song of myself
In my daily hikes through the woods and meadows brimming this time of year with wildflowers and all forms of vibrant greens, I find Whitman’s words from Leaves of Grass emerging spontaneously in my mind. I am large, I contain multitudes… Even if I sometimes interpret them out of context, these echoes of a great individualist, humanist and naturalist invite me back to his fuller works to bask in the simple sensual richness of his observations and way of relating with the greater world beyond precepts.
Song of Myself, 1 [I Celebrate myself]
Walt Witman - 1819-1892
I Celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.
My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.
Creeds and schools in abeyance,
Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
Nature without check with original energy.
Enjoy the full poem here.