19. WHITMAN'S POEMS (WHEN LILACS LAST IN THE DOORYARD BLOOM’D & CROSSING THE BROOKLYN FERRY) - for TSPSC JL/DL

 

19. WHITMAN'S POEMS 

(WHEN LILACS LAST IN THE DOORYARD BLOOM’D & CROSSING THE BROOKLYN FERRY) 

- for TSPSC JL/DL

 

Walt Whitman Biography

Walt Whitman is both a major poet and an outstanding personality in the history of American literature. He rose from obscurity to monumental fame, coming to be recognized as a national figure. His achievement is great, although it has been sometimes obscured by unfair, hostile criticism — or, conversely, by extravagant praise. He is essentially a poet, though other aspects of his achievement — as philosopher, mystic, or critic — have also been stressed.

Walt Whitman was born in West Hills, Long Island, New York on May 31, 1819. His father, Walter, was a laborer, carpenter, and house builder. His mother, Louisa, was a devout Quaker. In 1823, the family moved to Brooklyn, where Walt had his schooling (1825-30). From 1830 to 1836 he held various jobs, some of them on newspapers in Brooklyn and Manhattan. From 1836 to 1841 he was a schoolteacher in Long Island, despite the paucity of his own education. The division of Whitman's early life between town and country later enabled him to depict both environments with equal understanding and sympathy. He also traveled extensively throughout America, and so could appreciate the various regions of the land.

Between 1841 and 1851 Whitman edited various periodicals and newspapers. It was, apparently, during this period that he began to compose the poems which were later published as Leaves of Grass.

In 1862 Walt's brother George was wounded in the Civil War. When Whitman traveled to Virginia to visit him, he saw large numbers of the wounded in hospitals. The Civil War was a major event in Whitman's career, stirring both his imagination and his sensibility and making him a dresser of spiritual wounds as well as of physical ones as he worked as a volunteer in hospitals. Lincoln's assassination (1865) also moved Whitman deeply, and several poems bear testimony of his intense grief.

In 1865 Whitman was fired from his post in the Department of the Interior in Washington because of the alleged indecency of Leaves of Grass. He was hired by the Attorney General's office and remained there until 1873 when he suffered a mild paralytic stroke which left him a semi-invalid. In Whitman's last years (1888-92), he was mostly confined to his room in the house which he had bought in Camden, New Jersey. Two friends, Horace Traubel and Thomas B. Harried, attended him. He died on March 26, 1892. Thus ended the lifelong pilgrimage of the Good Gray Poet (as his contemporary, critic W. D. O'Connor, called him), an immortal in American literature.

Whitman grew into almost a legendary figure, due largely to the charm and magnetism of his personality. Contemporary critics described him as a "modern Christ." His face was called "serene, proud, cheerful, florid, grave; the features, massive and handsome, with firm blue eyes." His head was described as "magestic, large, Homeric, and set upon his strong shoulders with the grandeur of ancient sculpture." These descriptions tend to make Whitman appear almost a mythical personage. But he was very much alive.

Whitman was a being of paradoxes. His dual nature, a profound spirituality combined with an equally profound animality, puzzled even his admirers. John A. Symonds, an English writer, was puzzled by undercurrents of emotional and sexual abnormality in the Calamus poems and questioned Whitman on this issue. Whitman's reply (August 19, 1890) is interesting: "My life, young manhood, mid-age, times South, etc., have been jolly bodily, and doubtless open to criticism. Though unmarried I have had six children — two are dead — one living Southern grandchild — fine boy, writes to me occasionally — circumstances . . . have separated me from intimate relations." But no trace of any children of Whitman's has been found, and it is not unlikely that he merely invented them to stave off further questions.

Whitman was truly a representative of his age and reflected its varied crosscurrents. His poetry shows the impact of the romantic idealism which reached its zenith in the years before the Civil War and also shows something of the scientific realism which dominated the literary scene after 1865. Whitman harmonizes this romanticism and realism to achieve a true representation of the spirit of America. The growth of science and technology in his time affected Whitman deeply, and he responded positively to the idea of progress and evolution. American patriotism in the nineteenth century projected the idea of history in relation to cosmic philosophy: it was thought that change and progress form part of God's design. The historical process of America's great growth was therefore part of the divine design, and social and scientific developments were outward facets of real spiritual progress. Whitman shared in this idea of mystic evolution. Leaves of Grass symbolizes the fulfillment of American romanticism as well as of the sense of realistic revolt against it.

