I go hunting polar furs and the seal, leaping chasms with a pike-pointed staff, clinging to topples of brittle and blue. Regardless of others, ever regardful of others. Walt Whitman is America’s world poet—a latter-day successor to Homer, Virgil, Dante, and Shakespeare. At he-festivals, with blackguard gibes, ironical license, bull-dances, drinking, laughter. On our lower-gun-deck two large pieces had burst at the first fire, killing all around and blowing up overhead. I loiter enjoying his repartee and his shuffle and break-down. Growing among black folks as among white. You will hardly know who I am or what I mean. It descended tremblingly from their temples and ribs. The young men float on their backs, their white bellies bulge to the sun, they do not ask who seizes fast to them. A gigantic beauty of a stallion, fresh and responsive to my caresses. What is a man anyhow? I do not know it—it is without name—it is a word unsaid. The great Camerado, the lover true for whom I pine will be there. My face is ash-color’d, my sinews gnarl, away from me people retreat. Waiting responses from oracles, honoring the gods, saluting the sun. So they show their relations to me and I accept them. She had long eyelashes, her head was bare, her coarse straight locks descended upon her voluptuous limbs and reach’d to her feet. Spread your palms and lift the flaps of your pockets. And a summit and flower there is the feeling they have for each other. The snow-sleighs, clinking, shouted jokes, pelts of snow-balls. I tramp a perpetual journey, (come listen all!). You light surfaces only, I force surfaces and depths also. Landscapes projected masculine, full-sized and golden. With the hush of my lips I wholly confound the skeptic. With Odin and the hideous-faced Mexitli and every idol and image. You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me. To it the creation is the friend whose embracing awakes me. I am there, I help, I came stretch’d atop of the load. I answer that I cannot answer, you must find out for yourself. Depriving me of my best as for a purpose. Patriarchs sit at supper with sons and grandsons and great-grandsons around them. Painless after all I lie exhausted but not so unhappy. Immense have been the preparations for me. Unrequited love or a slight cutting him worse than sharp steel cuts. I moisten the roots of all that has grown. The sickness of one of my folks or of myself, or ill-doing or loss or lack of money, or depressions or exaltations. Comrade of raftsmen and coalmen, comrade of all who shake hands and welcome to drink and meat. To me the converging objects of the universe perpetually flow. I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning. The flames spite of all that can be done flickering aloft and below. The slow march play’d at the head of the association marching two and two, (They go to guard some corpse, the flag-tops are draped with black muslin. Thoughts and deeds of the present our rouse and early start. For me those that have been boys and that love women. Soft doctrine as steady help as stable doctrine. (Only what proves itself to every man and woman is so. They are wafted with the odor of his body or breath, they fly out of the glance of his eyes. Pleas’d with the homely woman as well as the handsome. Song of Myself. Do you guess I have some intricate purpose? It takes guts to write a long epic poem about yourself, and Whitman was nothing if not gutsy. By God, you shall not go down! The supernatural of no account, myself waiting my time to be one of the supremes. I waited unseen and always, and slept through the lethargic mist. His nostrils dilate as my heels embrace him. A novice beginning yet experient of myriads of seasons. To elaborate is no avail, learn’d and unlearn’d feel that it is so. Last Updated on May 7, 2015, by eNotes Editorial. The youngster and the red-faced girl turn aside up the bushy hill. Voices of the interminable generations of prisoners and slaves. Song of Myself de Nightwish, música para ouvir com letra, tradução e vídeo no Kboing. Delicate sniffs of sea-breeze, smells of sedgy grass and fields by the shore, death-messages given in charge to survivors. They do not think whom they souse with spray. And the good or bad I say of myself I say of them. Wandering the same afternoon with my face turn’d up to the clouds, or down a lane or along the beach. The ambulanza slowly passing trailing its red drip. I believe in the flesh and the appetites. Where shells grow to her slimy deck, where the dead are corrupting below; Where the dense-starr’d flag is borne at the head of the regiments. Showing the best and dividing it from the worst age vexes age. I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun. 