellations any nearer,
I know they are very well where they are,
I know they suffice for those who belong to them.

(Still here I carry my old delicious burdens,
I carry them, men and women, I carry them with me wherever I         go,
I swear it is impossible for me to get rid of them,
I am fill’d with them, and I will fill them in return.)

When I Read the Book, by Walt Whitman

When I read the book, the biography famous,
And is this then (said I) what the author calls a man’s life?
And so will some one when I am dead and gone write my life?
(As if any man really knew aught my life,
Why even I myself I often think know little or nothing of my real life,
Only a few hints, a few diffused faint clews and indirections
I seek for my own use to trace out here.)

Excelsior, by Walt Whitman

Who has gone farthest? for I would go farther,
And who has been just? for I would be the most just person of the
   earth,
And who most cautious? for I would be more cautious,
And who has been happiest? O I think it is I--I think no one was ever
   happier than I,
And who has lavish'd all? for I lavish constantly the best I have,
And who proudest? for I think I have reason to be the proudest son
   alive--for I am the son of the brawny and tall-topt city,
And who has been bold and true? for I would be the boldest and truest
   being of the universe,
And who benevolent? for I would show more benevolence than all the
   rest,
And who has receiv'd the love of the most friends? for I know what it      is to receive the passionate love of many friends,
And who possesses a perfect and enamour'd body? for I do not believe
   any one possesses a more perfect or enamour'd body than mine,
And who thinks the amplest thoughts? for I would surround those
   thoughts,
And who has made hymns fit for the earth? for I am mad with
   devouring ecstasy to make joyous hymns for the whole earth.

Miracles, by Walt Whitman

Why, who makes much of a miracle? As to me I know of nothing else but miracles, Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan, Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky, Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the water, Or stand under trees in the woods, Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night with any           one I love, Or sit at table at dinner with the rest, Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car, Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer forenoon, Or animals feeding in the fields, Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air, Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so quiet and           bright, Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring; These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles, The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place. To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle, Every cubic inch of space is a miracle, Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same, Every foot of the interior swarms with the same. To me the sea is a continual miracle, The fishes that swim—the rocks—the motion of the waves—the ships             with men in them, What stranger miracles are there?

Sometimes with One I Love, by Walt Whitman

Sometimes with one I love I fill myself with rage for    fear I effuse unreturn'd love, But now I think there is no unreturn'd love, the pay    is certain one way or another, (I loved a certain person ardently and my love was    not return'd, Yet out of that I have written these songs.)

Leaves of grass

The Wound-Dresser by Walt Whitman

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 of 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 without noise and be of 

   strong heart.)

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.

Out of the Rolling Ocean, the Crowd by Walt Whitman

1

Out of the rolling ocean, the crowd, came a drop gently to me,
Whispering, I love you, before long I die,
I have travel'd a long way, merely to look on you, to touch you,
For I could not die till I once look'd on you,
For I fear'd I might afterward lose you.

2

(Now we have met, we have look'd, we are safe;
Return in peace to the ocean, my love;
I too am part of that ocean, my love—we are not so much separated;
Behold the great rondure—the cohesion of all, how perfect!
But as for me, for you, the irresistible sea is to separate us,
As for an hour carrying us diverse—yet cannot carry us diverse forever;
Be not impatient—a little space—know you, I salute the air, the ocean and the land,
Every day, at sundown, for your dear sake, my love.)

Weave in, My Hardy Life, by Walt Whitman

Weave in, weave in, my hardy life, Weave yet a soldier strong and full for great campaigns to come, Weave in red blood, weave sinews in like ropes,       the senses, sight weave in, Weave lasting sure, weave day and night the weft, the warp,       incessant weave, tire not, (We know not what the use O life, nor know the aim, the end,       nor really aught we know, But know the work, the need goes on and shall go on, the death-       envelop’d march of peace as well as war goes on,) For great campaigns of peace the same the wiry threads to weave, We know not why or what, yet weave, forever weave.

