Overview

Walter Whitman (May 31, 1819 – March 26, 1892) was an American poet, essayist, and journalist. A humanist, he was a part of the transition between transcendentalism and realism, incorporating both views in his works. Whitman is among the most influential poets in the American canon and is often called the father of free verse. His work was controversial in its time, particularly his poetry collection Leaves of Grass, which was described as obscene for its overt sensuality. Whitman's own life came under scrutiny for his presumed homosexuality.  Born in Huntington on Long Island, as a child and through much of his career he resided in Brooklyn. At age 11, he left formal schooling to go to work. Later, Whitman worked as a journalist, a teacher, and a government clerk. Whitman's major poetry collection, Leaves of Grass, was first published in 1855 with his own money and became well known. The work attempted to reach out to the common person with an American epic. He continued expanding and revising it until his death in 1892. During the American Civil War, he went to Washington, D.C., and worked in hospitals caring for the wounded. His poetry often focused on both loss and healing. On the death of Abraham Lincoln, whom Whitman greatly admired, he wrote his well-known poems, "O Captain! My Captain!" and "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd" and gave a series of lectures. After a stroke towards the end of his life, Whitman moved to Camden, New Jersey, where his health further declined. When he died at age 72, his funeral was a public event.
See: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Walt_Whitman Retrieved 23 January 2025

Timeline

The most complete timeline can be found on the Library of Congress website. The Library divides Whitman's life into four sections, each with photos and in-depth information. Links to the four segments can be found at:
https://www.loc.gov/collections/feinberg-whitman/articles-and-essays/timeline/

https://whitmanarchive.org/whitmans-life/chronology  Retrieved 25 January 2025
Reproduced on Whitman Archive from J. R. LeMaster and Donald D. Kummings, eds., Walt Whitman: An Encyclopedia (New York and London: Garland Publishing, Inc., 1998) 

