I go hunting polar furs and the seal, leaping chasms with a pike-pointed staff, clinging to topples of brittle and blue. The heav’d challenge from the east that moment over my head. Seeing, hearing, feeling, are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle. Evil propels me and reform of evil propels me, I stand indifferent. [1], The poem is written in Whitman's signature free verse style. How could I answer the child? Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next. On all sides prurient provokers stiffening my limbs. Lads ahold of fire-engines and hook-and-ladder ropes no less to me than the gods of the antique wars. ), I hear the violoncello, (’tis the young man’s heart’s complaint,). Here are biscuits to eat and here is milk to drink. How he saved the drifting company at last. I turn the bridegroom out of bed and stay with the bride myself. I see in them and myself the same old law. Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and knowledge that pass all the argument of the earth. On the night ere the pending battle many seek me, and I do not fail them. He turns his quid of tobacco while his eyes blurr with the manuscript; The malform’d limbs are tied to the surgeon’s table. I dilate you with tremendous breath, I buoy you up. What I guess’d while I lay alone in my bed. Jostling me through streets and public halls, coming naked to me at night. And again as I walk’d the beach under the paling stars of the morning. I have embraced you, and henceforth possess you to myself. That they turn from gazing after and down the road. O welcome, ineffable grace of dying days! The master-at-arms loosing the prisoners confined in the after-hold to give them a chance for themselves. Fond of his sweetheart, relishing well his steak. Where the she-whale swims with her calf and never forsakes it. Not a single one over thirty years of age. Sea breathing broad and convulsive breaths. This head more than churches, bibles, and all the creeds. In vain the buzzard houses herself with the sky. They have left me helpless to a red marauder. At home in the fleet of ice-boats, sailing with the rest and tacking. I take my place among you as much as among any. I tighten her all night to my thighs and lips. And greater sets follow, making specks of the greatest inside them. Talkative young ones to those that like them, the loud laugh of work-people at their meals. I project my hat, sit shame-faced, and beg. Nor the little child that peep’d in at the door, and then drew back and was never seen again. I am of old and young, of the foolish as much as the wise. Carrying the crescent child that carries its own full mother in its belly. To me the converging objects of the universe perpetually flow. I crowd your sleekest and best by simply looking toward you. The farm-boy ploughing in the field feels good at the sound of my voice. Rise after rise bow the phantoms behind me. How the lank loose-gown’d women look’d when boated from the side of their prepared graves. I play not marches for accepted victors only, I play marches for conquer’d and slain persons. How he knuckled tight and gave not back an inch, and was faithful of days and faithful of nights. I cannot tell how my ankles bend, nor whence the cause of my faintest wish. What is a man anyhow? Far from the settlements studying the print of animals’ feet, or the moccasin print. It sails me, I dab with bare feet, they are lick’d by the indolent waves. I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin. Song of Myself is een bekend gedicht van de Amerikaanse dichter Walt Whitman, dat is opgenomen in zijn bundel Leaves of Grass. Now the performer launches his nerve, he has pass’d his prelude on the reeds within. Each moment and whatever happens thrills me with joy. Where the half-burn’d brig is riding on unknown currents. What is removed drops horribly in a pail; Fog in the air, beetles rolling balls of dung. This poem did not take on the title “Song of Myself” until the 1881 edition. Backing and filling, appearing and disappearing. There is no stoppage and never can be stoppage. People I meet, the effect upon me of my early life or the ward and city I live in, or the nation. To the mass kneeling or the puritan’s prayer rising, or sitting patiently in a pew.