Excerpts from “Song of Myself ”

Walt Whitman

I celebrate myself, and sing myself,

And what I assume you shall assume,

For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul,

I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form’d from this soil, this air,

Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same,

I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,

Hoping to cease not till death.

…

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,)

You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor

feed on the spectres in books,

You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,

You shall listen to all sides and filter them from yourself.

A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;

How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,

A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt,

Bearing the owner’s name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say Whose?

Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation.

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.

Tenderly will I use you curling grass,

It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,

It may be if I had known them I would have loved them,

It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken soon out of their mothers’ laps,

And here you are the mothers’ laps.

This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,

Darker than the colorless beards of old men,

Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.

O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues,

And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing.

I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women,

And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their laps.

What do you think has become of the young and old men?

And what do you think has become of the women and children?

They are alive and well somewhere,

The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,

And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it,

And ceas’d the moment life appear’d.

All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,

And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.

…

The pure contralto sings in the organ loft,

The carpenter dresses his plank, the tongue of his foreplane whistles its wild ascending lisp,

The married and unmarried children ride home to their Thanksgiving dinner,

The pilot seizes the king-pin, he heaves down with a strong arm,

The mate stands braced in the whale-boat, lance and harpoon are ready,

The duck-shooter walks by silent and cautious stretches,

The deacons are ordain’d with cross’d hands at the altar,

The spinning-girl retreats and advances to the hum of the big wheel,

The farmer stops by the bars as he walks on a First-day loafe and looks at the oats and rye,

The lunatic is carried at last to the asylum a confirm’d case,

(He will never sleep any more as he did in the cot in his mother’s bed-room;)

The jour printer with gray head and gaunt jaws works at his case,

He turns his quid of tobacco while his eyes blurr with the manuscript;

The malform’d limbs are tied to the surgeon’s table,

What is removed drops horribly in a pail;

The quadroon girl is sold at the auction-stand, the drunkard nods by the bar-room stove,

The machinist rolls up his sleeves, the policeman travels his beat, the gate-keeper marks who pass,

The young fellow drives the express-wagon, (I love him, though I do not know him;)

The half-breed straps on his light boots to compete in the race,

The western turkey-shooting draws old and young, some lean on their rifles, some sit on logs,

Out from the crowd steps the marksman, takes his position, levels his piece;

The groups of newly-come immigrants cover the wharf or levee,

As the woolly-pates hoe in the sugar-field, the overseer views them from his saddle,

The bugle calls in the ball-room, the gentlemen run for their partners, the dancers bow to each other,

The youth lies awake in the cedar-roof ’d garret and harks to the musical rain,

The Wolverine sets traps on the creek that helps fill the Huron,

The squaw wrapt in her yellow-hemm’d cloth is offering moccasins and bead-bags for sale,

The connoisseur peers along the exhibition-gallery with half-shut eyes bent sideways,

As the deck-hands make fast the steamboat the plank is thrown for the shore-going passengers,

The young sister holds out the skein while the elder sister winds it off in a ball, and stops now and

then for the knots,

The one-year wife is recovering and happy having a week ago borne her first child,

The clean-hair’d Yankee girl works with her sewing-machine or in the factory or mill,

The paving-man leans on his two-handed rammer, the reporter’s lead flies swiftly over the notebook, the sign-painter is lettering with blue and gold,

The canal boy trots on the tow-path, the book-keeper counts at his desk, the shoemaker waxes his

thread,

The conductor beats time for the band and all the performers follow him,

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!)

The drover watching his drove sings out to them that would stray,

The pedler sweats with his pack on his back, (the purchaser higgling about the odd cent;)

The bride unrumples her white dress, the minute-hand of the clock moves slowly,

The opium-eater reclines with rigid head and just-open’d lips,

The prostitute draggles her shawl, her bonnet bobs on her tipsy and pimpled neck,

The crowd laugh at her blackguard oaths, the men jeer and wink to each other,

(Miserable! I do not laugh at your oaths nor jeer you;)

The President holding a cabinet council is surrounded by the great Secretaries,

On the piazza walk three matrons stately and friendly with twined arms,

The crew of the fish-smack pack repeated layers of halibut in the hold,

The Missourian crosses the plains toting his wares and his cattle,

As the fare-collector goes through the train he gives notice by the jingling of loose change,

The floor-men are laying the floor, the tinners are tinning the roof, the masons are calling for mortar,

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!)

Seasons pursuing each other the plougher ploughs, the mower mows, and the winter-grain falls in

the ground;

Off on the lakes the pike-fisher watches and waits by the hole in the frozen surface,

The stumps stand thick round the clearing, the squatter strikes deep with his axe,

Flatboatmen make fast towards dusk near the cotton-wood or pecan-trees,

Coon-seekers go through the regions of the Red river or through those drain’d by the Tennessee, or

through those of the Arkansas,

Torches shine in the dark that hangs on the Chattahooche or Altamahaw,

Patriarchs sit at supper with sons and grandsons and great-grandsons around them,

In walls of adobie, in canvas tents, rest hunters and trappers after their day’s sport,

The city sleeps and the country sleeps,

The living sleep for their time, the dead sleep for their time,

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,

And such as it is to be of these more or less I am,

And of these one and all I weave the song of myself.