Whitman visualized the role of a poet as a seer, as a prophetic genius who could perceive and interpret his own times and also see beyond time. The ideal poet, thought Whitman, portrays the true reality of nature and comprehends and expresses his genuine self. He holds a mirror to his self and to nature; he also illuminates the meaning and significance of the universe and man's relation to it. An ideal poet, he believed, is the poet of man first, then of nature, and finally of God; these elements are united by the poet's harmonious visionary power. Though the poet is concerned primarily with the world of the spirit, he accepts science and democracy within his artistic fold, since these are the basic realities of the modern world, especially that of nineteenth-century America. Recognition of the values of science and democracy is indirectly an acknowledgement of the reality of modern life. Whitman's ideal poet is a singer of the self; he also understands the relation between self and the larger realities of the social and political world and of the spiritual universe. He intuitively comprehends the great mysteries of life — birth, death, and resurrection — and plays the part of a priest and a prophet for mankind.

Leaves of Grass, ever since its first publication in 1855, has been a puzzling collection of poems. It inspires, it enthralls, and it tantalizes-and yet, the problems it poses are numerous and varied. Whitman so completely identified himself with Leaves ("This is no book,/Who touches this touches a man") that critics have tried to find reflections of Whitman's own life in all the imagery and symbolism of the poems. Whitman did explore and express many aspects of his personality in Leaves. It was he himself who created the illusion that he and his poems were identical. Through these works, he found full expression as a poet — and as a man.

The first edition (1855) of Leaves of Grass consisted of ninety-five pages. The author's name did not appear, but his picture was included. By the time the second edition was published in 1856, the volume consisted of 384 pages, with a favorable review by Emerson printed on the back cover. For this edition, Whitman not only added to the text, he also altered the poems which had previously been published. The third edition appeared in 1860 and contained 124 new poems. The fourth edition, published in 1867, was called the "workshop" edition because so much revision had gone into it. It contained eight new poems. The fifth edition (1871) included the new poem "Passage to India." The sixth edition, in two volumes, appeared in 1876. The seventh edition was published in 1881 and is widely accepted as an authoritative edition today, although the eighth and ninth editions are equally important. The last, which is also called the "deathbed" edition because it was completed in the year of Whitman's death (1892), represents Whitman's final thoughts. The text used here will be that of the last, or "deathbed," edition of 1892. Only the most significant poems of each section of Leaves of Grass will be discussed.

10 MOST FAMOUS POEMS BY WALT WHITMAN

Walt Whitman is considered one of the greatest poets in the English language. His most known works are from his epic collection of poetry Leaves of Grass which was first published in 1855 and was republished several times over the next four decades. The last publication consisted of over 400 poems. Here are 10 of the most famous poems written by Whitman.

 

#10 Pioneers! O Pioneers!                           Published: 1865

This poem is a tribute to Americans, who with their determination and hard work, transformed wilderness into a great civilization. Although the poem can be considered an ode to the pioneers, the use of the word ‘we’ frequently and several parts of the poem emphasize on unity and include all generations as pioneers.

Excerpt:-

       For we cannot tarry here,

       We must march my darlings, we must bear the brunt of danger,

       We the youthful sinewy races, all the rest on us depend,

       Pioneers! O pioneers!

 

#9 A Noiseless Patient Spider      Published: 1868

This poem is famous for its imagery that precisely describes the scenes of the poem and binds the speaker with the noiseless spider. Among the prevalent themes of the poem is the spider’s endless effort to make a connection to something, symbolizing the speaker’s attempts to make connections in the universe.

Excerpt:-

       Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them,

       Till the bridge you will need be form’d, till the ductile anchor hold,

       Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul.

 

#8 I Sing the Body Electric            Published: 1855

In this poem Whitman explores the physical body at length and celebrates its importance in forming connections between people, both erotically and spiritually. In parts, he first examines the female and then the male body and praises their sacredness. The poem inspired several works by artists of future generations.

Excerpt:-

       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.

 

#7 I Saw in Louisiana a Live-Oak Growing              Published: 1860

A group of poems in Whitman’s Leaves of Grass collection are known as the ‘Calamus’ cluster. It is widely believed that these poems express his ideas of homosexual love. They are one of the primary reasons due to which he is considered homosexual by many people. This poem is the most famous of the ‘Calamus’ cluster. In it, Whitman speaks of a lonely, solitary tree in Louisiana.