•	181931 May, Walter Whitman born at West Hills, Huntington Township, New York, the second child of Walter Whitman, house builder, and Louisa Van Velsor, both descendants of early settlers on Long Island. Seven other Whitman children survive infancy: Jesse (1818–1870), Mary Elizabeth (1821–1899), Hannah Louisa (1823–1908); Andrew Jackson (1827–1863); George Washington (1829–1901); Thomas Jefferson (1833–1890); and Edward (1835—1892).•	182327 May, Whitman family moves to Brooklyn expecting housing boom.•	1825–1830Attends public school in Brooklyn. Family frequently relocates within city.•	1830–1831Quits school; works as an office boy for lawyer, doctor.•	1831–1832Learns printing trade as apprentice for Long Island Patriot.•	1832–1835Summer 1832, works at Worthington's printing house. Fall 1832 to May 1835, works as compositor on Long Island Star. 1833, Whitman family moves back to Long Island.•	1835Works as a printer in New York but is unemployed after a great fire in printing district, 12 August 1835.•	1836–1838Teaches school on Long Island at East Norwich, Hempstead, Babylon, Long Swamp, and Smithtown.•	1838–1839Edits weekly newspaper, Long Islander, Huntington; works on Long Island Democrat, Jamaica.•	1840–1841Fall 1840, campaigns for Martin Van Buren; teaches school on Long Island at Trimming Square, Woodbury, Dix Hills, and Whitestone.•	1841May, moves to New York City; works as a compositor for The New World. July, addresses Democratic Party rally in City Hall Park. August, publishes "Death in the School-Room (a Fact)" in Democratic Review.•	1842November, Franklin Evans; or The Inebriate--his only novella--published as an extra to The New World.•	1842–1845Works briefly for the Aurora, Evening Tattler, Statesman, Democrat and Mirror and contributes to other papers in New York City.•	1845–1846August 1845, returns to Brooklyn; works for Brooklyn Evening Star until March 1846.•	1846–1848March 1846 to January 1848, edits Brooklyn Daily Eagle. Attends opera regularly.•	1848January, quits (or is fired) from Daily Eagle. February, goes to New Orleans with brother Jeff to edit Daily Crescent. May, resigns position and returns to Brooklyn via Mississippi and Great Lakes.•	1848–1849September 9, 1848, first issue of Brooklyn Weekly Freeman, a "free-soil" newspaper founded and edited by Whitman; office burns after first issue. Spring Freeman becomes a daily; Whitman edits until 1 September 1849. July, examined by phrenologist Lorenzo Fowler.•	1849–1854Operates job-printing office, bookstore, and house building business; does freelance journalism. 31 March 1851, addresses Brooklyn Art Union; writes "Pictures" in 1853.•	1855On May 15, takes out copyright on the first edition of Leaves of Grass, containing twelve poems and a preface. Leaves is printed by the Rome brothers in Brooklyn during first week of July. Father dies on 11 July. Ralph Waldo Emerson writes to poet on 21 July: "I greet you at the beginning of a great career."•	1855–1856November 1855 to August 1856 writes for Life llustrated; writes a political tract, "The Eighteenth Presidency!" Between August and September 1856, phrenologists Fowler and Wells publish second edition of Leaves of Grass, containing thirty-two poems, Emerson's letter, and an open letter by Whitman in reply to Emerson. November, visited by Henry David Thoreau and Bronson Alcott in Brooklyn.•	1857–1860Spring 1857 to Summer 1859, edits Brooklyn Daily Times; unemployed during the winter of 1859–1860; frequents Pfaff's restaurant, a center of New York's literary bohemia.•	1860March, goes to Boston to oversee third edition of Leaves of Grass, published by Thayer and Eldridge. Urged by Emerson to "expurgate" the "Children of Adam" poems.•	1861–186212 April 1861, the Civil War begins; Whitman's brother George enlists. Writes freelance journalism; visits the sick and injured at New York Hospital. December 1862, goes to Virginia where he learns that George has been wounded at Fredericksburg; remains in camp two weeks.•	1863–1864Moves to Washington, D.C.; visits military hospitals and supports himself as part-time clerk in Army Paymaster's Office. Becomes friends with William D. O'Connor and John burroughs. December 1863, brother Andrew dies of tuberculosis aggravated by alcoholism. June 1864, returns to Brooklyn for six months on sick leave. 5 December 1864, has brother Jesse committed to King's County Lunatic Asylum.•	1865Returns to Washington after 24 January appointment to clerkship in Indian Bureau of Department of the Interior. 4 March, attends Lincoln's second inauguration. 14 April, Lincoln assassinated. May, begins printing Drum-Taps (New York), but suspends printing to add a sequel commemorating Lincoln. 30 June, discharged from position by Secretary James Harlan, supposedly because of authorship of obscene poetry. Is transferred to a clerkship in Attorney General's Office. Summer, writes "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd" and "O Captain! My Captain!" October, publishes Drum-Taps and Sequel (Washington). Begins relationship with Peter Doyle, an eighteen-year old Confederate horse-car conductor, in Washington.•	1866O'Connor publishes The Good Gray Poet (New ork: Bunce and Huntington), a defense co-written by Whitman, in response to the poet's firing by Harlan.•	1867John Burroughs supports Whitman in Notes on Walt Whitman as Poet and Person (New York: American News Company). 6 July, William Michael Rossetti publishes an appreciation of "Walt Whitman's Poems" in the London Chronicle. Fourth edition of Leaves of Grass printed in New York; publishes "Democracy," first part of Democratic Vistas, in December in the Galaxy.