Kosmos · by Uncle Walt Whitman

Who includes diversity and is Nature,
Who is the amplitude of the earth, and the coarseness and sexuality of the earth, and the great charity of the earth and the equilibrium also,
Who has not look’d forth from the windows the eyes for nothing, or whose brain held audience with messengers for nothing,
Who contains believers and disbelievers, who is the most majestic lover,
Who holds duly his or her triune proportion of realism, spiritualism, and of the æsthetic or intellectual,
Who having consider’d the body finds all its organs and parts good,
Who, out of the theory of the earth and of his or her body understands by subtle analogies all other theories,
The theory of a city, a poem, and of the large politics of these States;
Who believes not only in our globe with its sun and moon, but in other globes with their suns and moons,
Who, constructing the house of himself or herself, not for a day but for all time, sees races, eras, dates, generations,
The past, the future, dwelling there, like space, inseparable together.


The Voice of the Rain · by Uncle Walt Whitman

And who art thou? said I to the soft-falling shower,
Which, strange to tell, gave me an answer, as here translated:

I am the Poem of Earth, said the voice of the rain,
Eternal I rise impalpable out of the land and the bottomless sea,
Upward to heaven, whence, vaguely form'd, altogether changed, and
yet the same,
I descend to lave the drouths, atomies, dust-layers of the globe,
And all that in them without me were seeds only, latent, unborn;
And forever, by day and night, I give back life to my own origin,
and make pure and beautify it;
(For song, issuing from its birth-place, after fulfilment, wandering,
Reck'd or unreck'd, duly with love returns.)


Voices · by Uncle Walt Whitman

NOW I make a leaf of Voices--for I have found nothing mightier than
they are,
And I have found that no word spoken, but is beautiful, in its place.

O what is it in me that makes me tremble so at voices?
Surely, whoever speaks to me in the right voice, him or her I shall
follow,
As the water follows the moon, silently, with fluid steps, anywhere
around the globe.

All waits for the right voices;
Where is the practis'd and perfect organ? Where is the develop'd
Soul?
For I see every word utter'd thence, has deeper, sweeter, new sounds,
impossible on less terms.

I see brains and lips closed--tympans and temples unstruck,
Until that comes which has the quality to strike and to unclose,
Until that comes which has the quality to bring forth what lies
slumbering, forever ready, in all words.


The World Below the Brine · by Uncle Walt Whitman

The world below the brine,
Forests at the bottom of the sea, the branches and leaves,
Sea-lettuce, vast lichens, strange flowers and seeds, the thick tangle, openings, and pink turf,
Different colors, pale gray and green, purple, white, and gold, the play of light through the water,
Dumb swimmers there among the rocks, coral, gluten, grass, rushes, and the aliment of the swimmers,
Sluggish existences grazing there suspended, or slowly crawling close to the bottom,
The sperm-whale at the surface blowing air and spray, or disporting with his flukes,
The leaden-eyed shark, the walrus, the turtle, the hairy sea-leopard, and the sting-ray,
Passions there, wars, pursuits, tribes, sight in those ocean-depths, breathing that thick-breathing air, as so many do,
The change thence to the sight here, and to the subtle air breathed by beings like us who walk this sphere,
The change onward from ours to that of beings who walk other spheres.


Song of the Rolling Earth · by Uncle Walt Whitman

A SONG of the rolling earth, and of words according,
Were you thinking that those were the words, those upright lines (on that tablet)?
those curves, angles, dots?
No, those are not the words, the substantial words are in the
ground and sea,
They are in the air, they are in you.

Were you thinking that those were the words, those delicious sounds
out of your friends' mouths?
No, the real words are more delicious than they.

Human bodies are words, myriads of words,
(In the best poems re-appears the body, man's or woman's, well-
shaped, natural, gay,
Every part able, active, receptive, without shame or the need of
shame.)

Air, soil, water, fire—those are words,
I myself am a word with them—my qualities interpenetrate with
theirs—my name is nothing to them,
Though it were told in the three thousand languages, what would
air, soil, water, fire, know of my name?

A healthy presence, a friendly or commanding gesture, are words,
sayings, meanings,
The charms that go with the mere looks of some men and women,
are sayings and meanings also.

