The sky was dark with clouds when Gwen looked up, and there was the metallic taste of lightning, a storm coming. Logic and sermons never convince; The damp of the night drives deeper into my soul. I open my scuttle at night and see the far-sprinkled systems, And all I see, multiplied as high as I can cipher, edge but the rim of the farther systems. Because she could never love Tosh as much as she wanted to, now that Tosh was gone. What behaved well in the past, or behaves well to-day, is not such a wonder; The wonder is, always and always, how there can be a mean man or an infidel. He was quiet for a long while.
Nothing is ever really lost, or can be lost, No birth, identity, form—no object of the world. A pile of bones is a pile of bones. And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves. For me, this image conjures the idea of world being a product of itself, and part of an endless cycle of nature — of birth and death. He reminds his reader that nature connects all human beings and the divisions between us are superficial.
This is the city, and I am one of the citizens; Whatever interests the rest interests mepolitics, wars, markets, newspapers, , Benevolent societies, improvements, banks, tariffs, steamships, , stocks, stores, real estate, and personal estate. We had receivd some eighteen pound shots under the water; On our lower-gun-deck two large pieces had burst at the first fire, killing all around, and blowing up overhead. Sea of the brine of life! I wonder where they get those : Did I pass that huge times ago, and negligently drop them? 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 find one side a , and the antipodal side a balance; Soft doctrine as steady help as stable doctrine; Thoughts and deeds of the present, our rouse and early start. We closed with himthe yards entangledthe cannon touchd; My captain lashd fast with his own hands. Is the entire poem about a single blade of grass? Do you see, O my brothers and sisters? And what do you think has become of the women and children? The Yankee clipper is under sky-sailsshe cuts the sparkle and scud; My eyes settle the landI bend at her prow, or shout joyously from the deck. I do not call one greater and one smaller; That which fills its period and place is equal to any.
Who wishes to walk with me?. Which of the young men does she like the best? The little plentiful mannikins, skipping around in collars and taild , I am aware who they are they are not worms or fleas. Creeds and schools in abeyance, Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten, I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard, Nature without check with original energy. I love this poem by Whitman. In Washington, he lived on a clerk's salary and modest royalties, and spent any excess money, including gifts from friends, to buy supplies for the patients he nursed. Then the sky broke, and everything else broke, too. 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 aces'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 What concept of death does the speaker express in these lines: What do you think has become of the young and old men? And the numberless unknown heroes, equal to the greatest heroes known.
Askers embody themselves in me, and I am embodied in them; I project my hat, sit shame-faced, and. What do you think has become of the young and old men? I exist as I amthat is enough; If no other in the world be aware, I sit content; And if each and all be aware, I sit content. We have thus far exhausted trillions of winters and summers; There are trillions ahead, and trillions ahead of them. Have you practiced so long to learn to read? My breath is tight in its throat; Unclench your floodgates! Whoever degrades another degrades me; And whatever is done or said returns at last to. Do that may you with grace, force, fascination? Somehow I have been stunnd. What patches of grass have death hiding beneath them, and is it really death? 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. Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation.
Your milky stream, pale strippings of my life. I'm trying to do what needs to be done, and I'm not doing it right. Grass is a democratic plant because it grows everywhere, and because everyone comes from and eventually returns to it. Now she was stuck with the full yoke while Ianto slowly got more lost in the labyrinth of his own thoughts, his tasks done on an autopilot that maybe he thought she didn't notice. That I could forget the mockers and insults! 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, and from women, and from offspring taken soon out of their mothers laps; And here you are the mothers laps.
Grass is an image of hope, growth, and death. Whitman incorporates all facets of the human condition into his poetry because, in his opinion, death is a major part of life and nature. He published the volume himself, and sent a copy to Emerson in July of 1855. He wrote it, then died. It alone is without flawit rounds and completes ; That mystic, baffling wonder I love, alone completes all.
I beat and pound for the ; I through my embouchures my loudest and gayest for them. 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. Then he straightened up and walked away, and she watched him from the corner of her eye as he went directly to the rolldoor and out, the alarms flashing behind him as he went. She had not been here yet. We also ascend, dazzling and tremendous as the sun; We found our own, my Soul, in the calm and cool of the daybreak. Writing and talk do not prove me; I carry the plenum of proof, and everything else, in my face; With the hush of my lips I confound the skeptic.