…

Walt Whitman, a kosmos, of Manhattan the son,

Turbulent, fleshy, sensual, eating, drinking and breeding,

No sentimentalist, no stander above men and women or apart from them,

No more modest than immodest.

Unscrew the locks from the doors!

Unscrew the doors themselves from their jambs!

Whoever degrades another degrades me,

And whatever is done or said returns at last to me.

Through me the afflatus surging and surging, through me the current and index.

I speak the pass-word primeval, I give the sign of democracy,

By God! I will accept nothing which all cannot have their counterpart of on the same terms.

Through me many long dumb voices,

Voices of the interminable generations of prisoners and slaves,

Voices of the diseas’d and despairing and of thieves and dwarfs,

Voices of cycles of preparation and accretion,

And of the threads that connect the stars, and of wombs and of the father-stuff,

And of the rights of them the others are down upon,

Of the deform’d, trivial, flat, foolish, despised,

Fog in the air, beetles rolling balls of dung.

Through me forbidden voices,

Voices of sexes and lusts, voices veil’d and I remove the veil,

Voices indecent by me clarified and transfigur’d.

…

I know I have the best of time and space, and was never measured and never will be measured.

I tramp a perpetual journey, (come listen all!)

My signs are a rain-proof coat, good shoes, and a staff cut from the woods,

No friend of mine takes his ease in my chair,

I have no chair, no church, no philosophy,

I lead no man to a dinner-table, library, exchange,

But each man and each woman of you I lead upon a knoll,

My left hand hooking you round the waist,

My right hand pointing to landscapes of continents and the public road.

Not I, not any one else can travel that road for you,

You must travel it for yourself.

It is not far, it is within reach,

Perhaps you have been on it since you were born and did not know,

Perhaps it is everywhere on water and on land.

Shoulder your duds dear son, and I will mine, and let us hasten forth,

Wonderful cities and free nations we shall fetch as we go.

If you tire, give me both burdens, and rest the chuff of your hand on my hip,

And in due time you shall repay the same service to me,

For after we start we never lie by again.

This day before dawn I ascended a hill and look’d at the crowded heaven,

And I said to my spirit, When we become the enfolders of those orbs, and the pleasure and knowledge of every thing in them, shall we be fill’d and satisfied then?

And my spirit said, No, we but level that lift to pass and continue beyond.

You are also asking me questions and I hear you,

I answer that I cannot answer, you must find out for yourself.

Sit a while dear son,

Here are biscuits to eat and here is milk to drink,

But as soon as you sleep and renew yourself in sweet clothes, I kiss you with a good-by kiss and

open the gate for your egress hence.

Long enough have you dream’d contemptible dreams,

Now I wash the gum from your eyes,

You must habit yourself to the dazzle of the light and of every moment of your life.

Long have you timidly waded holding a plank by the shore,

Now I will you to be a bold swimmer,

To jump off in the midst of the sea, rise again, nod to me, shout, and laughingly dash with your hair.

…

The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains of my gab and my loitering.

I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,

I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.

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 dusk.

I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,

I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.

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.

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,

But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,

And filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,

Missing me one place search another,

I stop somewhere waiting for you.

Summary and Form

This most famous of Whitman’s works was one of the original twelve pieces in the 1855 first edition of Leaves of Grass. Like most of the other poems, it too was revised extensively, reaching its final permutation in 1881. “Song of Myself” is a sprawling combination of biography, sermon, and poetic meditation. It is not nearly as heavy-handed in its pronouncements as “Starting at Paumanok”; rather, Whitman uses symbols and sly commentary to get at important issues. “Song of Myself” is composed more of vignettes than lists: Whitman uses small, precisely drawn scenes to do his work here.

This poem did not take on the title “Song of Myself” until the 1881 edition. Previous to that it had been titled “Poem of Walt Whitman, an American” and, in the 1860, 1867, and 1871 editions, simply “Walt Whitman.” The poem’s shifting title suggests something of what Whitman was about in this piece. As Walt Whitman, the specific individual, melts away into the abstract “Myself,” the poem explores the possibilities for communion between individuals. Starting from the premise that “what I assume you shall assume” Whitman tries to prove that he both encompasses and is indistinguishable from the universe.

ANALYSIS

Whitman’s poetry is democratic in both its subject matter and its language. As the great lists that make up a large part of Whitman’s poetry show, anything—and anyone—is fair game for a poem. Whitman is concerned with cataloguing the new America he sees growing around him. Just as America is far different politically and practically from its European counterparts, so too must American poetry distinguish itself from previous models. Thus we see Whitman breaking new ground in both subject matter and diction.