I Hear America Singing, by Walt Whitman

I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear, Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong, The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam, The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work, The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck, The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands, The wood-cutter’s song, the ploughboy’s on his way in the morning, or at noon intermission or at sundown, 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 him or her and to none else, The day what belongs to the day—at night the party of young fellows, robust, friendly, Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.

A Noiseless Patient Spider, by Walt Whitman

A noiseless patient spider, I mark’d where on a little promontory it stood isolated, Mark’d how to explore the vacant vast surrounding, It launch’d forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself, Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them. And you O my soul where you stand, Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space, Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to                      connect them, Till the bridge you will need be form’d, till the ductile anchor hold, Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul.

Thoughts, by Walt Whitman

1. 

OF the visages of things--And of piercing through to the accepted hells beneath; 

Of ugliness--To me there is just as much in it as there is in beauty--And now the ugliness of human 

beings is acceptable to me; 

Of detected persons--To me, detected persons are not, in any respect, worse than undetected 

persons--and are not in any respect worse than I am myself; 

Of criminals--To me, any judge, or any juror, is equally criminal--and any reputable person is also--

and the President is also. 

2.

OF waters, forests, hills; 

Of the earth at large, whispering through medium of me; 

Of vista--Suppose some sight in arriere, through the formative chaos, presuming the growth, 

fulness, life, now attain'd on the journey; 

(But I see the road continued, and the journey ever continued;) 

Of what was once lacking on earth, and in due time has become supplied--And of what will yet be 

supplied, 

Because all I see and know, I believe to have purport in what will yet be supplied. 

3. 

OF persons arrived at high positions, ceremonies, wealth, scholarships, and the like; 

To me, all that those persons have arrived at, sinks away from them, except as it results to their 

Bodies and Souls, 

So that often to me they appear gaunt and naked; 

And often, to me, each one mocks the others, and mocks himself or herself, 

And of each one, the core of life, namely happiness, is full of the rotten excrement of maggots, 

And often, to me, those men and women pass unwittingly the true realities of life, and go toward 

false realities, 

And often, to me, they are alive after what custom has served them, but nothing more, 

And often, to me, they are sad, hasty, unwaked sonnambules, walking the dusk. 

4. 

OF ownership--As if one fit to own things could not at pleasure enter upon all, and incorporate them 

into himself or herself; 

Of Equality--As if it harm'd me, giving others the same chances and rights as myself--As if it were 

not indispensable to my own rights that others possess the same; 

Of Justice--As if Justice could be anything but the same ample law, expounded by natural judges and 

saviors, 

As if it might be this thing or that thing, according to decisions. 

5. 

As I sit with others, at a great feast, suddenly, while the music is playing, 

To my mind, (whence it comes I know not,) spectral, in mist, of a wreck at sea, 

Of the flower of the marine science of fifty generations, founder'd off the Northeast coast, and going 

down--Of the steamship Arctic going down, 

Of the veil'd tableau--Women gather'd together on deck, pale, heroic, waiting the moment that draws 

so close--O the moment! 

O the huge sob--A few bubbles--the white foam spirting up--And then the women gone, 

Sinking there, while the passionless wet flows on--And I now pondering, Are those women indeed 

gone? 

Are Souls drown'd and destroy'd so? 

Is only matter triumphant? 

6. 

OF what I write from myself--As if that were not the resumé; 

Of Histories--As if such, however complete, were not less complete than my poems; 

As if the shreds, the records of nations, could possibly be as lasting as my poems; 

As if here were not the amount of all nations, and of all the lives of heroes. 

7. 

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.

O Captain! My Captain! by Walt Whitman

“O captain! My Captain!
Our fearful trip is done.
The ship has weather'd every wrack
The prize we sought is won
The port is near, the bells I hear
The people all exulting
While follow eyes, the steady keel
The vessel grim and daring
But Heart! Heart! Heart!
O the bleeding drops of red
Where on the deck my captain lies
Fallen cold and dead.” 