•	1868Poems of Walt Whitman, selected and edited by Rossetti, published in London (John Camden Hotten, publisher). "Personalism," second part of Democratic Vistas, published in the May Galaxy.•	1869Develops substantial following in England; Anne Gilchrist and, about this time, Edward Carpenter read Rossetti edition and are attracted to Whitman.•	1870Suffers depression; prints fifth edition of Leaves of Grass, and Democratic Vistas and Passage to India, all in Washington D.C., and dated 1871. May, Anne Gilchrist publishes "An Englishwoman's Estimate of Walt Whitman" in The Radical, Boston.•	1871Algernon Charles Swinburne greets Whitman in Songs Before Sunrise; Alfred, Lord Tennyson and John Addington Symonds send affectionate letters. Anne Gilchrist writes a marriage proposal; Whitman politely declines (3 November). Rudolph Schmidt translates Democratic Vistas into Danish. 7 September, Whitman reads After All, Not to Create Only at American Institute Exhibition in New York City (published in Boston by Roberts Brothers).•	18721 June, Thérèse Bentzon (Mme. Blanc) publishes critical article on Whitman in Revue des Deux Mondes. 26 June, reads "As A Strong Bird on Pinions Free" at Dartmouth College commencement (published in Washington, D.C.). Succumbs to heat prostration; quarrels with O'Connor; writes will.•	187323 January, suffers paralytic stroke. Mother dies on 23 May. "Song of the Universal" read at Tufts College commencement by proxy. June, Whitman leaves Washington and moves in with his brother George in Camden, New Jersey.•	187412 July, receives an adulatory letter from Carpenter. Midsummer, discharged from his position in Washington. Publishes "Song of the Redwood-Tree" and "Prayer of Columbus" in Harper's Magazine.•	1876Publishes "Author's" or "Centennial" edition of Leaves of Grass and Two Rivulets, a matched set of volumes, and Memoranda During the War (all in Camden, New Jersey); and "Walt Whitman's Actual American Position" in West Jersey Press (26 January), an unsigned article that leads to an international controversy about America's neglect of Whitman. Befriends Harry Stafford, a printers' employee; frequently visits the Stafford family farm at Timber Creek. September, Anne Gilchrist visits the United States with her children, rents a house, and hopes to marry Whitman.•	187728 January, lectures on Thomas Paine in Philadelphia. Painted by George W. Waters in New York. May, Edward Carpenter visits Whitman in Camden; Dr. Richard Maurice Bucke visits Whitman and becomes a close friend. Whitman visits Burroughs in Esopus, New York, with Harry Stafford.•	1878Too sick to give planned lecture on "The Death of Abraham Lincoln" in spring. June, visits J.H. Johnston and John Burroughs in New York.•	187914 April, gives first Lincoln lecture in New York. Anne Gilchrist returns to England. September, travels west as far as Colorado; falls ill, and stays with brother Jeff in St. Louis.•	1880April, gives Lincoln lecture in Philadelphia. January, returns to Camden. June to October, travels in Canada and visits Bucke in London, Ontario.•	188115 April, gives Lincoln lecture in Boston. August to October, visits Boston to supervise a new edition of Leaves of Grass published by James R. Osgood containing the final arrangement of 293 poems. Visits Emerson in Concord.•	1882January, Oscar Wilde visits Whitman in Camden. April, Osgood withdraws edition of Leaves of Grass on complaint of Boston District Attorney. Rees Welsh (later David McKay) reprints Osgood edition in Philadelphia and issues Specimen Days and Collect. The publicity of Boston "suppression" of Whitman causes unprecedented boom in sales of Leaves of Grass. Becomes friends with Pearsall Smith, wealthy Philadelphia glass merchant and prominent Quaker.•	1883McKay publishes Bucke's Walt Whitman a biography written with contributions from Whitman.•	1884March, buys house at 328 Mickle Street, Camden, New Jersey, with royalties from McKay edition of Leaves of Grass. June, Carpenter visits a second time. Becomes friends with Horace Traubel, Thomas Harned, Talcott Williams, Thomas Donaldson, and Robert Ingersoll.•	1885July, has heat stroke. Friends, headed by Donaldson, present him with horse and buggy.•	1886Gives Lincoln lecture in Elkton, Maryland; Camden; Philadelphia; and Haddonfield, New Jersey. Pall Mall Gazette promotes fund which presents Whitman with eighty pounds. Boston supporters send $800 for purchase of summer cottage on Timber Creek (never built).•	188714 April, Lincoln lecture in New York City at Madison Square Theater attracts any notables and nets $600, followed by reception at Westminster Hotel. Sculptured by Sidney Morse; painted by Herbert Gilchrist, J.W. Alexander, and Thomas Eakins.•	1888June, suffers another paralytic stroke followed by severe illness. Makes a new will naming Richard Maurice Bucke, Thomas B. Harned, and Horace Traubel as literary executors. Publishes November Boughs (Philadelphia: David McKay).•	1889Seventieth birthday party commemorated in Camden's Compliment to Walt Whitman (ed. Horace Traubel. Philadelphia: David McKay).•	1890April, delivers Lincoln lecture for the last time, Philadelphia. 19 August, writes to John Addington Symonds; declares Symond's homosexual interpretation of "Calamus" poems "damnable" and claims to have fathered six illegitimate children. October, Whitman contracts to have $4,000 tomb built for himself in Harleigh Cemetery, Camden, New Jersey.•	1891Publishes Good-bye My Fancy and Deathbed edition of Leaves of Grass (both published by McKay, dated 1892). Prepares Complete Prose Works (McKay, 1892). Last birthday dinner at Mickle Street. December, catches pneumonia.•	189226 March, dies at Mickle Street; 30 March, buried in Harleigh Cemetery, Camden, New Jersey.

