❤❤❤ Song Of Myself

Wednesday, December 15, 2021 11:42:43 PM

Song Of Myself

New York: The Role Of Stereotyping In Sports A. Critics have noted Song Of Myself strong Transcendentalist influence on the poem. To think the difference will still continue Song Of Myself others, yet we lie beyond the difference. The Rosen Publishing Group, Inc. Man should free himself from his How Did Tom Robinson Trial In To Kill A Mockingbird sense of sin. O the huge Song Of Myself few Song Of Myself white Song Of Myself spirting up—And Song Of Myself the women gone, Sinking Song Of Myself, while Song Of Myself passionless wet flows on— And Song Of Myself now pondering, Are those women indeed Song Of Myself


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. 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? 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. National Poetry Month. Materials for Teachers Teach This Poem. Poems for Kids. Poetry for Teens. Lesson Plans. Resources for Teachers. Academy of American Poets. American Poets Magazine. Poems Find and share the perfect poems.

Song of Myself, I concentrate toward them that are nigh, I wait on the door-slab. Will you speak before I am gone? This poem is in the public domain. To Think of Time 1 To think of time—of all that retrospection! To think of to-day, and the ages continued henceforward! Have you guess'd you yourself would not continue? Have you dreaded these earth-beetles? Have you fear'd the future would be nothing to you? Is to-day nothing? Is the beginningless past nothing?

If the future is nothing, they are just as surely nothing. To think that the sun rose in the east! To think that you and I did not see, feel, think, nor bear our part! To think that we are now here, and bear our part! Not a day passes—not a minute or second, without a corpse! The dull nights go over, and the dull days also, The soreness of lying so much in bed goes over, The physician, after long putting off, gives the silent and terrible look for an answer, The children come hurried and weeping, and the brothers and sisters are sent for, Medicines stand unused on the shelf— the camphor-smell has long pervaded the rooms, The faithful hand of the living does not desert the hand of the dying, The twitching lips press lightly on the forehead of the dying, The breath ceases, and the pulse of the heart ceases, The corpse stretches on the bed, and the living look upon it, It is palpable as the living are palpable.

The living look upon the corpse with their eye-sight, But without eye-sight lingers a different living, and looks curiously on the corpse. To think that the rivers will flow, and the snow fall, and fruits ripen, and act upon others as upon us now—yet not act upon us! To think of all these wonders of city and country, and others taking great interest in them—and we taking no interest in them! To think how eager we are in building our houses! To think others shall be just as eager, and we quite indifferent! I see one building the house that serves him a few years, or seventy or eighty years at most, I see one building the house that serves him longer than that.

Slow-moving and black lines creep over the whole earth—they never cease—they are the burial lines, He that was President was buried, and he that is now President shall surely be buried. Steady the trot to the cemetery, duly rattles the death-bell, the gate is pass'd, the new-dug grave is halted at, the living alight, the hearse uncloses, The coffin is pass'd out, lower'd and settled, the whip is laid on the coffin, the earth is swiftly shovel'd in, The mound above is flatted with the spades—silence, A minute—no one moves or speaks—it is done, He is decently put away—is there anything more?

He was a good fellow, free-mouth'd, quick-temper'd, not bad-looking, able to take his own part, witty, sensitive to a slight, ready with life or death for a friend, fond of women, gambled, ate hearty, drank hearty, had known what it was to be flush, grew low-spirited toward the last, sicken'd, was help'd by a contribution, died, aged forty-one years—and that was his funeral. Thumb extended, finger uplifted, apron, cape, gloves, strap, wet-weather clothes, whip carefully chosen, boss, spotter, starter, hostler, somebody loafing on you, you loafing on somebody, headway, man before and man behind, good day's work, bad day's work, pet stock, mean stock, first out, last out, turning-in at night; To think that these are so much and so nigh to other drivers—and he there takes no interest in them!

To think that other working-men will make just as great account of them—yet we make little or no account! The vulgar and the refined—what you call sin, and what you call goodness—to think how wide a difference! To think the difference will still continue to others, yet we lie beyond the difference. To think how much pleasure there is! Have you pleasure from looking at the sky? Do you enjoy yourself in the city? Or with your mother and sisters? Your farm, profits, crops,—to think how engross'd you are!

To think there will still be farms, profits, crops—yet for you, of what avail? The sky continues beautiful, The pleasure of men with women shall never be sated, nor the pleasure of women with men, nor the pleasure from poems, The domestic joys, the daily housework or business, the building of houses—these are not phantasms—they have weight, form, location; Farms, profits, crops, markets, wages, government, are none of them phantasms, The difference between sin and goodness is no delusion, The earth is not an echo—man and his life, and all the things of his life, are well-consider'd.

You are not thrown to the winds—you gather certainly and safely around yourself; Yourself! Yourself, forever and ever! The threads that were spun are gather'd, the weft crosses the warp, the pattern is systematic. Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic, And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones, Growing among black folks as among white, Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I receive them the same. And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves. Whitman is "able to see the grass as the recapitulation of the whole cycle of life, death and rebirth; it the symbol of the individual "the flag of my disposition" , of Deity "the handkerchief of the Lord" , of reproduction "the produced babe of the vegetation" , of the new social order of American democracy "a uniform hieroglyphic" , of death "the beautiful uncut hair of graves" , and finally of the new form into which death transmorgrifies life".

The bunches of grass in the child's hands become a symbol of the regeneration in nature. But they also signify a common material that links disparate people all over the United States together: grass, the ultimate symbol of democracy, grows everywhere. In the wake of the Civil War the grass reminds Whitman of graves: grass feeds on the bodies of the dead. Everyone must die eventually, and so the natural roots of democracy are therefore in mortality, whether due to natural causes or to the bloodshed of internecine warfare. While Whitman normally revels in this kind of symbolic indeterminacy, here it troubles him a bit.

Grass, a central the themes of death and immortality, for grass is symbolic of the ongoing cycle of life present in nature, which assures each man of his immortality. Grass is the key symbol of this epic poem, suggests the divinity of common things. It indicates that, God is everything and everything is God. Sections contain a catalog of the infinite wonders in small things. The grass symbol also appears at the closing section of the peom. I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love. If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles. Though the poem Song of Myself lacks the traditional form, but this grass symbol gives the poem an order and the unity of theme.

From the very beginning of the poem the poet emphasizes on his oneness with the general people. Thus the poem ends with the same symbol of grass giving the poem a coherent unifying theme. The poet can wait for those who will understand him. Although it may be difficult to find or interpret him, he will be waiting. In "Song of Myself," Whitman uses "I" to refer not only to himself, but to a larger "I" that includes the reader and humanity in general. Invoking the universal "I" brings a sense of equality to the poem without directly addressing that theme. In its own mysterious way, though, the poem does deal directly with equality and democracy, primarily through Whitman's imagery and language.

Whitman's belief in equality is so strong, he dedicates the first lines of "Song of Myself" to it:. I celebrate myself, and sing myself,. And what I assume you shall assume,. For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you. Here, "I" and "you" are used symbolically, not unlike the "myself" from the title that repeats itself in the first line. The second section of the poem also opens with some symbols.

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