In a way, though, Whitman is not so unique. His preference for the quotidian links him with both Dante, who was the first to write poetry in a vernacular language, and with Wordsworth, who famously stated that poetry should aim to speak in the “language of ordinary men.” Unlike Wordsworth, however, Whitman does not romanticize the proletariat or the peasant. Instead he takes as his model himself. The stated mission of his poetry was, in his words, to make “[a]n attempt to put a Person, a human being (myself, in the latter half of the 19th century, in America) freely, fully, and truly on record.” A truly democratic poetry, for Whitman, is one that, using a common language, is able to cross the gap between the self and another individual, to effect a sympathetic exchange of experiences.

This leads to a distinct blurring of the boundaries between the self and the world and between public and private. Whitman prefers spaces and situations—like journeys, the out-of-doors, cities—that allow for ambiguity in these respects. Thus we see poems like “Song of the Open Road” and “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry,” where the poet claims to be able to enter into the heads of others. Exploration becomes not just a trope but a mode of existence.

For Whitman, spiritual communion depends on physical contact, or at least proximity. The body is the vessel that enables the soul to experience the world. Therefore the body is something to be worshipped and given a certain primacy. Eroticism, particularly homoeroticism, figures significantly in Whitman’s poetry. This is something that got him in no small amount of trouble during his lifetime. The erotic interchange of his poetry, though, is meant to symbolize the intense but always incomplete connection between individuals. Having sex is the closest two people can come to being one merged individual, but the boundaries of the body always prevent a complete union. The affection Whitman shows for the bodies of others, both men and women, comes out of his appreciation for the linkage between the body and the soul and the communion that can come through physical contact. He also has great respect for the reproductive and generative powers of the body, which mirror the intellect’s generation of poetry.

The Civil War diminished Whitman’s faith in democratic sympathy. While the cause of the war nominally furthered brotherhood and equality, the war itself was a quagmire of killing. Reconstruction, which began to fail almost immediately after it was begun, further disappointed Whitman. His later poetry, which displays a marked insecurity about the place of poetry and the place of emotion in general (see in particular “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d”), is darker and more isolated.

Whitman’s style remains consistent throughout, however. The poetic structures he employs are unconventional but reflect his democratic ideals. Lists are a way for him to bring together a wide variety of items without imposing a hierarchy on them. Perception, rather than analysis, is the basis for this kind of poetry, which uses few metaphors or other kinds of symbolic language. Anecdotes are another favored device. By transmitting a story, often one he has gotten from another individual, Whitman hopes to give his readers a sympathetic experience, which will allow them to incorporate the anecdote into their own history. The kind of language Whitman uses sometimes supports and sometimes seems to contradict his philosophy. He often uses obscure, foreign, or invented words. This, however, is not meant to be intellectually elitist but is instead meant to signify Whitman’s status as a unique individual. Democracy does not necessarily mean sameness. The difficulty of some of his language also mirrors the necessary imperfection of connections between individuals: no matter how hard we try, we can never completely understand each other. Whitman largely avoids rhyme schemes and other traditional poetic devices. He does, however, use meter in masterful and innovative ways, often to mimic natural speech. In these ways, he is able to demonstrate that he has mastered traditional poetry but is no longer subservient to it, just as democracy has ended the subservience of the individual.

THEMES

Democracy As a Way of Life

Whitman envisioned democracy not just as a political system but as a way of experiencing the world. In the early nineteenth century, people still harbored many doubts about whether the United States could survive as a country and about whether democracy could thrive as a political system. To allay those fears and to praise democracy, Whitman tried to be democratic in both life and poetry. He imagined democracy as a way of interpersonal interaction and as a way for individuals to integrate their beliefs into their everyday lives. “Song of Myself” notes that democracy must include all individuals equally, or else it will fail.

In his poetry, Whitman widened the possibilities of Poeticdiction by including slang, colloquialisms, and regional dialects, rather than employing the stiff, erudite language so often found in nineteenth-century verse. Similarly, he broadened the possibilities of subject matter by describing myriad people and places. Like William Wordsworth, Whitman believed that everyday life and everyday people were fit subjects for poetry. Although much of Whitman’s work does not explicitly discuss politics, most of it implicitly deals with democracy: it describes communities of people coming together, and it imagines many voices pouring into a unified whole. For Whitman, democracy was an idea that could and should permeate the world beyond politics, making itself felt in the ways we think, speak, work, fight, and even make art.

The Cycle of Growth and Death

Whitman’s poetry reflects the vitality and growth of the early United States. During the nineteenth century, America expanded at a tremendous rate, and its growth and potential seemed limitless. But sectionalism and the violence of the Civil War threatened to break apart and destroy the boundless possibilities of the United States. As a way of dealing with both the population growth and the massive deaths during the Civil War, Whitman focused on the life cycles of individuals: people are born, they age and reproduce, and they die. Such poems as “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d” imagine death as an integral part of life. The Speaker of “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d” realizes that flowers die in the winter, but they rebloom in the springtime, and he vows to mourn his fallen friends every year just as new buds are appearing. Describing the life cycle of nature helped Whitman contextualize the severe injuries and trauma he witnessed during the Civil War—linking death to life helped give the deaths of so many soldiers meaning.