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 fly those flights of a fluid and swallowing soul. Ever the eaters and drinkers, ever the upward and downward sun, ever the air and the ceaseless tides. We had receiv’d some eighteen pound shots under the water. Hefts of the moving world at innocent gambols silently rising freshly exuding. The Wolverine sets traps on the creek that helps fill the Huron. The duck-shooter walks by silent and cautious stretches. The bride unrumples her white dress, the minute-hand of the clock moves slowly. Deluding my confusion with the calm of the sunlight and pasture-fields. The expansive exuberant poem was given its current title in 1881. And all I see multiplied as high as I can cipher edge but the rim of the farther systems. I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the beginning and the end. I am the hounded slave, I wince at the bite of the dogs. Whatever interests the rest interests me, politics, wars, markets, newspapers, schools. The last scud of day holds back for me, It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow'd wilds, It coaxes me to the vapor and the … Two great hulls motionless on the breast of the darkness. you seem to look for something at my hands. Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems, You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions of suns left,). What I guess’d when I loaf’d on the grass. The sentries desert every other part of me. 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. The enormous masses of ice pass me and I pass them, the scenery is plain in all directions. Though we want “Song of Myself” to wash over us, even overwhelm us, using these breakthroughs as a frame of reference will nonetheless enhance our engagement. This minute that comes to me over the past decillions. If I could not now and always send sun-rise out of me. Talkative young ones to those that like them, the loud laugh of work-people at their meals. And roll head over heels and tangle my hair full of wisps. Vapors lighting and shading my face it shall be you! And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue to my bare-stript heart. In vain the razor-bill’d auk sails far north to Labrador. Dung and dirt more admirable than was dream’d. Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and knowledge that pass all the argument of the earth. Walt Whitman - 1819-1892. Not a youngster is taken for larceny but I go up too, and am tried and sentenced. Where the katy-did works her chromatic reed on the walnut-tree over the well. I speak the pass-word primeval, I give the sign of democracy. I find I incorporate gneiss, coal, long-threaded moss, fruits, grains, esculent roots. In walls of adobie, in canvas tents, rest hunters and trappers after their day’s sport. ", I've never been so close to truth as then. Have you reckon’d a thousand acres much? An old oak sheltering me from the blue. I am not the poet of goodness only, I do not decline to be the poet of wickedness also. Perhaps I might tell more. Of the turbid pool that lies in the autumn forest. The old husband sleeps by his wife and the young husband sleeps by his wife; And these tend inward to me, and I tend outward to them. Easily written loose-finger’d chords—I feel the thrum of your climax and close. Of the deform’d, trivial, flat, foolish, despised. There is that in me—I do not know what it is—but I know it is in me. Wandering amazed at my own lightness and glee. The mountains? The judge with hands tight to the desk, his pallid lips pronouncing a death-sentence. And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves. And what is reason? The half-breed straps on his light boots to compete in the race. Voices of cycles of preparation and accretion. The second First-day morning they were brought out in squads and massacred, it was beautiful early summer. The leaks gain fast on the pumps, the fire eats toward the powder-magazine. I but use you a minute, then I resign you, stallion. I will not have a single person slighted or left away. Where the brook puts out of the roots of the old tree and flows to the meadow. Our swift ordinances on their way over the whole earth. Partaker of influx and efflux I, extoller of hate and conciliation. I will accept nothing which all cannot have their counterpart of on the same terms. And more the reminders they of life untold, and of freedom and extrication. Begun as early as 1847, “Song of Myself” first appeared as one of the twelve untitled poems of … Song of Myself constrói-se