The workmanship of souls is by those inaudible words of the earth,
The masters know the earth's words and use them more than
audible words.


Song at Sunset · by Walt Whitman

SPLENDOR of ended day floating and filling me,
Hour prophetic, hour resuming the past,
Inflating my throat, you divine average,
You earth and life till the last ray gleams I sing.

Open mouth of my soul uttering gladness,
Eyes of my soul seeing perfection,
Natural life of me faithfully praising things,
Corroborating forever the triumph of things.

Illustrious every one!
Illustrious what we name space, sphere of unnumber'd spirits,
Illustrious the mystery of motion in all beings, even the tiniest
insect,
Illustrious the attribute of speech, the senses, the body,
Illustrious the passing light—illustrious the pale reflection on the
new moon in the western sky,
Illustrious whatever I see or hear or touch, to the last.

Good in all,
In the satisfaction and aplomb of animals,
In the annual return of the seasons,
In the hilarity of youth,
In the strength and flush of manhood,
In the grandeur and exquisiteness of old age,
In the superb vistas of death.

Wonderful to depart!
Wonderful to be here!
The heart, to jet the all-alike and innocent blood!
To breathe the air, how delicious!
To speak—to walk—to seize something by the hand!
To prepare for sleep, for bed, to look on my rose-color'd flesh!
To be conscious of my body, so satisfied, so large!
To be this incredible God I am!
To have gone forth among other Gods, these men and women I
love.

Wonderful how I celebrate you and myself!
How my thoughts play subtly at the spectacles around!
How the clouds pass silently overhead!
How the earth darts on and on! and how the sun, moon, stars,
dart on and on!
How the water sports and sings! (surely it is alive!)
How the trees rise and stand up, with strong trunks, with branches
and leaves!
(Surely there is something more in each of the trees, some living
soul.)

O amazement of things—even the least particle!
O spirituality of things!
O strain musical flowing through ages and continents, now reaching
me and America!
I take your strong chords, intersperse them, and cheerfully pass
them forward.

I too carol the sun, usher'd or at noon, or as now, setting,
I too throb to the brain and beauty of the earth and of all the
growths of the earth,
I too have felt the resistless call of myself.

As I steam'd down the Mississippi,
As I wander'd over the prairies,
As I have lived, as I have look'd through my windows my eyes,
As I went forth in the morning, as I beheld the light breaking in
the east,

As I bathed on the beach of the Eastern Sea, and again on the
beach of the Western Sea,
As I roam'd the streets of inland Chicago, whatever streets I have
roam'd,
Or cities or silent woods, or even amid the sights of war,
Wherever I have been I have charged myself with contentment
and triumph.

I sing to the last the equalities modern or old,
I sing the endless finalés of things,
I say Nature continues, glory continues,
I praise with electric voice,
For I do not see one imperfection in the universe,
And I do not see one cause or result lamentable at last in the
universe.

O setting sun! though the time has come,
I still warble under you, if none else does, unmitigated adoration.


WE Two, How Long We Were Fool'd · by Uncle Walt Whitman

WE two, how long we were fool'd,
Now transmuted, we swiftly escape as Nature escapes,
We are Nature, long have we been absent, but now we return,
We become plants, trunks, foliage, roots, bark,
We are bedded in the ground, we are rocks,
We are oaks, we grow in the openings side by side,
We browse, we are two among the wild herds spontaneous as
any,
We are two fishes swimming in the sea together,
We are what locust blossoms are, we drop scent around lanes
mornings and evenings,
We are also the coarse smut of beasts, vegetables, minerals,
We are two predatory hawks, we soar above and look down,
We are two resplendent suns, we it is who balance ourselves orbic
and stellar, we are as two comets,
We prowl fang'd and four-footed in the woods, we spring on
prey,
We are two clouds forenoons and afternoons driving overhead,
We are seas mingling, we are two of those cheerful waves rolling
over each other and interwetting each other,
We are what the atmosphere is, transparent, receptive, pervious,
impervious,
We are snow, rain, cold, darkness, we are each product and
influence of the globe,
We have circled and circled till we have arrived home again, we
two,
We have voided all but freedom and all but our own joy.