When I Heard the Learn’d Astronomer

When I heard the learn’d astronomer,When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me,When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them,When I sitting heard the astronomer where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick,Till rising and gliding out I wander’d off by myself,In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars.

The Wound-Dresser

1
An old man bending I come among new faces,Years looking backward resuming in answer to children,Come tell us old man, as from young men and maidens that love me,(Arous’d and angry, I’d thought to beat the alarum, and urge relentless war,But soon my fingers fail’d me, my face droop’d and I resign’d myself,To sit by the wounded and soothe them, or silently watch the dead;)Years hence of these scenes, of these furious passions, these chances,Of unsurpass’d heroes, (was one side so brave? the other was equally brave;)Now be witness again, paint the mightiest armies of earth,Of those armies so rapid so wondrous what saw you to tell us?What stays with you latest and deepest? of curious panics,Of hard-fought engagements or sieges tremendous what deepest remains?

2
O maidens and young men I love and that love me,What you ask of my days those the strangest and sudden your talking recalls,Soldier alert I arrive after a long march cover’d with sweat and dust,In the nick of time I come, plunge in the fight, loudly shout in the rush of successful charge,Enter the captur’d works—yet lo, like a swift running river they fade,Pass and are gone they fade—I dwell not on soldiers’ perils or soldiers’ joys,(Both I remember well—many of the hardships, few the joys, yet I was content.)
But in silence, in dreams’ projections,While the world of gain and appearance and mirth goes on,So soon what is over forgotten, and waves wash the imprints off the sand,With hinged knees returning I enter the doors, (while for you up there,Whoever you are, follow without noise and be of strong heart.)
Bearing the bandages, water and sponge,Straight and swift to my wounded I go,Where they lie on the ground after the battle brought in,Where their priceless blood reddens the grass, the ground,Or to the rows of the hospital tent, or under the roof’d hospital,To the long rows of cots up and down each side I return,To each and all one after another I draw near, not one do I miss,An attendant follows holding a tray, he carries a refuse pail,Soon to be fill’d with clotted rags and blood, emptied, and fill’d again.
I onward go, I stop,With hinged knees and steady hand to dress wounds,I am firm with each, the pangs are sharp yet unavoidable,One turns to me his appealing eyes—poor boy! I never knew you,Yet I think I could not refuse this moment to die for you, if that would save you.

3
On, on I go, (open doors of time! open hospital doors!)The crush’d head I dress, (poor crazed hand tear not the bandage away,)The neck of the cavalry-man with the bullet through and through I examine,Hard the breathing rattles, quite glazed already the eye, yet life struggles hard,(Come sweet death! be persuaded O beautiful death!In mercy come quickly.)
From the stump of the arm, the amputated hand,I undo the clotted lint, remove the slough, wash off the matter and blood,Back on his pillow the soldier bends with curv’d neck and side falling head,His eyes are closed, his face is pale, he dares not look on the bloody stump,And has not yet look’d on it.
I dress a wound in the side, deep, deep,But a day or two more, for see the frame all wasted and sinking,And the yellow-blue countenance see.
I dress the perforated shoulder, the foot with the bullet-wound,Cleanse the one with a gnawing and putrid gangrene, so sickening, so offensive,While the attendant stands behind aside me holding the tray and pail. I am faithful, I do not give out,The fractur’d thigh, the knee, the wound in the abdomen,These and more I dress with impassive hand, (yet deep in my breast a fire, a burning flame.)

4
Thus in silence in dreams’ projections,Returning, resuming, I thread my way through the hospitals,The hurt and wounded I pacify with soothing hand,I sit by the restless all the dark night, some are so young,Some suffer so much, I recall the experience sweet and sad,(Many a soldier’s loving arms about this neck have cross’d and rested,Many a soldier’s kiss dwells on these bearded lips.)