Excelsior, by Walt Whitman

Who has gone farthest? for I would go farther,
And who has been just? for I would be the most just person of the
   earth,
And who most cautious? for I would be more cautious,
And who has been happiest? O I think it is I--I think no one was ever
   happier than I,
And who has lavish'd all? for I lavish constantly the best I have,
And who proudest? for I think I have reason to be the proudest son
   alive--for I am the son of the brawny and tall-topt city,
And who has been bold and true? for I would be the boldest and truest
   being of the universe,
And who benevolent? for I would show more benevolence than all the
   rest,
And who has receiv'd the love of the most friends? for I know what it      is to receive the passionate love of many friends,
And who possesses a perfect and enamour'd body? for I do not believe
   any one possesses a more perfect or enamour'd body than mine,
And who thinks the amplest thoughts? for I would surround those
   thoughts,
And who has made hymns fit for the earth? for I am mad with 
   devouring ecstasy to make joyous hymns for the whole earth.

To You, by Walt Whitman

 

Whoever you are, I fear you are walking the walks of dreams,

I fear these supposed realities are to melt from under your feet 

and hands, 

Even now your features, joys, speech, house, trade, manners, 

troubles, follies, costume, crimes, dissipate away from you,

Your true soul and body appear before me, 

They stand forth out of affairs, out of commerce, shops, work,

farms, clothes, the house, buying, selling, eating, drinking, suffering, dying. 

 

Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you, that you be 

my poem, 

I whisper with my lips close to your ear, 

I have loved many women and men, but I love none better than 

you. 

 

O I have been dilatory and dumb, 

I should have made my way straight to you long ago, 

I should have blabb'd nothing but you, I should have chanted 

nothing but you. 

 

I will leave all and come and make the hymns of you, 

None has understood you, but I understand you, 

None has done justice to you, you have not done justice to 

yourself, 

None but has found you imperfect, I only find no imperfection in 

you, 

None but would subordinate you, I only am he who will never 

consent to subordinate you, 

I only am he who places over you no master, owner, better, 

God, beyond what waits intrinsically in yourself. 

 

Painters have painted their swarming groups and the centre- 

figure of all, 

From the head of the centre-figure spreading a nimbus of gold-

color'd light, 

But I paint myriads of heads, but paint no head without its 

nimbus of gold-color'd light, 

From my hand from the brain of every man and woman it 

streams, effulgently flowing forever. 

 

O I could sing such grandeurs and glories about you! 

You have not known what you are, you have slumber'd upon 

yourself all your life, 

Your eyelids have been the same as closed most of the time,

What you have done returns already in mockeries, 

(Your thrift, knowledge, prayers, if they do not return in 

mockeries, what is their return?) 

 

The mockeries are not you, 

Underneath them and within them I see you lurk, 

I pursue you where none else has pursued you, 

Silence, the desk, the flippant expression, the night, the 

accustom'd routine, if these conceal you from others or from yourself, they do not conceal you from me, 

The shaved face, the unsteady eye, the impure complexion, if 

these balk others they do not balk me, 

The pert apparel, the deform'd attitude, drunkenness, greed, 

premature death, all these I part aside. 

 

There is no endowment in man or woman that is not tallied in 

you, 

There is no virtue, no beauty in man or woman, but as good is 

in you, 

No pluck, no endurance in others, but as good is in you, 

No pleasure waiting for others, but an equal pleasure waits for 

you. 

 

As for me, I give nothing to any one except I give the like 

carefully to you, 

I sing the songs of the glory of none, not God, sooner than I 

sing the songs of the glory of you. 

 

Whoever you are! claim your own at an hazard! 

These shows of the East and West are tame compared to you,

These immense meadows, these interminable rivers, you are 

immense and interminable as they, 

These furies, elements, storms, motions of Nature, throes of 

apparent dissolution, you are he or she who is master or mistress over them, 

Master or mistress in your own right over Nature, elements, 

pain, passion, dissolution. 

 

The hopples fall from your ankles, you find an unfailing 

sufficiency, 

Old or young, male or female, rude, low, rejected by the rest, 

whatever you are promulges itself, 

Through birth, life, death, burial, the means are provided, 

nothing is scanted, 

Through angers, losses, ambition, ignorance, ennui, what you 

are picks its way.