Walt Whitman (1819 – 1892) grew up in Long Island and Brooklyn, New York, apprenticing to become a printer until he turned to teaching and then eventually to journalism. Regardless, Whitman was devoted to reading and writing from an early age. He self-published his first volume of poetry, Leaves of Grass, in 1855 (where “Song of Myself” first appeared, untitled) and then kept revising and expanding the volume over the remaining decades of his life. Whitman titled and numbered these poems (below) in the 1867 edition. During the Civil War, Whitman returned to newspaper work, writing for New York newspapers as an occasional correspondent based in Washington, where he also volunteered as a nurse in wartime hospitals. In the summer of 1863, Whitman wrote a column for the New York Times describing Abraham Lincoln, whom he noted he saw “almost every day” as the president rode into the White House from his summer cottage at the Soldiers’ Home, a military community on the outskirts of town (and like a 19th-century Camp David presidential retreat). Whitman lived in Washington for years before eventually settling in New Jersey. He became celebrated as an American poet even before his death and especially in the years since. Dubbed “America’s world poet,” by the Poetry Foundation, and exalted as “a latter-day successor to Homer, Virgil, Dante, and Shakespeare,” Whitman today is regarded by many critics as the nation’s greatest poet.
#51
The past and present wilt—I have fill’d them, emptied them.
And proceed to fill my next fold of the future.
Listener up there! what have you to confide to me?
Look in my face while I snuff the sidle of evening, (Talk honestly, no one else hears you, and I stay only a minute longer.)
Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)
I concentrate toward them that are nigh, I wait on the door-slab.
Who has done his day’s work? who will soonest be through with his supper?
Who wishes to walk with me?
Will you speak before I am gone? will you prove already too late?
#52
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.