Poems of Walt Whitman

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Crowell, 1902 - Всего страниц: 343

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Стр. 444 - O CAPTAIN ! my captain ! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up — for you the flag is flung — for you the bugle trills; For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths — for you the shores a-crowding; For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; O captain ! dear father! This arm I push beneath
Стр. 444 - done; It is some dream that on the deck, You've fallen cold and dead. 3 MY captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still; My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will: But the ship, the ship is anchor'd safe, its voyage closed
Стр. 161 - THEKE was a child went forth every day, And the first object he looked upon and received with wonder, pity, love, or dread, that object he became, And that object became part of him for the day, or a certain part of the day, or for many years, or stretching cycles of years.
Стр. 374 - WHEN I HEARD THE LEARN'D ASTRONOMER. WHEN I heard the learn'd astronomer; When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me; When I was shown the charts and the diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them; When I, sitting, heard the astronomer, where he lectured with much applause
Стр. 239 - Have the past struggles succeeded ? What has succeeded ? Yourself ? Your nation ? Nature ? Now understand me well — It is provided in the essence of things, that from any fruition of success, no matter what, shall come forth something to make a greater struggle necessary. 54. My call is the call of
Стр. 11 - 2. I loafe and invite my Soul, I lean and loafe at my ease, observing a spear of summer grass. 3. 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.
Стр. 140 - 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 deck-hand singing
Стр. 71 - Why should I wish to see God better than this day ? I see something of God each hour of the twentyfour, and each moment then, In the faces of men and women I see God, and in my own face in the glass, I find letters from God dropped in the street — and
Стр. 439 - From deep secluded recesses, From the fragrant cedars, and the ghostly pines so still, Came the singing of the bird. 27. And the charm of the singing rapt me, As I held, as if by their hands, my comrades in the night; And the voice of my spirit tallied the song of the bird. 16.
Стр. 435 - All over bouquets of roses, O death ! I cover you over with roses and early lilies; But mostly and now the lilac that blooms the first, Copious, I break, I break the sprigs from the bushes: With loaded arms I come, pouring for you, For you and the coffins all of you, O death.) 8.

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Walt Whitman was born on Long Island and raised in Brooklyn, New York, the son of a carpenter. He left school when he was 11 years old to take a variety of jobs. By the time he was 15, Whitman was living on his own in New York City, working as a printer and writing short pieces for newspapers. He spent a few years teaching, but most of his work was either in journalism or politics. Gradually, Whitman became a regular contributor to a variety of Democratic Party newspapers and reviews, and early in his career established a rather eccentric way of life, spending a great deal of time walking the streets, absorbing life and talking with laborers. Extremely fond of the opera, he used his press pass to spend many evenings in the theater. In 1846, Whitman became editor of the Brooklyn Eagle, a leading Democratic newspaper. Two years later, he was fired for opposing the expansion of slavery into the west. Whitman's career as a poet began in 1885, with the publication of the first edition of his poetry collection, Leaves of Grass. The book was self-published (Whitman probably set some of the type himself), and despite his efforts to publicize it - including writing his own reviews - few people read it. One reader who did appreciate it was essayist Ralph Waldo Emerson, who wrote a letter greeting Whitman at "the beginning of a great career." Whitman's poetry was unlike any verse that had ever been seen. Written without rhyme, in long, loose lines, filled with poetic lists and exclamations taken from Whitman's reading of the Bible, Homer, and Asian poets, these poems were totally unlike conventional poetry. Their subject matter, too, was unusual - the celebration of a free-spirited individualist whose love for all things and people seemed at times disturbingly sensual. In 1860, with the publication of the third edition on Leaves of Grass, Whitman alienated conventional thinkers and writers even more. When he went to Boston to meet Emerson, poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, essayist Oliver Wendell Holmes, and poet James Russell Lowell, they all objected to the visit. With the outbreak of the Civil War, Whitman's attentions turned almost exclusively to that conflict. Some of the greatest poetry of his career, including Drum Taps (1865) and his magnificent elegy for President Abraham Lincoln, "When Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd" (1865), was written during this period. In 1862, his brother George was wounded in battle, and Whitman went to Washington to nurse him. He continued as a hospital volunteer throughout the war, nursing other wounded soldiers and acting as a benevolent father-figure and confidant. Parts of his memoir Specimen Days (1882) record this period. After the war, Whitman stayed on in Washington, working as a government clerk and continuing to write. In 1873 he suffered a stroke and retired to Camden, New Jersey, where he lived as an invalid for the rest of his life. Ironically, his reputation began to grow during this period, as the public became more receptive to his poetic and personal eccentricities. Whitman tried to capture the spirit of America in a new poetic form. His poetry is rough, colloquial, sweeping in its vistas - a poetic equivalent of the vast land and its varied peoples. Critic Louis Untermeyer has written, "In spite of Whitman's perplexing mannerisms, the poems justify their boundless contradictions. They shake themselves free from rant and bombastic audacities and rise into the clear air of major poetry. Such poetry is not large but self-assured; it knows, as Whitman asserted, the amplitude of time and laughs at dissolution. It contains continents; it unfolds the new heaven and new earth of the Western world." American poetry has never been the same since Whitman tore it away from its formal and thematic constraints, and he is considered by virtually all critics today to be one of the greatest poets the country has ever produced.

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