Excerpt:-

        All alone stood it and the moss hung down from the branches,

       Without any companion it stood there uttering joyous leaves of dark green,

       And its look, rude, unbending, lusty, made me think of myself

 

#6 Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking                  Published: 1860

The poem features a boy who sees a couple of birds nesting. One day the female bird is not to be seen and the male cries out for her. The bird’s cries create an awakening in the boy and he is able to translate the male bird’s cries for its lost mate. The poem symbolizes the awakening of a poet through nature.

Excerpt:-

       Out of the cradle endlessly rocking,

       Out of the mocking-bird’s throat, the musical shuttle,

       Out of the Ninth-month midnight,

 

#5 Beat! Beat! Drums!                   Published: 1861

“Beat! Beat! Drums!” was written as a reaction of the North at the beginning of the American Civil War. The poem calls for people from all strata of society to react to the drumbeats. ‘Beat! Beat! Drums!’ is one of the most popular poems of Whitman and is known for evoking fervor in the reader.

Excerpt:-

Beat! beat! drums!—blow! bugles! blow!

Through the windows—through doors—burst like a ruthless force

 

#4 I Hear America Singing            Published: 1860

In ‘I Hear America Singing’ Whitman expresses his love of America – its vitality, variety, and its achievements as a result of the work done by its people. In the poem, the poet hears “varied carols” of people who make America what it is. ‘I Hear America Singing’ remains one of the most popular poems by Whitman.

Excerpt:-

       The woodcutter’s song, the ploughboy’s on his way in the morn-

       ing, or at noon intermission or at sundown,

       The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work,

       or of the girl sewing or washing,

 

#3 When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d      Published: 1865

This famous elegy was written after the assassination of Abraham Lincoln. Despite the poem being an elegy to Lincoln, Whitman doesn’t use the name of the President or describe the circumstances of his death. Instead he uses symbolism. The poem moves from grief to the distress that war causes and ends with acceptance of death. Though not one of Whitman’s favorite, the poem is considered a masterpiece and ranked by critics as one of the greatest elegies in English language.

Excerpt:-

       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.

 #2 O Captain! My Captain!          Published: 1867

In ‘O Captain! My Captain!’, Whitman refers to Abraham Lincoln as the captain of the ship, representing America. The poem also has several references to the American Civil War; and political and social issues of the time. Written in the year of Lincoln’s death, it went on to become one of the most popular poems of Whitman.

 Excerpt:-

       O Captain! My Captain! our fearful trip is done;

       The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;

       The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

       While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring

 

#1   Song of Myself         Published: 1855

Most famous poem by Whitman, ‘Song of Myself’ is a mesmerizing mixture of romanticism and realism. The poem, which was initially titled ‘Poem of Walt Whitman, an American,’ also serves as a biography of Whitman. It caught the attention of public and critics alike when it was published and remains among the most acclaimed and influential poems written by an American.

Excerpt:-

       I celebrate myself, and sing myself,

       And what I assume you shall assume,

       For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

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       POEM1: WHEN LILACS LAST IN THE DOORYARD BLOOM’D

SECTION 1 SUMMARY

Lines 1-3

When 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.

Whitman's speaker starts us right off with the poem's title. (For more on that, check out "What's Up with the Title?".) We're remembering the last time that some lilacs in a dooryard (the front yard) bloomed. Although, the word "last" may also refer to the last lilacs to bloom for the season.

We also know that the poem's setting takes place some time during spring (lilac season). Check out "Setting" for more on that.

Adding to the landscape is that "great star" in the western sky. Usually that star (actually a planet) is Venus, since it's the brightest star we can see in the early evening sky. (Check it out.)

But since it's "droop'd," we also get the feeling that there's some sadness in these lines. Venus can literally look rather droopy in the early evening because it appears to hang pretty low on the horizon, but here we get the feeling that the speaker is building a particular mood for the poem. We should also say that you shouldn't be thrown for a loop when you see an apostrophe in a word like "droop'd," or later "mourn'd." This just means that a letter's been taken out to ensure that the word doesn't get an extra syllable. Both "droop'd" (drooped) and "mourn'd" (mourned) should be one syllable here (kind of like they are… always). Whitman is just being poetic in a sense with these abbreviations, but he's also making sure that the reader doesn't go the other way and add an extra syllable here, as in "droopéd" (the added accent mark in a poem tells us to add a second beat to the word: "droop-ed").

Line 3 drives that mood home with the speaker mourning the loss of someone or something. We don't know any specifics just yet. But since he will "mourn with ever-returning spring," we understand that spring will forever remind him of what he lost.

So, even in the first stanza we see the speaker blending the beauty and vivacity of spring with the pain of mourning and death.

