“Song of Myself” by Walt Whitman: A Critical Analysis

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.

7

Has any one supposed it lucky to be born?

I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I know it.

I pass death with the dying and birth with the new-wash’d babe, and am not contain’d between my hat and boots,

And peruse manifold objects, no two alike and every one good,

The earth good and the stars good, and their adjuncts all good.

I am not an earth nor an adjunct of an earth,

I am the mate and companion of people, all just as immortal and fathomless as myself,

(They do not know how immortal, but I know.)

Every kind for itself and its own, for me mine male and female,

For me those that have been boys and that love women,

For me the man that is proud and feels how it stings to be slighted,

For me the sweet-heart and the old maid, for me mothers and the mothers of mothers,

For me lips that have smiled, eyes that have shed tears,

For me children and the begetters of children.

Undrape! you are not guilty to me, nor stale nor discarded,

I see through the broadcloth and gingham whether or no,

And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot be shaken away.

8

The little one sleeps in its cradle,

I lift the gauze and look a long time, and silently brush away flies with my hand.

The youngster and the red-faced girl turn aside up the bushy hill,

I peeringly view them from the top.

The suicide sprawls on the bloody floor of the bedroom,

I witness the corpse with its dabbled hair, I note where the pistol has fallen.

The blab of the pave, tires of carts, sluff of boot-soles, talk of the promenaders,

The heavy omnibus, the driver with his interrogating thumb, the clank of the shod horses on the granite floor,

The snow-sleighs, clinking, shouted jokes, pelts of snow-balls,

The hurrahs for popular favorites, the fury of rous’d mobs,

The flap of the curtain’d litter, a sick man inside borne to the hospital,

The meeting of enemies, the sudden oath, the blows and fall,

The excited crowd, the policeman with his star quickly working his passage to the centre of the crowd,

The impassive stones that receive and return so many echoes,

What groans of over-fed or half-starv’d who fall sunstruck or in fits,

What exclamations of women taken suddenly who hurry home and give birth to babes,

What living and buried speech is always vibrating here, what howls restrain’d by decorum,

Arrests of criminals, slights, adulterous offers made, acceptances, rejections with convex lips,

I mind them or the show or resonance of them—I come and I depart.

9

The big doors of the country barn stand open and ready,

The dried grass of the harvest-time loads the slow-drawn wagon,

The clear light plays on the brown gray and green intertinged,

The armfuls are pack’d to the sagging mow.

I am there, I help, I came stretch’d atop of the load,

I felt its soft jolts, one leg reclined on the other,

I jump from the cross-beams and seize the clover and timothy,

And roll head over heels and tangle my hair full of wisps.

10

Alone far in the wilds and mountains I hunt,

Wandering amazed at my own lightness and glee,

In the late afternoon choosing a safe spot to pass the night,

Kindling a fire and broiling the fresh-kill’d game,

Falling asleep on the gather’d leaves with my dog and gun by my side.

The Yankee clipper is under her sky-sails, she cuts the sparkle and scud,

My eyes settle the land, I bend at her prow or shout joyously from the deck.

The boatmen and clam-diggers arose early and stopt for me,

I tuck’d my trowser-ends in my boots and went and had a good time;

You should have been with us that day round the chowder-kettle.

I saw the marriage of the trapper in the open air in the far west, the bride was a red girl,

Her father and his friends sat near cross-legged and dumbly smoking, they had moccasins to their feet and large thick blankets hanging from their shoulders,

On a bank lounged the trapper, he was drest mostly in skins, his luxuriant beard and curls protected his neck, he held his bride by the hand,

She had long eyelashes, her head was bare, her coarse straight locks descended upon her voluptuous limbs and reach’d to her feet.

The runaway slave came to my house and stopt outside,

I heard his motions crackling the twigs of the woodpile,

Through the swung half-door of the kitchen I saw him limpsy and weak,

And went where he sat on a log and led him in and assured him,

And brought water and fill’d a tub for his sweated body and bruis’d feet,

And gave him a room that enter’d from my own, and gave him some coarse clean clothes,

And remember perfectly well his revolving eyes and his awkwardness,

And remember putting plasters on the galls of his neck and ankles;

He staid with me a week before he was recuperated and pass’d north,

I had him sit next me at table, my fire-lock lean’d in the corner.

1. Celebration of the Individual

Whitman glorifies the uniqueness of the self while asserting its connection to the universal. The poem begins with the bold proclamation: “I celebrate myself, and sing myself,” emphasizing self-awareness and self-worth. However, Whitman links individual identity to collective humanity: “For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.” The theme suggests that the individual is both distinct and integral to a larger, interconnected whole. By rejecting societal norms and doctrines—“Creeds and schools in abeyance”—Whitman embraces personal freedom and originality. His celebration of the self extends to physicality, emotions, and thoughts, blending the sacred and mundane aspects of existence into one harmonious identity.