The Beauty of the Individual

Throughout his poetry, Whitman praised the individual. He imagined a democratic nation as a unified whole composed of unique but equal individuals. “Song of Myself” opens in a triumphant paean to the individual: “I celebrate myself, and sing myself” (1). Elsewhere the speaker of that exuberant poem identifies himself as Walt Whitman and claims that, through him, the voices of many will speak. In this way, many individuals make up the individual democracy, a single entity composed of myriad parts. Every voice and every part will carry the same weight within the single democracy—and thus every voice and every individual is equally beautiful. Despite this pluralist view, Whitman still singled out specific individuals for praise in his poetry, particularly Abraham Lincoln. In 1865, Lincoln was assassinated, and Whitman began composing several Elegies, including “O Captain! My Captain!” Although all individuals were beautiful and worthy of praise, some individuals merited their own poems because of their contributions to society and democracy.

MOTIFS

Lists

Whitman filled his poetry with long lists. Often a sentence will be broken into many clauses, separated by commas, and each clause will describe some scene, person, or object. These lists create a sense of expansiveness in the poem, as they mirror the growth of the United States. Also, these lists layer images atop one another to reflect the diversity of American landscapes and people. In “Song of Myself,” for example, the speaker lists several adjectives to describe Walt Whitman in section 24. The speaker uses multiple adjectives to demonstrate the complexity of the individual: true individuals cannot be described using just one or two words. Later in this section, the speaker also lists the different types of voices who speak through Whitman. Lists are another way of demonstrating democracy in action: in lists, all items possess equal weight, and no item is more important than another item in the list. In a democracy, all individuals possess equal weight, and no individual is more important than another.

The Human Body

Whitman’s poetry revels in its depictions of the human body and the body’s capacity for physical contact. The speaker of “Song of Myself” claims that “copulation is no more rank to me than death is” (521) to demonstrate the naturalness of taking pleasure in the body’s physical possibilities. With physical contact comes spiritual communion: two touching bodies form one individual unit of togetherness. Several poems praise the bodies of both women and men, describing them at work, at play, and interacting. The speaker of “I Sing the Body Electric” (1855) boldly praises the perfection of the human form and worships the body because the body houses the soul. This free expression of sexuality horrified some of Whitman’s early readers, and Whitman was fired from his job at the Indian Bureau in 1865 because the secretary of the interior found Leaves of Grass offensive. Whitman’s unabashed praise of the male form has led many critics to argue that he was homosexual or bisexual, but the repressive culture of the nineteenth century prevented him from truly expressing those feelings in his work.

Rhythm and Incantation

Many of Whitman’s poems rely on Rhythm and repetition to create a captivating, spellbinding quality of incantation. Often, Whitman begins several lines in a row with the same word or phrase, a literary device called Anaphora. For example, the first four lines of “When I Heard the Learn’d Astronomer” (1865) each begin with the word when. The long lines of such poems as “Song of Myself” and “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d” force readers to inhale several bits of text without pausing for breath, and this breathlessness contributes to the incantatory quality of the poems. Generally, the anaphora and the rhythm transform the poems into celebratory chants, and the joyous form and structure reflect the joyousness of the poetic content. Elsewhere, however, the repetition and rhythm contribute to an elegiac tone, as in “O Captain! My Captain!” This poem uses short lines and words, such as heart and father,to mournfully incant an elegy for the assassinated Abraham Lincoln.

SYMBOLS

Plants

Throughout Whitman’s poetry, plant life symbolizes both growth and multiplicity. Rapid, regular plant growth also stands in for the rapid, regular expansion of the population of the United States. In “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d,” Whitman uses flowers, bushes, wheat, trees, and other plant life to signify the possibilities of regeneration and re-growth after death. As the speaker mourns the loss of Lincoln, he drops a lilac spray onto the coffin; the act of laying a flower on the coffin not only honors the person who has died but lends death a measure of dignity and respect. The title Leaves of Grass highlights another of Whitman’s themes: the beauty of the individual. Each leaf or blade of grass possesses its own distinct beauty, and together the blades form a beautiful unified whole, an idea Whitman explores in the sixth section of “Song of Myself.” Multiple leaves of grass thus symbolize democracy, another instance of a beautiful whole composed of individual parts. In 1860, Whitman published an edition of Leaves of Grass that included a number of poems celebrating love between men. He titled this section “The Calamus Poems,” after the phallic calamus plant.

The Self

Whitman’s interest in the self ties into his praise of the individual. Whitman links the self to the conception of poetry throughout his work, envisioning the self as the birthplace of poetry. Most of his poems are spoken from the first person, using the pronoun I. The speaker of Whitman’s most famous poem, “Song of Myself,” even assumes the name Walt Whitman, but nevertheless the speaker remains a fictional creation employed by the poet Whitman. Although Whitman borrows from his own autobiography for some of the speaker’s experiences, he also borrows many experiences from popular works of art, music, and literature. Repeatedly the speaker of this poem exclaims that he contains everything and everyone, which is a way for Whitman to reimagine the boundary between the self and the world. By imaging a person capable of carrying the entire world within him, Whitman can create an elaborate analogy about the ideal democracy, which would, like the self, be capable of containing the whole world.