We've also got some duality (two opposing forces) occurring here between life (the lilacs) and death (mourning) that indicate that both are getting along just fine in the poem. Even though the speaker is in mourning, he can still appreciate those lilacs in the dooryard and that "great star" in the western sky. So already we get the sense that this elegy won't be just about woe and Kleenex.

Lines 4-6

Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring,

Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the west,

And thought of him I love.

 

So, with every returning spring, the speaker will get some sort of "trinity." What in the wide world of sports does that mean?

Lines 5-6 sum it up for us by providing those three things that make up the speaker's trinity: lilacs, drooping star in the west, and "him."

Lock those three things away, because chances are they will become very important to the poem later on. Perhaps they're even symbols for some bigger ideas. For right now, we can presume that lilacs represent life's vivacity and endurance since they come back every year ("perennial"). But we'll have to wait and see what the speaker does with that "star" and "him."

So, about that "him I love": who is this guy and what's his relation to the speaker? We don't know yet, but we know there's love there, whether it's romantic, familial, or something else.

By now we can say for sure that the speaker is missing a man in some way. But we're not feeling engulfed in grief because of all the beautiful and lively imagery of lilacs and stars. Check out "Symbols, Imagery, and Wordplay" for more on them.

So, right now we recognize the speaker's sad times, but we also see him weaving some beauty in there too. At the same time, all of those telltale signs of spring's rejuvenation are simultaneously reminders of the man the speaker has lost. Glass half empty, or half full?

Actually, it's as if we're getting a sense of balance between life and death in the poem.

SECTION 2 SUMMARY

Lines 7-9

O 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!

Well, it wouldn't be a nineteenth-century elegy without some "O's" and woe. Lines 7-9 are a kind of catalog of interjections ("O!") and super-emotional, figurative language: "O moody tearful night!"

So the speaker at this point is being real with us, so to speak. He's letting it all hang out and he's not afraid of weeping. This is kind of in line with your typical elegy, too. Usually we get all the woe and gloom in the first few stanzas and then by the end we usually have some sort of consolation to get us home without too many tears. Check out this famous elegy by W. H. Auden that does the same sort of thing.

Back to the O's: We see that western star again in line 7, but here it's "powerful" which gives us a sense of its symbolism. The speaker isn't just talking about stars, in other words. But again we're not sure what it symbolizes just yet. Since it's "powerful" and "fallen" we might assume that it's being used to symbolize someone, or something, who also fits those descriptions.

Line 8 gives us more imagery, only this time it's much darker and more in line with death and mourning: "shades of night" and "moody, tearful night."

Since the speaker includes the idea of the night being "moody," we likewise get a feeling for the speaker's mood as well. At first he sounded put-together, checking out those lilacs, but here we see a different side that's more emotional and distraught.

And since it's an elegy and elegies deal with death, we can understand all of the mood swings. In times of mourning, things are rarely room temperature and under control. Usually folks are feeling all over the place after someone dies, crying one minute and smiling the next. Therefore there are "shades" of grief, just like there are "shades of night" in line 8.

By line 9 we definitely know that fallen western star has "disappear'd," and so it seems logical to make the connection to the "him" the speaker was referring to earlier. We get the sense that perhaps this man was also a great star in his own way.

The second half of line 9 tells us the circumstances surrounding this "fallen star" are complicated, since the speaker includes the metaphor of "black murk that hides the star." This guy didn't just die of natural causes. The circumstances are much "murkier" and pervasive since they hide such a bright star.

Lines 10-11

O cruel hands that hold me powerless—O helpless soul of me!

O harsh surrounding cloud that will not free my soul.

By line 10, the speaker's focus is more inward than before. The passing of that "fallen star" is making him feel "powerless" and "helpless." So the consequences of this man's death extend far beyond the person himself, as we see the speaker suffering in such a helpless and powerless way.

And again we get the sense that things are complicated here in that metaphor of a "harsh surrounding cloud." This isn't the sort of death one can easily rationalize or forget about. Its consequences "surround" the speaker, which again gets us thinking that the dead guy is no ordinary Joe.

Since the cloud cannot "free" the speaker's soul, we also get the feeling that the world at large must also part of the speaker's suffering. The speaker's turmoil is just as much outside as it is inside of him. Therefore he's "powerless" and unable to be freed from it.

SECTION 3 SUMMARY

Lines 12-14

In 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,

By the third section of the poem, we're back to the lovely lilacs in the dooryard. The sudden mood change, as we noted before, fits well with the erratic reality of our speaker grieving. And since we just left a stanza that's all about woe, we're getting a sense of that balance between life and death some more.

