Walt Whitman – Not Heat Flames Up and Consumes

Not Heat Flames Up and Consumes

NOT heat flames up and consumes,
Not sea-waves hurry in and out,
Not the air delicious and dry, the air of ripe summer, bears lightly 
 along white down-balls of myriads of seeds,
Wafted, sailing gracefully, to drop where they may;
Not these, O none of these more than the flames of me, consuming,
 burning for his love whom I love,
O none more than I hurrying in and out;
Does the tide hurry, seeking something, and never give up? O I 
 the same,
O nor down-balls nor perfumes, nor the high rain-emitting clouds,
 are borne through the open air,
Any more than my soul is borne through the open air,
Wafted in all directions O love, for friendship, for you.

Walt Whitman – Roots and Leaves Themselves Alone

Roots and Leaves Themselves Alone

ROOTS and leaves themselves alone are these,
Scents brought to men and women from the wild woods and 
 pond-side,
Breast-sorrel and pinks of love, fingers that wind around tighter 
 than vines,
Gushes from the throats of birds hid in the foliage of trees as the 
 sun is risen,
Breezes of land and love set from living shores to you on the living 
 sea, to you O sailors!
Frost-mellow'd berries and Third-month twigs offer'd fresh to 
 young persons wandering out in the fields when the winter 
 breaks up,
Love-buds put before you and within you whoever you are,
Buds to be unfolded on the old terms,
If you bring the warmth of the sun to them they will open and 
 bring form, color, perfume, to you,
If you become the aliment and the wet they will become flowers,
 fruits, tall branches and trees.

Walt Whitman – Are You the New Person Drawn Toward Me?

Are You the New Person Drawn Toward Me?

ARE you the new person drawn toward me?
To begin with take warning, I am surely far different from what 
 you suppose;
Do you suppose you will find in me your ideal?
Do you think it so easy to have me become your lover?
Do you think the friendship of me would be unalloy'd satisfaction?
Do you think I am trusty and faithful?
Do you see no further than this façade, this smooth and tolerant 
 manner of me?
Do you suppose yourself advancing on real ground toward a real 
 heroic man?
Have you no thought O dreamer that it may be all maya, illusion?

Walt Whitman – When I Heard at the Close of the Day

When I Heard at the Close of the Day

WHEN I heard at the close of the day how my name had been 
 receiv'd with plaudits in the capitol, still it was not a happy 
 night for me that follow'd,
And else when I carous'd, or when my plans were accomplish'd,
 still I was not happy,
But the day when I rose at dawn from the bed of perfect health,
 refresh'd, singing, inhaling the ripe breath of autumn,
When I saw the full moon in the west grow pale and disappear in 
 the morning light,
When I wander'd alone over the beach, and undressing bathed,
 laughing with the cool waters, and saw the sun rise,
And when I thought how my dear friend my lover was on his way 
 coming, O then I was happy,
O then each breath tasted sweeter, and all that day my food 
 nourish'd me more, and the beautiful day pass'd well,
And the next came with equal joy, and with the next at evening 
 came my friend,
And that night while all was still I heard the waters roll slowly 
 continually up the shores,
I heard the hissing rustle of the liquid and sands as directed to 
 me whispering to congratulate me,
For the one I love most lay sleeping by me under the same cover 
 in the cool night,
In the stillness in the autumn moonbeams his face was inclined 
 toward me,
And his arm lay lightly around my breast—and that night I was 
 happy.

Walt Whitman – Recorders Ages Hence

Recorders Ages Hence

RECORDERS ages hence,
Come, I will take you down underneath this impassive exterior, I 
 will tell you what to say of me,
Publish my name and hang up my picture as that of the tenderest 
 lover,
The friend the lover's portrait, of whom his friend his lover was 
 fondest,
Who was not proud of his songs, but of the measureless ocean of 
 love within him, and freely pour'd it forth,
Who often walk'd lonesome walks thinking of his dear friends, his 
 lovers,
Who pensive away from one he lov'd often lay sleepless and dissatisfied at night,
Who knew too well the sick, sick dread lest the one he lov'd 
 might secretly be indifferent to him,
Whose happiest days were far away through fields, in woods, on 
 hills, he and another wandering hand in hand, they twain 
 apart from other men,
Who oft as he saunter'd the streets curv'd with his arm the shoulder of his friend, while the arm of his friend rested upon 
 him also.

Walt Whitman – The Base of All Metaphysics

The Base of All Metaphysics

AND now gentlemen,
A word I give to remain in your memories and minds,
As base and finalè too for all metaphysics.

(So to the students the old professor,
At the close of his crowded course.)

Having studied the new and antique, the Greek and Germanic 
 systems,
Kant having studied and stated, Fichte and Schelling and Hegel,
Stated the lore of Plato, and Socrates greater than Plato,
And greater than Socrates sought and stated, Christ divine having 
 studied long,
I see reminiscent to-day those Greek and Germanic systems,
See the philosophies all, Christian churches and tenets see,
Yet underneath Socrates clearly see, and underneath Christ the 
 divine I see,
The dear love of man for his comrade, the attraction of friend to 
 friend,
Of the well-married husband and wife, of children and parents,
Of city for city and land for land.