A noiseless patient spider

A noiseless patient spider,

I mark’d where on a little promontory it stood isolated,

Mark’d how to explore the vacant vast surrounding,

It launch’d forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself,

Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.

And you O my soul where you stand,

Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space,

Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them,

Till the bridge you will need be form’d, till the ductile anchor hold,

Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul.

Summary

Popularity of “A Noiseless Patient Spider”: This poem was written by Walt Whitman, a great American poet. A Noiseless Patient Spider is famous for its themes of isolation and struggle. It was first published in 1891. The poem unfolds the story of a lonely spider, which the poet examines so carefully. It illustrates how the spider tries to connect things while weaving its web.
“A Noiseless Patient Spider”, As a Representative of Loneliness: The speaker illustrates two things; the struggle of the lonely spider and the condition of his soul. At the outset, he provides a graphic picture that the spider, all alone on a little promontory, casts out its web-threads in a vast surrounding. He discusses its isolation and detachment from the rest of the world. Later, he compares his soul with that spider. He says that his soul is also struggling to seek spheres that can connect the speaker to the immeasurable world. Unlike spider, his soul is a seeker trying to attach itself to the vacant surroundings.
Major Themes in “A Noiseless Patient Spider”: Isolation, struggle, and patience are the major themes of this poem. The poet contrasts the battle of his soul with a tiny spider. He explicitly unfolds the effort of the spider and explores the idea that only those who work tirelessly and hold patience connect themselves to the unfathomable world.

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, the diagrams, to add, divide,

and measure them,

When I sitting heard the learned astronomer where he lectured

with much applause in the lecture room,

How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick,

Till rising and gliding out I wander’d off by myself,

In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,

Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars.

Summary:

The speaker of this poem describes listening to a learned astronomer lecture. He sees proofs and figures in columns before him, as well as charts and diagrams that he is supposed to analyze mathematically. At the end of the the lecture, everyone else applauds the astronomer. Meanwhile, the speaker sits in the lecture room, feeling sick and tired. When he wanders away, he looks up into the sky and finally recognizes the magic.

Analysis:

Whitman wrote this poem in free verse, like most of his other poems. It consists of one single stanza with eight lines. The lines vary in length and have different stressed and unstressed syllables, which gives the poem an anecdotal feel. The first four lines of the poem all begin with "When" as the speaker recalls sitting and listening to the astronomer lecture. These first four lines function as a setup; and the final four lines describe the speaker's reaction to the experience well as the lesson from the poem.

In this poem, Whitman uses the example of the astronomer to show the difference between academic learning and experiential learning. The speaker finds the astronomer's lectures stars and mathematical formulas to be boring. He does not feel any sort of connection to the subject matter until he goes outside and sees the stars for himself. Looking up at the night sky is not an experience that one can experience in a classroom, no matter how "learn'd" the teacher might be Whitman felt very strongly that experiencing life's marvels was the only real way to learn.

In this poem, Whitman draws out the stark contrast between the speaker and the educated astronomer. Whitman writes the speaker's voice to emphasize the fact that he is not an academic. For example, he shortens "learned" to "learn'd" when describing the sophisticated professor. The speaker quickly grows bored while listening to the astronomer talk about theories and mathematical equations. The astronomer, however, represents a highly educated and refined class that has a more structured approach to learning. The speaker and the astronomer serve as foils to each other - characters who have opposite beliefs. The writer uses this disparity to highlight each individual's distinct characteristics.

Even though this poem is short, Whitman establishes a clear and vivid setting. First, he describes the classroom and lecture hall, where the astronomer is using charts to illustrate his theories and the audience's polite applause. Whitman's skill in creating evocative imagery is most powerful in the second half of the poem. The speaker is clearly inspired as he "glides" out into the "mystical moist night air" and admires the dazzling stars above him. Whitman paints pictures with these words.

Ultimately, this poem serves to highlight the difference between wisdom and knowledge. In the context of this poem, wisdom is the process of learning through experience and exploration (the speaker appreciates the wonders of the night sky only when he sees it for himself). Knowledge, on the other hand, comes from research, reading, and established theories. Academic knowledge is a more tangible form of intelligence; while wisdom, on the other hand, is intuitive. The astronomer attempts to relay his academic knowledge in his lecture, but the speaker does not connect to the subject matter from such a distance.

Because I could not stop for Death Emily Dickinson

Because I could not stop for Death –
He kindly stopped for me –
The Carriage held but just Ourselves –
And Immortality.