como parte do discurso de um sujeito atuante, que se constitui na fusão do fora/dentro e seus entornos e através de uma linguagem. Ever the bandage under the chin, ever the trestles of death. It is an epic because he goes on a journey and brings the reader along with him. Walt Whitman's "Song of Myself" is the most famous of the twelve poems originally published in Leaves of Grass, the collection for which the poet is most widely known.First published in 1855, Whitman made … The woodman that takes his axe and jug with him shall take me with him all day. or mere destroy them. It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men. And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own. (Shall I make my list of things in the house and skip the house that supports them?). No shutter’d room or school can commune with me. At the Existentialist Café: Freedom, Being, and Apricot Cocktails with Jean-Paul Sartre, Simone de Beauvoir, Albert Camus, Martin Heidegger, Maurice Merleau-Ponty and Others Buy. For room to me stars kept aside in their own rings. The courage of present times and all times. That I walk up my stoop, I pause to consider if it really be. In all people I see myself, none more and not one a barley-corn less. Speech is the twin of my vision, it is unequal to measure itself. The fall of grenades through the rent roof, the fan-shaped explosion. I know this orbit of mine cannot be swept by a carpenter’s compass. At apple-peelings wanting kisses for all the red fruit I find. Blacksmiths with grimed and hairy chests environ the anvil. And consider green and violet and the tufted crown intentional. The negro that drives the long dray of the stone-yard, steady and tall he stands pois’d on one leg on the string-piece. As noted in The Norton Anthology of Poetry, what… Tumbling walls buried me in their debris. I resist any thing better than my own diversity. Formless stacks of bodies and bodies by themselves, dabs of flesh upon the masts and spars. The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag. On Whitman's bicentennial, a contemporary poet finds a Whitmanic kinship with wonder, language, and the environment. from the rocks of the river, swinging and chirping over my head. You laggards there on guard! Publishing it as the first poem in his book Leaves of Grass, Whitman did not provide a title for the poem or And am stucco’d with quadrupeds and birds all over. We sail the arctic sea, it is plenty light enough. ", I've never been so close to truth as thenI touched it's silver lining, Death is the winner in any warNothing noble in dying for your religionFor your countryFor ideology, for faithFor another man, yes, Paper is dead without wordsInk idle without a poemAll the world dead without storiesWithout love and disarming beauty, Ever seen the Lord smile?All the care for the world made Beautiful a sad man?Why do we still carry a device of torture around our necks?Oh, how rotten your pre-apocalypse isAll you bible-black fools living over nightmare ground, I see all those empty cradles and wonderIf man will never change, I, too, wish to be a decent manboy but all I amIs smoke and mirrorsStill given everything, may I be deserving, And there forever remains the change from G to E minor, O rouxinol ainda está preso na gaiolaO profundo fôlego que tomo ainda envenena meus pulmõesUm velho carvalho me dando abrigo da tristezaO sol banhando suas folhas mortas congeladas, Uma soneca na cidade fantasma do meu coraçãoEla sonha com a hora da história e com os fantasmas do rioCom as sereias, com Whitman e o passeioArlequins loucos, brinquedos gigantescos, Uma canção de mim, uma canção na necessidadeDe uma sinfonia corajosaUm verso de mim, um verso na necessidadeDe um coração puro me cantando para a paz, Todo aquele grande coração deitado quieto e morrendo lentamenteTodo aquele grande coração deitado quieto nas asas de um anjo, Todo aquele grande coração deitado quietoNum sofrimento silenciosoSorrindo como um palhaço até que o espetáculo chegue ao fimO que resta para um bisÉ a mesma velha canção do menino mortoCantada em silêncio, Um vôo à meia-noite às Florestas de CovingtonUma princesa e uma pantera ao meu ladoEstes são territórios pelos quais eu vivoEu ainda daria tudo de mim para te amar mais, Uma sinfonia silenciosaUma composição vazia, 1, 2, 3, As vezes o céu é preto pianoPreto piano sobre águas cristalinas, Pipas descansando, verso de aborrecimentoChaves enferrujadas sem uma porta, As vezes o interior é preto pianoPreto piano sobre águas cristalinas, Eu vejo um vagaroso e simples rapaz em uma rua movimentadaCom uma tigela em sua mão trêmulaTentando sorrir mas se ferindo infinitamente. The orchestra whirls me wider than Uranus flies. Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth. And to all generals that lost engagements, and all overcome heroes! They scorn the best I can do to relate them. And might tell what it is in me and what it is in you, but cannot. And proceed to fill my next fold of the future. have you reckon’d the earth much? I am cut by bitter and angry hail, I lose my breath. The clean-hair’d Yankee girl works with her sewing-machine or in the factory or mill. The young mother and old mother comprehend me. The kept-woman, sponger, thief, are hereby invited. Voices of sexes and lusts, voices veil’d and I remove the veil. What living and buried speech is always vibrating here, what howls restrain’d by decorum. They do not sweat and whine about their condition. timorous pond-snipe! And brown ants in the little wells beneath them. Know my omnivorous lines and must not write any less. Turn the bed-clothes toward the foot of the bed. It wrenches such ardors from me I did not know I possess’d them. I dilate you with tremendous breath, I buoy you up. The orbic flex of his mouth is pouring and filling me full. The mayor and councils, banks, tariffs, steamships, factories, stocks, stores, real estate and personal estate. Where the bat flies in the Seventh-month eve, where the great gold-bug drops through the dark. My sun has his sun and round him obediently wheels. The meeting of enemies, the sudden oath, the blows and fall. The grave of rock multiplies what has been confided to it, or to any graves. Slow-stepping feet, common features, common modes and emanations. Under Niagara, the cataract falling like a veil over my countenance. Breast that presses against other breasts it shall be you! will you prove already too late? Not objecting to special revelations, considering a curl of smoke or a hair on the back of my hand just as curious as any revelation. To his work without flinching the accoucheur comes. Through patches of citrons and cucumbers with silver-wired leaves. 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.). In at the conquer’d doors they crowd! Steep’d amid honey’d morphine, my windpipe throttled in fakes of death. The heave’e’yo of stevedores unlading ships by the wharves, the refrain of the anchor-lifters. Letra, tradução e música de Song Of Myself de Nightwish - Todo esse grande coração deitado e morrendo lentamente / Todo esse grande coração deitado … I hear the sound I love, the sound of the human voice. My dinner, dress, associates, looks, compliments, dues. Through the gymnasium, through the curtain’d saloon, through the office or public hall; Pleas’d with the native and pleas’d with the foreign, pleas’d with the new and old. Wherever the human heart beats with terrible throes under its ribs, Where the pear-shaped balloon is floating aloft, (floating in it myself and looking composedly down,). This the thoughtful merge of myself, and the outlet again. I am sorry for you, they are not murderous or jealous upon me. The dirt receding before my prophetical screams. I find one side a balance and the antipodal side a balance. Where the splash of swimmers and divers cools the warm noon. That mystic baffling wonder alone completes all. A few idly owning, and they the wheat continually claiming. Stuff’d with the stuff that is coarse and stuff’d with the stuff that is fine. How the silent old-faced infants and the lifted sick, and the sharp-lipp’d unshaved men; All this I swallow, it tastes good, I like it well, it becomes mine. And nothing, not God, is greater to one than one’s self is. I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women. Houses and rooms are full of perfumes, the shelves are crowded with perfumes, I breathe the fragrance myself and know it and like it, The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it. Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths. As the deck-hands make fast the steamboat the plank is thrown for the shore-going passengers. I carry the plenum of proof and every thing else in my face. Shoulder your duds dear son, and I will mine, and let us hasten forth. Over the sharp-peak’d farm house, with its scallop’d scum and slender shoots from the gutters. I do not say these things for a dollar or to fill up the time while I wait for a boat. Ah the homeliest of them is beautiful to her. Sure as the most certain sure, plumb in the uprights, well entretied, braced in the beams. And of the threads that connect the stars, and of wombs and of the father-stuff. Song of Myself, 52.
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