I Sing the Body Electric · by Uncle Walt Whitman

1

I sing the Body electric ;
The armies of those I love engirth me and I engirth
them ;
They will not let me off till I go with them, respond
to them,
And discorrupt them, and charge them full with the
charge of the Soul.

Was it doubted that those who corrupt their own
bodies conceal themselves?
And if those who defile the living are as bad as they
who defile the dead?
And if the body does not do fully as much as the Soul?
And if the body were not the Soul, what is the Soul?

2

The love of the Body of man or woman balks account—
the body itself balks account ;
That of the male is perfect, and that of the female is
perfect.

The expression of the face balks account ;
But the expression of a well-made man appears not
only in his face ;
It is in his limbs and joints also, it is curiously in the
joints of his hips and wrists ;
It is in his walk, the carriage of his neck, the flex of
his waist and knees—dress does not hide him ;
The strong sweet quality he has strikes
through the cotton and flannel ;
To see him pass conveys as much as the best poem,
perhaps more ;
You linger to see his back, and the back of his neck
and shoulder-side.

The sprawl and fulness of babes, the bosoms and
heads of women, the folds of their dress, their
style as we pass in the street, the contour of
their shape downwards,
The swimmer naked in the swimming-bath, seen as he
swims through the transparent green-shine, or
lies with his face up and rolls silently to and
fro in the heave of the water,
The bending forward and backward of rowers in row
-boats—the horseman in his saddle,
Girls, mothers, house-keepers, in all their
performances,
The group of laborers seated at noon-time with their
open dinner-kettles, and their wives waiting,
The female soothing a child, the farmer’s daughter in
the garden or cow-yard,
The young fellow hoeing corn—the sleigh-driver

guiding his six horses through the crowd,
The wrestle of wrestlers, two apprentice-boys, quite
grown, lusty, good-natured, native-born, out on
the vacant lot at sun-down, after work,
The coats and caps thrown down, the embrace of love
and resistance,
The upper-hold and under-hold, the hair rumpled
over and blinding the eyes ;
The march of firemen in their own costumes, the play
of masculine muscle through clean-setting
trowsers and waist-straps,
The slow return from the fire, the pause when the bell
strikes suddenly again, and the listening on the
alert,
The natural, perfect, varied attitudes—the bent head,
the curv’d neck and the counting ;
Such-like I love—I loosen myself, pass freely, am at
the mother’s breast with the little child,
Swim with the swimmers, wrestle with wrestlers, march
in line with the firemen, and pause, listen,
and count.

3

I knew a man, a common farmer—the father of
five sons ;
And in them were the fathers of sons—and in them
were the fathers of sons.

This man was of wonderful vigor, calmness, beauty
of person ;
The shape of his head, the richness and breadth of
his manners, the pale yellow and white of his
hair and beard, the immeasurable meaning
of his black eyes,
These I used to go and visit him to see—he was wise
also ;
He was six feet tall, he was over eighty years old—his
sons were massive, clean, bearded, tan-faced,
handsome ;
They and his daughters loved him—all who saw him
loved him ;
They did not love him by allowance—they loved him
with personal love ;
He drank water only—the blood show’d like scarlet
through the clear-brown skin of his face ;
He was a frequent gunner and fisher—he sail’d his
boat himself—he had a fine one presented to
him by a ship-joiner—he had fowling-pieces,
presented to him by men that loved him ;
When he went with his five sons and many grand-sons
to hunt or fish, you would pick him out as the
most beautiful and vigorous of the gang,
You would wish long and long to be with him—you
would wish to sit by him in the boat that you
and he might touch each other.

4

I have perceiv’d that to be with those I like is
enough,
To stop in company with the rest at evening is
enough,
To be surrounded by beautiful, curious, breathing,
laughing flesh is enough,
To pass among them or touch any one, or rest my
arm ever so lightly round his or her neck for a
moment—what is this then?
I do not ask any more delight—I swim in it as in a
sea.

There is something in staying close to men and
women, and looking on them, and in the contact
and odor of them, that pleases the soul well ;
All things please the soul—but these please the soul
well.

