SONG OF MYSELF.
"The Song of Myself" is one of Walt Whitman's (1819-92) most
characteristic poems. I love the swing and the stride of his great long
lines. I love his rough-shod way of trampling down and kicking out of
the way the conventionalities that spring up like poisonous mushrooms
to make the world a vast labyrinth of petty "proprieties" until
everything is nasty. I love the oxygen he pours on the world. I love
his genius for brotherliness, his picture of the Negro with rolling
eyes and the firelock in the corner. These excerpts are some of his
best lines.
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.
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