When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d

1When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d,And the great star early droop’d in the western sky in the night,I mourn’d, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.
Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring,Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the west,And thought of him I love.
2O powerful western fallen star!O shades of night—O moody, tearful night!O great star disappear’d—O the black murk that hides the star!O cruel hands that hold me powerless—O helpless soul of me!O harsh surrounding cloud that will not free my soul.
3In the dooryard fronting an old farm-house near the white-wash’d palings,Stands the lilac-bush tall-growing with heart-shaped leaves of rich green,With many a pointed blossom rising delicate, with the perfume strong I love,With every leaf a miracle—and from this bush in the dooryard,With delicate-color’d blossoms and heart-shaped leaves of rich green,A sprig with its flower I break.
4In the swamp in secluded recesses,A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song.
Solitary the thrush,The hermit withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements,Sings by himself a song.
Song of the bleeding throat,Death’s outlet song of life, (for well dear brother I know,If thou wast not granted to sing thou would’st surely die.)
5Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities,Amid lanes and through old woods, where lately the violets peep’d from the ground, spotting the gray debris,Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes, passing the endless grass,Passing the yellow-spear’d wheat, every grain from its shroud in the dark-brown fields uprisen,Passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the orchards,Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave,Night and day journeys a coffin.
6Coffin that passes through lanes and streets,Through day and night with the great cloud darkening the land,With the pomp of the inloop’d flags with the cities draped in black,With the show of the States themselves as of crape-veil’d women standing,With processions long and winding and the flambeaus of the night,With the countless torches lit, with the silent sea of faces and the unbared heads,With the waiting depot, the arriving coffin, and the sombre faces,With dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising strong and solemn,With all the mournful voices of the dirges pour’d around the coffin,The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs—where amid these you journey,With the tolling tolling bells’ perpetual clang,Here, coffin that slowly passes,I give you my sprig of lilac.
7(Nor for you, for one alone,Blossoms and branches green to coffins all I bring,For fresh as the morning, thus would I chant a song for you O sane and sacred death.
All over bouquets of roses,O death, I cover you over with roses and early lilies,But mostly and now the lilac that blooms the first,Copious I break, I break the sprigs from the bushes,With loaded arms I come, pouring for you,For you and the coffins all of you O death.)
8O western orb sailing the heaven,Now I know what you must have meant as a month since I walk’d,As I walk’d in silence the transparent shadowy night,As I saw you had something to tell as you bent to me night after night,As you droop’d from the sky low down as if to my side, (while the other stars all look’d on,)As we wander’d together the solemn night, (for something I know not what kept me from sleep,)As the night advanced, and I saw on the rim of the west how full you were of woe,As I stood on the rising ground in the breeze in the cool transparent night,As I watch’d where you pass’d and was lost in the netherward black of the night,As my soul in its trouble dissatisfied sank, as where you sad orb,Concluded, dropt in the night, and was gone.
9Sing on there in the swamp,O singer bashful and tender, I hear your notes, I hear your call,I hear, I come presently, I understand you,But a moment I linger, for the lustrous star has detain’d me,The star my departing comrade holds and detains me.
10O how shall I warble myself for the dead one there I loved?And how shall I deck my song for the large sweet soul that has gone?And what shall my perfume be for the grave of him I love?
Sea-winds blown from east and west,Blown from the Eastern sea and blown from the Western sea, till there on the prairies meeting,These and with these and the breath of my chant,I’ll perfume the grave of him I love.
11O what shall I hang on the chamber walls?And what shall the pictures be that I hang on the walls,To adorn the burial-house of him I love?
Pictures of growing spring and farms and homes,With the Fourth-month eve at sundown, and the gray smoke lucid and bright,With floods of the yellow gold of the gorgeous, indolent, sinking sun, burning, expanding the air,With the fresh sweet herbage under foot, and the pale green leaves of the trees prolific,In the distance the flowing glaze, the breast of the river, with a wind-dapple here and there,With ranging hills on the banks, with many a line against the sky, and shadows,And the city at hand with dwellings so dense, and stacks of chimneys,And all the scenes of life and the workshops, and the workmen homeward returning.
12Lo, body and soul—this land,My own Manhattan with spires, and the sparkling and hurrying tides, and the ships,The varied and ample land, the South and the North in the light, Ohio’s shores and flashing Missouri,And ever the far-spreading prairies cover’d with grass and corn.
Lo, the most excellent sun so calm and haughty,The violet and purple morn with just-felt breezes,The gentle soft-born measureless light,The miracle spreading bathing all, the fulfill’d noon,The coming eve delicious, the welcome night and the stars,Over my cities shining all, enveloping man and land.