5

This is the female form ;
A divine nimbus exhales from it from head to foot ;
It attracts with fierce undeniable attraction !
I am drawn by its breath as if I were no more than a
helpless vapor—all falls aside but myself and it ;
Books, art, religion, time, the visible and solid earth,
the atmosphere and the clouds, and what was
expected of heaven or fear’d of hell, are now
consumed ;
Mad filaments, ungovernable shoots play out of it, the
response likewise ungovernable !
Hair, bosom, hips, bend of legs, negligent falling
hands all diffused—mine too diffused ;
Ebb stung by the flow and flow stung by the ebb—
love-flesh swelling and deliciously aching ;
Limitless limpid jets of love hot and enormous,
quivering jelly of love, white-blow and
delirious juice ;
Bridegroom night of love, working surely and softly
into the prostrate dawn ;
Undulating into the willing and yielding day,

Lost in the cleave of the clasping and sweet-flesh’d
day.

This the nucleus—after the child is born of
woman, the man is born of woman ;
This the bath of birth—this the merge of small
and large, and the outlet again.

Be not ashamed women—your privilege encloses
the rest, and is the exit of the rest,
You are the gates of the body, and you are the gates
of the soul.

The female contains all qualities and tempers them
—she is in her place and moves with perfect
balance ;
She is all things duly veil’d—she is both passive and
active ;
She is to conceive daughters as well as sons, and sons
as well as daughters.

As I see my soul reflected in Nature ;
As I see through a mist, One with inexpressible
completeness and beauty,
See the bent head and arms folded over the breast—
the female I see.

6

The male is not less the soul nor more—he too is
in his place ;
He too is all qualities—he is action and power;
The flush of the known universe is in him ;
Scorn becomes him well, and appetite and defiance
become him well ;
The wildest largest passions, bliss that is utmost,
sorrow that is utmost become him well—pride is
for him ;
The full-spread pride of man is calming and excellent
to the soul ;
Knowledge becomes him—he likes it always—he
brings every thing to the test of himself ;
Whatever the survey, whatever the sea and the sail, he
strikes soundings at last only here ;
Where else does he strike soundings except here?

The man’s body is sacred and the woman’s body is
sacred ;
No matter who it is, it is sacred ;
Is it the meanest one in the laborers’ gang?
Is it one of the dull-faced immigrants
just landed on the wharf?
Each belongs here or anywhere just as much as the
well-off—just as much as you ;
Each has his or her place in the procession.

All is a procession ;
The universe is a procession with measured and
beautiful motion.

Do you know so much yourself that you call the meanest ignorant?
Do you suppose you have a right to a good sight, and
he or she has no right to a sight?
Do you think matter has cohered together from its
diffuse float—and the soil is on the surface,
and water runs and vegetation sprouts,
For you only, and not for him and her ?

7

A man’s Body at auction ;
I help the auctioneer—the sloven does not half know
his business.

Gentlemen look on this wonder !
Whatever the bids of the bidders they cannot be high
enough for it ;
For it the globe lay preparing quintillions of years,
without one animal or plant ;
For it the revolving cycles truly and steadily roll’d.

In this head the all-baffling brain ;
In it and below it, the makings of heroes.

Examine these limbs, red, black, or white—they are
so cunning in tendon and nerve ;
They shall be stript that you may see them.

Exquisite senses, life-lit eyes, pluck, volition,
Flakes of breast-muscle, pliant backbone and neck,
flesh not flabby, good sized arms and legs,
And wonders within there yet.

Within there runs blood,
The same old blood!
The same red-running blood!
There swells and jets a heart—there all passions,
desires, reachings, aspirations ;
Do you think they are not there because they are not
express’d in parlors and lecture-rooms?

This is not only one man—this the father of those
who shall be fathers in their turns ;
In him the start of populous states and rich republics ;
Of him countless immortal lives, with countless
embodiments and enjoyments.

How do you know who shall come from the
offspring of his offspring through the centuries?
Who might you find you have come from yourself, if
you could trace back through the centuries?

8

A woman’s Body at auction !
She too is not only herself—she is the teeming
mother of mothers ;
She is the bearer of them that shall grow and be
mates to the mothers.