We slowly drove – He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility –

We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess – in the Ring –
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain –
We passed the Setting Sun –

Or rather – He passed us –
The Dews drew quivering and chill –
For only Gossamer, my Gown –
My Tippet – only Tulle –

We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground –
The Roof was scarcely visible –
The Cornice – in the Ground –

Since then – 'tis Centuries – and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses' Heads
Were toward Eternity –

Summary[edit]

The poem was published posthumously in 1890 in Poems: Series 1, a collection of Dickinson's poems assembled and edited by her friends Mabel Loomis Todd and Thomas Wentworth Higginson. The poem was published under the title "The Chariot". It is composed in six quatrains with the meter alternating between iambic tetrameter and iambic trimeter. Stanzas 1, 2, 4, and 6 employ end rhyme in their second and fourth lines, but some of these are only close rhyme or eye rhyme. In the third stanza, there is no end rhyme, but "ring" in line 2 rhymes with "gazing" and "setting" in lines 3 and 4 respectively. Internal rhyme is scattered throughout. Figures of speech include alliteration, anaphora, paradox, and personification. The poem personifies Death as a gentleman caller who takes a leisurely carriage ride with the poet to her grave. She also personifies immortality.^[2] The volta (turn) happens in the fourth quatrain. Structurally, the syllables shift from its constant 8-6-8-6 scheme to 6-8-8-6. This parallels with the undertones of the sixth quatrain. The personification of death changes from one of pleasantry to one of ambiguity and morbidity: "Or rather--He passed Us-- / The Dews drew quivering and chill--" (13–14). The imagery changes from its original nostalgic form of children playing and setting suns to Death's real concern of taking the speaker to the afterlife.

Analysis

Dickinson’s poems deal with death again and again, and it is never quite the same in any poem. In “Because I could not stop for Death—,” we see death personified. He is no frightening, or even intimidating, reaper, but rather a courteous and gentle guide, leading her to eternity. The speaker feels no fear when Death picks her up in his carriage, she just sees it as an act of kindness, as she was too busy to find time for him.

It is this kindness, this individual attention to her—it is emphasized in the first stanza that the carriage holds just the two of them, doubly so because of the internal rhyme in “held” and “ourselves”—that leads the speaker to so easily give up on her life and what it contained. This is explicitly stated, as it is “For His Civility” that she puts away her “labor” and her “leisure,” which is Dickinson using metonymy to represent another alliterative word—her life.

Indeed, the next stanza shows the life is not so great, as this quiet, slow carriage ride is contrasted with what she sees as they go. A school scene of children playing, which could be emotional, is instead only an example of the difficulty of life—although the children are playing “At Recess,” the verb she uses is “strove,” emphasizing the labors of existence. The use of anaphora with “We passed” also emphasizes the tiring repetitiveness of mundane routine.

The next stanza moves to present a more conventional vision of death—things become cold and more sinister, the speaker’s dress is not thick enough to warm or protect her. Yet it quickly becomes clear that though this part of death—the coldness, and the next stanza’s image of the grave as home—may not be ideal, it is worth it, for it leads to the final stanza, which ends with immortality. Additionally, the use of alliteration in this stanza that emphasizes the material trappings—“gossamer” “gown” and “tippet” “tulle”—makes the stanza as a whole less sinister.

That immorality is the goal is hinted at in the first stanza, where “Immortality” is the only other occupant of the carriage, yet it is only in the final stanza that we see that the speaker has obtained it. Time suddenly loses its meaning; hundreds of years feel no different than a day. Because time is gone, the speaker can still feel with relish that moment of realization, that death was not just death, but immortality, for she “surmised the Horses’ Heads/Were toward Eternity –.” By ending with “Eternity –,” the poem itself enacts this eternity, trailing out into the infinite.

Wild Nights—Wild Nights!

Wild Nights – Wild Nights!
Were I with thee
Wild Nights should be
Our luxury!

Futile – the winds –
To a heart in port –
Done with the compass –
Done with the chart!

Rowing in Eden –
Ah, the sea!
Might I moor – Tonight –
In thee!

Summary

In this poem, Emily Dickinson equates wild nights of passion to being on the sea during a wild storm. In the first stanza, the narrator repeats the term "Wild Nights" three times. He or she speaks directly to the beloved, saying that if they were together, wild nights would be a luxury. The term "Wild Nights" is a play on both passionate lovemaking and wild, stormy weather at sea.

In the second stanza, the speaker says the winds don't matter to the lovers who are "in port:" in other words, together. Once the two are together, they can throw away the compasses and charts. In other words, they can dispense with the rule book and do what they want.

In the final stanza, the narrator imagines rowing through a sea in "Eden" or paradise to be with the beloved. The speaker longs to be "moored," in other words to reach the shore where the loved one is. The last two lines speak to a sexual longing for unity with the beloved.

The poem is filled with passion, as is indicated by the many exclamation points Dickinson uses. The speaker is separated from the beloved but passionately wants to be joined with that other person.

Dickinson's poem is also highly universal. We get no specific details about the lover or the beloved: we don't know their genders, their situation, or any details about them. The poem is a generalized account that focuses on the passion to be joined with a beloved.

Analysis

First Stanza

The opening line is a little bit outrageous, a repeated phrase, fully stressed, complete with exclamatory punctuation, giving the reader the idea that the speaker has experienced something extraordinarily profound.

This loud, excitable introduction is followed by a quieter second line that helps put things into perspective. The speaker seems to be merely proposing the idea that if she and some other could be together then....

....wild nights would certainly ensue. Note the plural. Not a single one night stand but envisaged nights, ongoing, indefinite. This third line further underlines the inevitability of such togetherness - should be - a probable deserved and shared experience.

