Friday poem: ‘All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses’ - Walt Whitman

03 April 2015

From Song of Myself

6.

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.

Picador ribbon

Walt Whitman

Walt Whitman was born on Long Island in 1819. His formal education was limited and his family moved home regularly during his childhood. 'Song of Myself' was first published in Whitman's collection Leaves of Grass in 1855. He would make several amendments to the book during his lifetime, so that by the time the final edition was published just before his death in 1892, the initial 12 poems had become 400. 

The 1892 version of 'Song of Myself' has 52 sections. Read the full poem.

This pictures shows Walt Whitman aged 35. It appeared as the frontispiece to the first edition of Leaves of Grass, which did not name Whitman as the author. Steel engraving by Samuel Hollyer (1826-1919) of a daguerreotype by Gabriel Harrison (1818-1902) (original lost). Morgan Library & Museum

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