Have you ever loved the Body of a woman?
Have you ever loved the Body of a man?
Your father—where is your father?
Your mother—is she living? have you been much
with her? and has she been much with you?
Do you not see that these are exactly the same to all,
in all nations and times, all over the earth?

If any thing is sacred, the human body is sacred,
And the glory and sweet of a man, is the token of
manhood untainted ;
And in man or woman, a clean, strong, firm-fibred
body, is more beautiful than the most beautiful face.

Have you seen the fool that corrupted his own live
body? or the fool that corrupted her own live
body?
For they do not conceal themselves, and cannot
conceal themselves.

9

O my Body! I dare not desert the likes of you in
other men and women, nor the likes of the
parts of you,
I believe the likes of you are to stand or fall with the
likes of the Soul, (and that they are the Soul ;)
I believe the likes of you shall stand or fall with my
poems—and that they are my poems,
Man’s, woman’s, child’s, youth’s, wife’s, husband’s,
mother’s, father’s, young man’s, young woman’s
poems ;
Head, neck, hair, ears, drop and tympan of the ears,
Eyes, eye-fringes, iris of the eye, eye-brows, and the
waking or sleeping of the lids,
Mouth, tongue, lips, teeth, roof of the mouth, jaws,
and the jaw-hinges,
Nose, nostrils of the nose, and the partition,
Cheeks, temples, forehead, chin, throat, back of the
neck, neck-slue,
Strong shoulders, manly beard, scapula,
hind-shoulders, and the ample side-round of the chest,
Upper-arm, armpit, elbow-socket, lower-arm,
arm-sinews, arm-bones,
Wrist and wrist-joints, hand, palm, knuckles, thumb,
fore-finger, finger-balls, finger-joints,
finger-nails,
Broad breast-front, curling hair of the breast,
breast-bone, breast-side,
Ribs, belly, backbone, joints of the backbone,
Hips, hip-sockets, hip-strength, inward and outward
round, man-balls, man-root,
Strong set of thighs, well carrying the trunk above,
Leg fibres, knee, knee-pan, upper-leg, under-leg,
Ankles, instep, foot-ball, toes, toe-joints, the heel;
All attitudes, all the shapeliness, all the belongings of
my or your body or of any one’s body, male or
female,
The lung-sponges, the stomach-sac, the bowels sweet
and clean,
The brain in its folds inside the skull-frame,
Sympathies, heart-valves, palate-valves, sexuality,
maternity,
Womanhood, and all that is a woman—and the man
that comes from woman,
The womb, the teats, nipples, breast-milk, tears,
laughter, weeping, love-looks, love-perturbations and
risings,
The voice, articulation, language, whispering,
shouting aloud,
Food, drink, pulse, digestion, sweat, sleep, walking,
swimming,
Poise on the hips, leaping, reclining, embracing,
arm-curving and tightening,
The continual changes of the flex of the mouth, and
around the eyes,
The skin, the sunburnt shade, freckles, hair,
The curious sympathy one feels when feeling with the
hand the naked meat of the body,
The circling rivers the breath, and breathing it in
and out,
The beauty of the waist, and thence of the hips, and
thence downward toward the knees,
The thin red jellies within you or within me—the
bones and the marrow in the bones,
The exquisite realization of health ;
O I say these are not the parts and poems of the Body
only, but of the Soul,
O I say now these are the Soul !


Native Moments · by Walt Whitman

NATIVE moments! when you come upon me—Ah you
are here now!
Give me now libidinous joys only!
Give me the drench of my passions! Give me life
coarse and rank!
To-day, I go consort with nature's darlings—to-night too;
I am for those who believe in loose delights—I share
the midnight orgies of young men;
I dance with the dancers, and drink with the drinkers;
The echoes ring with our indecent calls;
I take for my love some prostitute—I pick out some
low person for my dearest friend,
He shall be lawless, rude, illiterate—he shall be one
condemn'd by others for deeds done;
I will play a part no longer—Why should I exile my-
self from my companions?
O you shunn'd persons! I at least do not shun you,
I come forthwith in your midst—I will be your poet,
I will be more to you than to any of the rest.

Close your eyes and listen to Uncle Walt Whitman read his poem.