But what of this experience during these wild nights? Everything hinges on the word luxury, which, in the context of this first stanza and the poet's life, points to a fulfilment of an intense desire. This could be sexual, this might be spiritual; it's more than likely linked to death, leaving behind all that is mundane, earthly, physical.

Second Stanza

Some ambiguity has already crept into the interpretation as the speaker announces that the winds cannot be of any use. This is the first mention of an element, the first clue - the winds that blow, that cause change.

· Yet, the reader needs the second line to confirm that the setting for this little drama is the sea. Before the word port arrives there is no clear indication for the setting.

· Before the word Heart appears the reader has little idea that this poem is about love and the intimate feelings attached. Or is that Love and religious feelings attached?

The third and fourth lines reinforce the idea that the journey (already made or to be made) is of no consequence - reason and direction mean nothing.

This is the challenge - either the speaker cannot reach their intended goal because they're held fast in the port, so the winds are useless, as is guidance and rationality symbolised by compass and chart.

The speaker is with her lover or her God or she has lost the opportunity in real life and can now only dream of being united.

Third Stanza

Eden is the biblical garden where Adam and Eve first lived and here is the speaker in a boat, rowing across an imagined sea. Rowing is an obvious sensual action, a rhythmical movement that many have construed as sexual.

And the sea can be understood to mean the passion or emotion, the element we all return to.

The third line brings home the idea of immediacy - tonight - and wishful thinking - Might I - related to the verb moor, which means to fasten (a boat) on to, as with a rope to land.

The speaker is enthusiastically looking forward to this time, that much is obvious. A time when love and fulfilment will be attained, when body and spirit are one, achieved through human intimacy and bonding, or through a spiritual act that leads to God.

I heard a Fly buzz (465)

I heard a Fly buzz – when I died –
The Stillness in the Room
Was like the Stillness in the Air –
Between the Heaves of Storm –

The Eyes around – had wrung them dry –
And Breaths were gathering firm
For that last Onset – when the King
Be witnessed – in the Room –

I willed my Keepsakes – Signed away
What portions of me be
Assignable – and then it was
There interposed a Fly –

With Blue – uncertain stumbling Buzz –
Between the light – and me –
And then the Windows failed – and then
I could not see to see –

Summary

The speaker says that she heard a fly buzz as she lay on her deathbed. The room was as still as the air between “the Heaves” of a storm. The eyes around her had cried themselves out, and the breaths were firming themselves for “that last Onset,” the moment when, metaphorically, “the King / Be witnessed—in the Room—.” The speaker made a will and “Signed away / What portion of me be / Assignable—” and at that moment, she heard the fly. It interposed itself “With blue—uncertain stumbling Buzz—” between the speaker and the light; “the Windows failed”; and then she died (“I could not see to see—”).

Analysis[edit]

The first line of the poem, "I heard a fly buzz-when I died-" is intended to garner the attention of the reader.^[4] Readers are said to be drawn to continue the poem, curious as to how the speaker is talking about their own death.^[4] The narrator then reflects on the moments prior to the very moment they died.^[1] The speaker's observations establish them as a character despite their death.^[4] In the second stanza, the narrator appears isolated from their surroundings, detached from people who are witnessing their death and aftermath.^[3] It is through the line, "The Stillness in the Room / Was like the Stillness in the Air – / Between the Heaves of Storm –" that the speaker's detachment from the moment they are dying is apparent.^[4] Comparing the room's stillness in the room with the air's stillness, the author juxtaposes the narrator's death with their lifetime.^[4]

In lines 5 through 8, the words "had wrung" are written in the past perfect tense, progressing the speaker's temporal narrative.^[4] The speaker's distant awareness progressively fades as the image describing the mourners shifts to note the appearance of a "King".^[5] This is thought to further increase the gap between the speaker's dual states of life and death.^[4] The King is thought to personify Death.^[6] The fly's subsequent appearance between the speaker's reference to the light and themselves, suggests that the fly serves as an obstruction to the speaker's ascension to heaven.^[1] It is theorized that Dickinson's symbolism (especially in reference to the fly) encompasses religious implications and references Christian theology.^[7] The grammatical structure of lines 11 through 13, interposes between the readers' progression of the narrative. Dickinson is thought to create a reading experience imitating the "interposed" motion of the fly.^[4] Dickinson touches on the issue of what medieval theologians termed "transitus", or transition to the afterlife, throughout her ouvre. In the nineteenth century this was known as "crossover". This particular scene has been characterized as a "homely genre" one.^[8]

Literary critics of Dickinson's poetry have recognized the mystery surrounding the usage of the word “blue” in the poem. James Connelly notes that “Under the entry “Blue” in the 1955 edition of The Oxford Universal Dictionary, one finds that “a candle is said to [burn blue] as an omen of death, or as indicating the presence of ghosts or of the Devil."^[9] It is only after the fly's interference that the speaker references its blueness, the light fades and the speaker dies. It is possible that Dickinson was referencing this same superstition.^[9]

It was not Death, for I stood up

It was not Death, for I stood up,
And all the Dead, lie down—
It was not Night, for all the Bells
Put out their Tongues, for Noon.

It was not Frost, for on my Flesh
I felt Sirocos—crawl—
Nor Fire—for just my Marble feet
Could keep a Chancel, cool—

And yet, it tasted, like them all,
The Figures I have seen
Set orderly, for Burial,
Reminded me, of mine—

As if my life were shaven,
And fitted to a frame,
And could not breathe without a key,
And 'twas like Midnight, some—

When everything that ticked—has stopped—
And Space stares all around—
Or Grisly frosts—first Autumn morns,
Repeal the Beating Ground—

But, most, like Chaos—Stopless—cool—
Without a Chance, or Spar—
Or even a Report of Land—
To justify—Despair.

Summary

‘It was not Death, for I stood up’ by Emily Dickinson tells of the ways a speaker attempts to understand herself when she is deeply depressed.

The poem begins with the speaker telling the reader that she doesn’t know why she is the way she is. She also doesn’t know exactly what or how she feels. Dickinson’s speaker, who is perhaps the poet herself, is existing somewhere between life and death, hot and cold and night and day. Each of these things does not seem to be precisely true about her situation.

She goes on to describe how she feels as if she is a combination of all of these states of being. Then she adds that she is also like a living version of a corpse. Her life has collapsed down and inward. Space and a lack of time surround her. Nothing real exists for her. The speaker is stuck in a world confined to a metaphorical ship at sea. There is no hope to be had—only despair.

Analysis

1. In the first quatrain the speaker begins by stating that she is existing in a form that is not “Death.” She knows she isn’t dead because she is standing. Those who die are only able to “lie down.” This simple logic is representative of the difficult time the speaker has of determining who and what she is. She has to start at something basic, is she alive or is she dead. She’s sure she’s alive and that it “was not Night.” This is due to the fact that,

The bells are ringing somewhere around her. These are more than likely church bells, ringing to mark the passage of time. She knows they would not ring at night, therefore it must be day. And specifically “Noon.” This confusion around time comes back into the poem in the final two stanzas.

2. The speaker continues to wonder over her situation. She thinks for a moment that maybe it is “Frost.” Something might’ve happened to her body that has to do with the weather or a coldness of emotion. She immediately discounts this diagnosis as she can feel “Siroccos” on her skin. This is a reference to a warm, dry wind that blows from the northern parts of Africa and into Southern Europe.

At the same time, she knows her problems do not stem from “Fire.” This is made clear through the coolness she feels in her “marble feet.” They could, she states, “keep a Chancel,” or seating arrangement meant to hold a certain delegation of the church, cool.

3. In the third stanza the speaker catalogues everything she knows about herself, but is no closer to understanding what’s happening to her. Her life contains elements of the hot, cold, night and day. As well as life and death, of course.

The best comparison she can make in her life is between her own body and a corpse. She has seen bodies set out and prepared for burial. When she did so, she realized that they reminded her of her own body and the aura she is living in.

4. The fourth stanza is filled with phrases that connect the speaker to the suffocating fate of a corpse. She tries to describe for the reader what it feels like to be in her position within her life. Dickinson’s speaker states that her life feels “shaven”. It is cut down, or some crucial aspect of it has been cut out.

The position she is in is a terrible one. She can’t breathe,

She is in a very bad situation. To her it feels as though she is unable to free herself of it. She has to suffer until someone comes along and helps her out of the purgatory she’s existing in. These lines connect to those at the beginning of the fifth stanza. The speaker states that to her it is like the clocks have stopped.

5. In the fourth stanza of ‘It was not Death, for I stood up’ the speaker describes how everything “that ticked-has stopped.” This is a clear reference to time and the dash at the end of “stopped—“ forces one to do the same. Rather than just time coming to an end, it has ceased to exist all together. Around the speaker there is “space.” It “stares” out into nothingness.
She compares this state of being to the way that winter comes on and the “frost” mourns the passing Autumn. It covers the fallen, dead leaves as if shrouding them.

6. In the sixth stanza the speaker compares the state she is living in to a shipwreck. She is separate from everyone else, and at the mercy of “Chaos” and “Chance.” These forces are capitalized in order to emphasize their importance in this section. This is a technique known as apostrophe. It gives forces such as love, hate and death greater agency in the world.
The speaker does not have a “spar,” or the top mast of the ship, to guide her. All around, there is not a single “Report of Land.” There are no signs that might point to her finding her way back to shore. The last line of the poem transforms the thought. She knows that if she could find her way to a hopeful feeling about her current situation or even the distant future, the despair would be altered.

Everything can change...

Strony

piątek, 21 kwietnia 2023

środa, 24 czerwca 2020

piątek, 22 listopada 2019

Democracy As a Way of Life

The Cycle of Growth and Death

The Beauty of the Individual

Lists

The Human Body

Rhythm and Incantation

Plants

The Self

Summary

Summary:

Analysis:

Because I could not stop for Death Emily Dickinson

Summary[edit]

Analysis

Wild Nights—Wild Nights!

Analysis

I heard a Fly buzz (465)

Summary

Analysis[edit]

It was not Death, for I stood up

Summary

Analysis