13Sing on, sing on you gray-brown bird,Sing from the swamps, the recesses, pour your chant from the bushes,Limitless out of the dusk, out of the cedars and pines.
Sing on dearest brother, warble your reedy song,Loud human song, with voice of uttermost woe.
O liquid and free and tender!O wild and loose to my soul—O wondrous singer!You only I hear—yet the star holds me, (but will soon depart,)Yet the lilac with mastering odor holds me.
14Now while I sat in the day and look’d forth,In the close of the day with its light and the fields of spring, and the farmers preparing their crops,In the large unconscious scenery of my land with its lakes and forests,In the heavenly aerial beauty, (after the perturb’d winds and the storms,)Under the arching heavens of the afternoon swift passing, and the voices of children and women,The many-moving sea-tides, and I saw the ships how they sail’d,And the summer approaching with richness, and the fields all busy with labor,And the infinite separate houses, how they all went on, each with its meals and minutia of daily usages,And the streets how their throbbings throbb’d, and the cities pent—lo, then and there,Falling upon them all and among them all, enveloping me with the rest,Appear’d the cloud, appear’d the long black trail,And I knew death, its thought, and the sacred knowledge of death.
Then with the knowledge of death as walking one side of me,And the thought of death close-walking the other side of me,And I in the middle as with companions, and as holding the hands of companions,I fled forth to the hiding receiving night that talks not,Down to the shores of the water, the path by the swamp in the dimness,To the solemn shadowy cedars and ghostly pines so still.
And the singer so shy to the rest receiv’d me,The gray-brown bird I know receiv’d us comrades three,And he sang the carol of death, and a verse for him I love.
From deep secluded recesses,From the fragrant cedars and the ghostly pines so still,Came the carol of the bird.
And the charm of the carol rapt me,As I held as if by their hands my comrades in the night,And the voice of my spirit tallied the song of the bird.
Come lovely and soothing death,Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving,In the day, in the night, to all, to each,Sooner or later delicate death.
Prais’d be the fathomless universe,For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious,And for love, sweet love—but praise! praise! praise!For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding death.
Dark mother always gliding near with soft feet,Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome?Then I chant it for thee, I glorify thee above all,I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly.
Approach strong deliveress,When it is so, when thou hast taken them I joyously sing the dead,Lost in the loving floating ocean of thee,Laved in the flood of thy bliss O death.
From me to thee glad serenades,Dances for thee I propose saluting thee, adornments and feastings for thee,And the sights of the open landscape and the high-spread sky are fitting,And life and the fields, and the huge and thoughtful night.
The night in silence under many a star,The ocean shore and the husky whispering wave whose voice I know,And the soul turning to thee O vast and well-veil’d death,And the body gratefully nestling close to thee.
Over the tree-tops I float thee a song,Over the rising and sinking waves, over the myriad fields and the prairies wide,Over the dense-pack’d cities all and the teeming wharves and ways,I float this carol with joy, with joy to thee O death.
15To the tally of my soul,Loud and strong kept up the gray-brown bird,With pure deliberate notes spreading filling the night.
Loud in the pines and cedars dim,Clear in the freshness moist and the swamp-perfume,And I with my comrades there in the night.
While my sight that was bound in my eyes unclosed,As to long panoramas of visions.
And I saw askant the armies,I saw as in noiseless dreams hundreds of battle-flags,Borne through the smoke of the battles and pierc’d with missiles I saw them,And carried hither and yon through the smoke, and torn and bloody,And at last but a few shreds left on the staffs, (and all in silence,)And the staffs all splinter’d and broken.
I saw battle-corpses, myriads of them,And the white skeletons of young men, I saw them,I saw the debris and debris of all the slain soldiers of the war,But I saw they were not as was thought,They themselves were fully at rest, they suffer’d not,The living remain’d and suffer’d, the mother suffer’d,And the wife and the child and the musing comrade suffer’d,And the armies that remain’d suffer’d.
16Passing the visions, passing the night,Passing, unloosing the hold of my comrades’ hands,Passing the song of the hermit bird and the tallying song of my soul,Victorious song, death’s outlet song, yet varying ever-altering song,As low and wailing, yet clear the notes, rising and falling, flooding the night,Sadly sinking and fainting, as warning and warning, and yet again bursting with joy,Covering the earth and filling the spread of the heaven,As that powerful psalm in the night I heard from recesses,Passing, I leave thee lilac with heart-shaped leaves,I leave thee there in the door-yard, blooming, returning with spring.
I cease from my song for thee,From my gaze on thee in the west, fronting the west, communing with thee,O comrade lustrous with silver face in the night.
Yet each to keep and all, retrievements out of the night,The song, the wondrous chant of the gray-brown bird,And the tallying chant, the echo arous’d in my soul,With the lustrous and drooping star with the countenance full of woe,With the holders holding my hand nearing the call of the bird,Comrades mine and I in the midst, and their memory ever to keep, for the dead I loved so well,For the sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and lands—and this for his dear sake,Lilac and star and bird twined with the chant of my soul,There in the fragrant pines and the cedars dusk and dim.

Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking

Out of the cradle endlessly rocking,Out of the mocking-bird’s throat, the musical shuttle,Out of the Ninth-month midnight,Over the sterile sands and the fields beyond, where the child leaving his bed wander’d alone, bareheaded, barefoot,Down from the shower’d halo,Up from the mystic play of shadows twining and twisting as if they were alive,Out from the patches of briers and blackberries,From the memories of the bird that chanted to me,From your memories sad brother, from the fitful risings and fallings I heard,From under that yellow half-moon late-risen and swollen as if with tears,From those beginning notes of yearning and love there in the mist,From the thousand responses of my heart never to cease,From the myriad thence-arous’d words,From the word stronger and more delicious than any,From such as now they start the scene revisiting,As a flock, twittering, rising, or overhead passing,Borne hither, ere all eludes me, hurriedly,A man, yet by these tears a little boy again,Throwing myself on the sand, confronting the waves,I, chanter of pains and joys, uniter of here and hereafter,Taking all hints to use them, but swiftly leaping beyond them,A reminiscence sing.
Once Paumanok,When the lilac-scent was in the air and Fifth-month grass was growing,Up this seashore in some briers,Two feather’d guests from Alabama, two together,And their nest, and four light-green eggs spotted with brown,And every day the he-bird to and fro near at hand,And every day the she-bird crouch’d on her nest, silent, with bright eyes,And every day I, a curious boy, never too close, never disturbing them,Cautiously peering, absorbing, translating. 

Shine! shine! shine!Pour down your warmth, great sun!While we bask, we two together.
Two together!Winds blow south, or winds blow north,Day come white, or night come black,Home, or rivers and mountains from home,Singing all time, minding no time,While we two keep together.
Till of a sudden,May-be kill’d, unknown to her mate,One forenoon the she-bird crouch’d not on the nest,Nor return’d that afternoon, nor the next,Nor ever appear’d again.
And thenceforward all summer in the sound of the sea,And at night under the full of the moon in calmer weather,Over the hoarse surging of the sea,Or flitting from brier to brier by day,I saw, I heard at intervals the remaining one, the he-bird,The solitary guest from Alabama. 

Blow! blow! blow!Blow up sea-winds along Paumanok’s shore;I wait and I wait till you blow my mate to me. 

Yes, when the stars glisten’d,All night long on the prong of a moss-scallop’d stake,Down almost amid the slapping waves,Sat the lone singer wonderful causing tears.
He call’d on his mate,He pour’d forth the meanings which I of all men know.
Yes my brother I know,The rest might not, but I have treasur’d every note,For more than once dimly down to the beach gliding,Silent, avoiding the moonbeams, blending myself with the shadows,Recalling now the obscure shapes, the echoes, the sounds and sights after their sorts,The white arms out in the breakers tirelessly tossing,I, with bare feet, a child, the wind wafting my hair,Listen’d long and long.
Listen’d to keep, to sing, now translating the notes,Following you my brother. 