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2. Unity with Nature

Nature in “Song of Myself” is a source of spiritual renewal and self-discovery. Whitman merges his identity with the natural world: “I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.” Grass, a recurring motif, symbolizes the cycle of life and death, equality, and continuity. When he reflects, “What is the grass? … it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves,” he connects it to mortality and rebirth. Whitman also cherishes the unfiltered sensations of nature, contrasting them with artificiality: “The atmosphere is not a perfume, it has no taste of the distillation, it is odorless.” His passionate engagement with nature—where even the “sniff of green leaves” becomes a spiritual experience—reveals his belief in the sanctity and interconnectedness of all living things.

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3. Transcendence of Life and Death

Whitman views life and death as inseparable and equally valuable aspects of existence. He dismisses traditional fears of death, proclaiming: “To die is different from what anyone supposed, and luckier.” For Whitman, death is not an end but a transformation that perpetuates the eternal cycle of life: “The smallest sprout shows there is really no death.” This transcendental perspective aligns with his broader theme of unity, as the living and the dead are part of the same universal essence. Death becomes a form of liberation and continuity rather than cessation, reflected in his calm acceptance: “I pass death with the dying and birth with the new-wash’d babe.”

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4. Equality and Inclusivity

Whitman envisions a world where all beings are equal, celebrating diversity and rejecting hierarchies. In his poetic vision, all people, regardless of race, gender, or status, share the same essence: “Growing among black folks as among white, / Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I receive them the same.” His lists include individuals from different walks of life, affirming their shared humanity. This inclusivity extends beyond humans to encompass nature, animals, and even inanimate objects. By asserting, “Not an inch nor a particle of an inch is vile,” Whitman challenges conventional notions of worth and beauty, promoting a radical, democratic ideal of universal dignity.

1. How does Whitman define the relationship between the individual and the collective in “Song of Myself”?

Whitman presents the individual as a microcosm of the collective, asserting that personal identity is inseparable from the universal human experience. He begins the poem with the declaration, “I celebrate myself, and sing myself,” but immediately extends this individuality outward: “For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.” This duality reflects Whitman’s belief in the interconnectedness of all beings, emphasizing that the personal is inherently communal. He bridges gaps of time, space, and identity, as seen in his inclusivity: “Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I receive them the same.” Whitman’s radical egalitarianism asserts that the essence of one individual is shared across humanity, making the self both unique and universal.

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2. How does Whitman conceptualize death, and how does it shape his view of life?

Whitman approaches death as a natural and integral part of existence, portraying it not as an end but as a transformation that enriches life. He states, “To die is different from what anyone supposed, and luckier,” challenging conventional fears surrounding mortality. Grass becomes a central metaphor for this cycle of life and death: “And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.” Here, grass symbolizes regeneration, growing from the bodies of the dead to sustain new life. Whitman’s belief that “the smallest sprout shows there is really no death” reflects a transcendental view, where death feeds the continuity of existence. This perspective allows him to embrace life with unreserved passion, finding beauty in its fleeting nature and interconnected rhythms.

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3. In what ways does Whitman use nature to explore themes of spirituality and self-discovery?

Nature in “Song of Myself” serves as both a mirror and a guide for self-discovery, connecting the individual to a larger spiritual framework. Whitman’s connection to nature is intimate and reverent, as seen in the line, “I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.” Grass becomes a symbol of equality and unity, with Whitman stating, “Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones, / Growing among black folks as among white.” This reflects his belief in nature’s impartiality and its role as a spiritual equalizer. The physical sensations of nature—“The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore and dark-color’d sea-rocks”—become a medium for spiritual communion, where the divine is felt through the sensory and the earthly. Nature inspires Whitman’s transcendence, blurring the boundaries between the self and the infinite.

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4. How does Whitman’s use of free verse enhance the themes of “Song of Myself”?

Whitman’s rejection of traditional poetic structures in favor of free verse aligns with the poem’s themes of individuality, freedom, and natural expression. The lack of rhyme and meter reflects his assertion that life, like poetry, cannot be constrained by artificial boundaries. He writes, “Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems,” encouraging readers to embrace their own interpretations rather than adhere to prescribed meanings. The fluidity of free verse mirrors the interconnected and ever-changing nature of life itself, as Whitman moves seamlessly between observations of nature, philosophical musings, and personal reflections. By employing a conversational and expansive tone, Whitman invites readers to explore the poem—and their own lives—without limitations, embodying the themes of freedom and universality that permeate the text.