Far from the settlements studying the print of animals’ feet, or the moccasin print. Nor the old man who has lived without purpose, and feels it with bitterness worse than gall. It is for the wicked just the same as the righteous, I make appointments with all. Something I cannot see puts upward libidinous prongs. Sermons, creeds, theology—but the fathomless human brain. The boatmen and clam-diggers arose early and stopt for me. Give me a little time beyond my cuff’d head, slumbers, dreams, gaping. I wear my hat as I please indoors or out. The saints and sages in history—but you yourself? Where the humming-bird shimmers, where the neck of the long-lived swan is curving and winding. The first I graft and increase upon myself, the latter I translate into a new tongue. Undrape! And there is no trade or employment but the young man following it may become a hero. My feet strike an apex of the apices of the stairs. One of that centripetal and centrifugal gang I turn and talk like a man leaving charges before a journey. And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels. Continue your annotations, continue your questionings. What is a man anyhow? Calling my name from flower-beds, vines, tangled underbrush. If you would understand me go to the heights or water-shore. becoming already a creator. 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,). Overhand the hammers swing, overhand so slow, overhand so sure. Hands I have taken, face I have kiss’d, mortal I have ever touch’d, it shall be you. The child is baptized, the convert is making his first professions, The regatta is spread on the bay, the race is begun, (how the white sails sparkle!). It is for my mouth forever, I am in love with it. Every thought that flounders in me the same flounders in them. What living and buried speech is always vibrating here, what howls restrain’d by decorum. I call to the earth and sea half-held by the night. In vain the razor-bill’d auk sails far north to Labrador. And other births will bring us richness and variety. By God! Whitman’s subject is himself, but it is clear that Whitman means more than just his physical self. The fifty two sections of the song are connected in unexpected ways. Ah the homeliest of them is beautiful to her. The second First-day morning they were brought out in squads and massacred, it was beautiful early summer. Did you guess the celestial laws are yet to be work’d over and rectified? My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing of blood and air through my lungs. Deluding my confusion with the calm of the sunlight and pasture-fields. Where the laughing-gull scoots by the shore, where she laughs her near-human laugh. The brood of the turkey-hen and she with her half-spread wings. Approaching Manhattan up by the long-stretching island. And I say to any man or woman, Let your soul stand cool and composed before a million universes. Earth! The deacons are ordain’d with cross’d hands at the altar. How could I answer the child? As the fare-collector goes through the train he gives notice by the jingling of loose change. Our swift ordinances on their way over the whole earth. Flaunt of the sunshine I need not your bask—lie over! The dried grass of the harvest-time loads the slow-drawn wagon. I behold from the beach your crooked inviting fingers. Leaving me baskets cover’d with white towels swelling the house with their plenty. And the running blackberry would adorn the parlors of heaven. Preferring scars and the beard and faces pitted with small-pox over all latherers. Talkative young ones to those that like them, the loud laugh of work-people at their meals. Their colonel was wounded and their ammunition gone. Nor him in the poor house tubercled by rum and the bad disorder. The western turkey-shooting draws old and young, some lean on their rifles, some sit on logs. Walt Whitman's work features prominently throughout the film, and Simon Wilder is often referred to as Walt Whitman's ghost. They descend in new forms from the tips of his fingers. In the second (1856) edition, Whitman used the title "Poem of Walt Whitman, an American," which was shortened to "Walt Whitman" for the third (1860) edition. The pure contralto sings in the organ loft. The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore and dark-color’d sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn. Taking them all for what they are worth and not a cent more. In single file each shouldering his hod pass onward the laborers; Seasons pursuing each other the indescribable crowd is gather’d, it is the fourth of Seventh-month, (what salutes of cannon and small arms!). Where the brook puts out of the roots of the old tree and flows to the meadow. Jostling me through streets and public halls, coming naked to me at night. For me those that have been boys and that love women. All I mark as my own you shall offset it with your own. The well-taken photographs—but your wife or friend close and solid in your arms? Invention comes to the fore in this section, the poet creating a series of fictions to tell a difficult truth—that his celebration of the self includes everyone, regardless of race, identity, or place in society. My knowledge my live parts, it keeping tally with the meaning of all things, Happiness, (which whoever hears me let him or her set out in search of this day.). Knowing the perfect fitness and equanimity of things, while they discuss I am silent, and go bathe and admire myself. My final merit I refuse you, I refuse putting from me what I really am. 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