Soothe! soothe! soothe!Close on its wave soothes the wave behind,And again another behind embracing and lapping, every one close,But my love soothes not me, not me.
Low hangs the moon, it rose late,It is lagging—O I think it is heavy with love, with love.
O madly the sea pushes upon the land,With love, with love.
O night! do I not see my love fluttering out among the breakers?What is that little black thing I see there in the white?
Loud! loud! loud!Loud I call to you, my love!
High and clear I shoot my voice over the waves,Surely you must know who is here, is here,You must know who I am, my love.
Low-hanging moon!What is that dusky spot in your brown yellow?O it is the shape, the shape of my mate!O moon do not keep her from me any longer.
Land! land! O land!Whichever way I turn, O I think you could give me my mate back again if you only would,For I am almost sure I see her dimly whichever way I look.
O rising stars!Perhaps the one I want so much will rise, will rise with some of you.
O throat! O trembling throat!Sound clearer through the atmosphere!Pierce the woods, the earth,Somewhere listening to catch you must be the one I want.
Shake out carols!Solitary here, the night’s carols!Carols of lonesome love! death’s carols!Carols under that lagging, yellow, waning moon!O under that moon where she droops almost down into the sea!O reckless despairing carols.
But soft! sink low!Soft! let me just murmur,And do you wait a moment you husky-nois’d sea,For somewhere I believe I heard my mate responding to me,So faint, I must be still, be still to listen,But not altogether still, for then she might not come immediately to me.
Hither my love!Here I am! here!With this just-sustain’d note I announce myself to you,This gentle call is for you my love, for you.
Do not be decoy’d elsewhere,That is the whistle of the wind, it is not my voice,That is the fluttering, the fluttering of the spray,Those are the shadows of leaves.
O darkness! O in vain!O I am very sick and sorrowful.
O brown halo in the sky near the moon, drooping upon the sea!O troubled reflection in the sea!O throat! O throbbing heart!And I singing uselessly, uselessly all the night.
O past! O happy life! O songs of joy!In the air, in the woods, over fields,Loved! loved! loved! loved! loved!But my mate no more, no more with me!We two together no more.
The aria sinking,All else continuing, the stars shining,The winds blowing, the notes of the bird continuous echoing,With angry moans the fierce old mother incessantly moaning,On the sands of Paumanok’s shore gray and rustling,The yellow half-moon enlarged, sagging down, drooping, the face of the sea almost touching,The boy ecstatic, with his bare feet the waves, with his hair the atmosphere dallying,The love in the heart long pent, now loose, now at last tumultuously bursting,The aria’s meaning, the ears, the soul, swiftly depositing,The strange tears down the cheeks coursing,The colloquy there, the trio, each uttering,The undertone, the savage old mother incessantly crying,To the boy’s soul’s questions sullenly timing, some drown’d secret hissing,To the outsetting bard.
Demon or bird! (said the boy’s soul,)Is it indeed toward your mate you sing? or is it really to me?For I, that was a child, my tongue’s use sleeping, now I have heard you,Now in a moment I know what I am for, I awake,And already a thousand singers, a thousand songs, clearer, louder and more sorrowful than yours,A thousand warbling echoes have started to life within me, never to die.
O you singer solitary, singing by yourself, projecting me,O solitary me listening, never more shall I cease perpetuating you,Never more shall I escape, never more the reverberations,Never more the cries of unsatisfied love be absent from me,Never again leave me to be the peaceful child I was before what there in the night,By the sea under the yellow and sagging moon,The messenger there arous’d, the fire, the sweet hell within,The unknown want, the destiny of me.
O give me the clew! (it lurks in the night here somewhere,)O if I am to have so much, let me have more!
A word then, (for I will conquer it,)The word final, superior to all,Subtle, sent up—what is it?—I listen;Are you whispering it, and have been all the time, you sea-waves?Is that it from your liquid rims and wet sands?
Whereto answering, the sea,Delaying not, hurrying not,Whisper’d me through the night, and very plainly before day-break,
Lisp’d to me the low and delicious word death,And again death, death, death, death,Hissing melodious, neither like the bird nor like my arous’d child’s heart,But edging near as privately for me rustling at my feet,Creeping thence steadily up to my ears and laving me softly all over,Death, death, death, death, death.
Which I do not forget,But fuse the song of my dusky demon and brother,That he sang to me in the moonlight on Paumanok’s gray beach,With the thousand responsive songs at random,My own songs awaked from that hour,And with them the key, the word up from the waves,The word of the sweetest song and all songs,That strong and delicious word which, creeping to my feet,(Or like some old crone rocking the cradle, swathed in sweet garments, bending aside,)The sea whisper’d me.

Song of Myself: Walt Whitman

Overview

Recommended Media

Web Resources: Print

Web Resources: Video

Bibliography

Timeline

Four Representative Poems

When I Heard the Learn’d Astronomer

The Wound-Dresser

When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d

Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking