From Song of Myself by Walt Whitman
Oct. 1st, 2004 03:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
zalenaI know I have the best of time and space- and that I was never measured,
And never will be measured.
I tramp a perpetual journey.
My signs are a rain-proof coat and good shoes and a staff cut from the woods;
No friend of mine takes ease in my chair,
I have no chair, nor church, nor philosophy;
I lead no man to dinner-table or library or exchange,
But each man and woman of you I lead upon a knoll,
My left hand hooks you round the waist,
My right hand points the landscapes of continents, and a plain 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 every where on water and on land.
Shoulder your duds, 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 hips,
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 looked at the crowded heaven,
And I said to my spirit, When we become the enfolders of those orbs and the pleasures and the knowledge of everything in them, shall we be filled and satisfied then?
And my spirit said NO, we level that lift to pass and continue beyond.
You are asking me questions, and I hear you;
I answer that I cannot answer... You must find out for yourself.
--------------------------------
This is one of my favorite passages from Walt Whitman's Song of Myself when facing existential crisis. I remember finding this in high school, and finding deep comfort in it. Since then I have gone through alternate periods of adoring and detesting Mr. Whitman. Sometimes he seems to be a highly overrated American poet, other times it seems as though he is out of fashion, and in danger of being forgotten. Either way, I thought I'd post this poem today. Later on in the poem is the famous "barbaric yawp" immortalized, if not in poetry, by Dead Poet's Society.
As I'm thinking about it, I might post some more of my favorite Whitman poems. Today's been a pretty good day. Humor has returned to my life, as has a general sense that I am loved.
S
And never will be measured.
I tramp a perpetual journey.
My signs are a rain-proof coat and good shoes and a staff cut from the woods;
No friend of mine takes ease in my chair,
I have no chair, nor church, nor philosophy;
I lead no man to dinner-table or library or exchange,
But each man and woman of you I lead upon a knoll,
My left hand hooks you round the waist,
My right hand points the landscapes of continents, and a plain 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 every where on water and on land.
Shoulder your duds, 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 hips,
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 looked at the crowded heaven,
And I said to my spirit, When we become the enfolders of those orbs and the pleasures and the knowledge of everything in them, shall we be filled and satisfied then?
And my spirit said NO, we level that lift to pass and continue beyond.
You are asking me questions, and I hear you;
I answer that I cannot answer... You must find out for yourself.
--------------------------------
This is one of my favorite passages from Walt Whitman's Song of Myself when facing existential crisis. I remember finding this in high school, and finding deep comfort in it. Since then I have gone through alternate periods of adoring and detesting Mr. Whitman. Sometimes he seems to be a highly overrated American poet, other times it seems as though he is out of fashion, and in danger of being forgotten. Either way, I thought I'd post this poem today. Later on in the poem is the famous "barbaric yawp" immortalized, if not in poetry, by Dead Poet's Society.
As I'm thinking about it, I might post some more of my favorite Whitman poems. Today's been a pretty good day. Humor has returned to my life, as has a general sense that I am loved.
S