Walt Whitman – Of the Terrible Doubt of Appearances

Of the Terrible Doubt of Appearances

OF the terrible doubt of appearances,
Of the uncertainty after all, that we may be deluded,
That may-be reliance and hope are but speculations after all,
That may-be identity beyond the grave is a beautiful fable only,
May-be the things I perceive, the animals, plants, men, hills,
 shining and flowing waters,
The skies of day and night, colors, densities, forms, may-be these 
 are (as doubtless they are) only apparitions, and the real 
 something has yet to be known,
(How often they dart out of themselves as if to confound me and 
 mock me!
How often I think neither I know, nor any man knows, aught of 
 them,)
May-be seeming to me what they are (as doubtless they indeed 
 but seem) as from my present point of view, and might 
 prove (as of course they would) nought of what they 
 appear, or nought anyhow, from entirely changed points 
 of view;
To me these and the like of these are curiously answer'd by my 
 lovers, my dear friends,
When he whom I love travels with me or sits a long while holding 
 me by the hand,
When the subtle air, the impalpable, the sense that words and 
 reason hold not, surround us and pervade us,
Then I am charged with untold and untellable wisdom, I am 
 silent, I require nothing further,
I cannot answer the question of appearances or that of identity 
 beyond the grave,
But I walk or sit indifferent, I am satisfied,
He ahold of my hand has completely satisfied me.

Walt Whitman – Not Heaving from My Ribb’d Breast Only

Not Heaving from My Ribb’d Breast Only

NOT heaving from my ribb'd breast only,
Not in sighs at night in rage dissatisfied with myself,
Not in those long-drawn, ill-supprest sighs,
Not in many an oath and promise broken,
Not in my wilful and savage soul's volition,
Not in the subtle nourishment of the air,
Not in this beating and pounding at my temples and wrists,
Not in the curious systole and diastole within which will one day 
 cease,
Not in many a hungry wish told to the skies only,
Not in cries, laughter, defiances, thrown from me when alone far 
 in the wilds,
Not in husky pantings through clinch'd teeth,
Not in sounded and resounded words, chattering words, echoes,
 dead words,
Not in the murmurs of my dreams while I sleep,
Nor the other murmurs of these incredible dreams of every day,
Nor in the limbs and senses of my body that take you and dismiss 
 you continually—not there,
Not in any or all of them O adhesiveness! O pulse of my life!
Need I that you exist and show yourself any more than in these 
 songs.

Walt Whitman – These I Singing in Spring

These I Singing in Spring

THESE I singing in spring collect for lovers,
(For who but I should understand lovers and all their sorrow and 
 joy?
And who but I should be the poet of comrades?)
Collecting I traverse the garden the world, but soon I pass the 
 gates,
Now along the pond-side, now wading in a little, fearing not the 
 wet,
Now by the post-and-rail fences where the old stones thrown there, 
 pick'd from the fields, have accumulated,
(Wild-flowers and vines and weeds come up through the stones 
 and partly cover them, beyond these I pass,)
Far, far in the forest, or sauntering later in summer, before I think 
 where I go,
Solitary, smelling the earthy smell, stopping now and then in the 
 silence,
Alone I had thought, yet soon a troop gathers around me,
Some walk by my side and some behind, and some embrace my 
 arms or neck,
They the spirits of dear friends dead or alive, thicker they come, 
 a great crowd, and I in the middle,
Collecting, dispensing, singing, there I wander with them,
Plucking something for tokens, tossing toward whoever is near me,
Here, lilac, with a branch of pine,
Here, out of my pocket, some moss which I pull'd off a live-oak 
 in Florida as it hung trailing down,
Here, some pinks and laurel leaves, and a handful of sage,
And here what I now draw from the water, wading in the pond-
 side,
(O here I last saw him that tenderly loves me, and returns again 
 never to separate from me,
And this, O this shall henceforth be the token of comrades, this 
 calamus-root shall,
Interchange it youths with each other! let none render it back!)
And twigs of maple and a bunch of wild orange and chestnut,
And stems of currants and plum-blows, and the aromatic cedar,
These I compass'd around by a thick cloud of spirits,
Wandering, point to or touch as I pass, or throw them loosely 
 from me,
Indicating to each one what he shall have, giving something to 
 each;
But what I drew from the water by the pond-side, that I reserve,
I will give of it, but only to them that love as I myself am capable 
 of loving.

Walt Whitman – For You, O Democracy —

For You, O Democracy

COME, I will make the continent indissoluble,
I will make the most splendid race the sun ever shone upon,
I will make divine magnetic lands, 
 With the love of comrades, 
 With the life-long love of comrades.

I will plant companionship thick as trees along all the rivers of 
 America, and along the shores of the great lakes, and all 
 over the prairies,
I will make inseparable cities with their arms about each other's 
 necks, 
 By the love of comrades, 
 By the manly love of comrades.

For you these from me, O Democracy, to serve you ma femme!
For you, for you I am trilling these songs.