It's all about the imagery in these lines, which serves to capture the fecundity (lushness) of spring and life in general. The lilac bush is "tall-growing" with "rich green" leaves and strong perfume. If that doesn't scream fecundity, we don't know what does.

The old farmhouse reminds us of the speaker's isolation in times of grieving. The fence is "white-wash'd," but the house is old which gives the impression of the passing of time despite times of mourning. The world still turns and the fences are still painted over, no matter how long the speaker or anyone else may mourn in that isolated farmhouse.

Line 13 gives us that "tall-growing" lilac bush that not only suggests vitality, but also life's perseverance and the notion of moving forward of time. Like the song says, life goes on and in this case it flourishes with heart-shaped "rich green" leaves. So, even nature has a way of physically proving the endurance of life with leaves, which here are shaped like hearts. Aww.

But line 14 also points out that this life is also "delicate" despite its strong perfume. The lilacs may endure the winter, but we're also reminded that those spring blossoms are still fragile, just like life.

Lines 15-17

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.

If you had any doubt about those lilacs being an extended metaphor for life, line 15 takes care of that. The speaker states that with "every leaf a miracle" occurs. We've all heard plenty of older folks talking about the miracle of life, and here the idea is the same. Despite those delicate buds, life still perseveres and flourishes.

We're noticing that at this point that Whitman's elegy is sounding mighty optimistic and hopeful, despite the speaker's mourning. So we're really feeling the sense of holding on to the positive despite all the negative, deathly, bad times stuff. It's a "finding the light in the darkness" sort of thing.

And what does the speaker do to this delicate bush of life? He breaks off a "sprig with its flower." We're assuming he's checked with the owners first.

We can also assume that that sprig will become important later on, since it's part of this extended metaphor for life.

SECTION 4 SUMMARY

Lines 18-19

In the swamp in secluded recesses,

A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song.

Not only do we have another mood change here, but we also have a change in setting. Now we're in a secluded swamp with a hidden bird singing a song, and a frog playing the banjo—oh wait. Still, the mood is a bit strange, mysterious perhaps with those "secluded recesses."

Even the language here is different, without all the flowery adjectives, which adds to the sudden mysterious mood we have here.

So near that swamp in "secluded recesses," a shy bird is "warbling a song." Songbirds also tend to become symbols in poetry, usually for our inner "song" or soul. So they might mean the same thing in this poem later on. Keep an eye out for that.

But what we do know for sure is that the imagery here is strange, in a dreamlike sort of way, since we don't usually imagine birds singing in swamps (Kermits only). So we have even more reason to suspect that the bird may symbolize a more mysterious world, part of the stuff we can't always see or understand.

That would makes sense, since when we try to rationalize death, we often end up grappling with this mysterious and unknown world.

Lines 20-22

Solitary the thrush,

The hermit withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements,

Sings by himself a song.

Hmm—more weird stuff here. In addition to being a songbird, we have a thrush who's a hermit "avoiding the settlements."

The bird "sings by himself a song," isolated in the woods somewhere.

The mood has become even more isolated and mysterious at this point, with the hermit-bird singing to himself. There's no one around to listen, so you know this guy isn't looking to be on American Idol. Instead, it looks as if he is part of this more soulful and unconscious world that belongs to the individual alone. It's his world and his song, no one else's.

Since he avoids the settlements, we know this life is of his own choosing. No one is forcing him to sing. He's doing these things for his own purposes without looking for anyone's approval, understanding, or company.

If we put this in the context of grieving, the weirdness kind of makes sense. When we grieve, we tend to grieve alone and we feel things in our own way. So this hermit-thrush who "sings by himself a song" seems to represent the more unconscious world that's associated with grief. In other words, it's the world that can't be consoled with fruitcake and flowers. (Try us, though. We're partial to long-stemmed roses.)

Lines 23-25

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.)

 

Man, it looks like that hermit-bird has been singing his song for an awfully long time, since he has a "bleeding throat." This tells us there's quite a bit of feeling behind that song since he can't stop singing it.

Line 23 also gives us some figurative language with that "bleeding throat," since we can assume his throat isn't actually bleeding. That would be one tough bird.

Line 24 has some more blending of life with death in the idea of "Death's outlet song of life." That song is an outlet for the bird's life, keeping death away. In this sense "Death's outlet" means something more along the lines of "escape from Death."

The little parenthetical clause (the part in parentheses, kind of like this part of this sentence) that we have between lines 24 and 25 also gives us a sense of the speaker's empathy with the thrush, which is referred to as a "dear brother."

The speaker says that, without that song and the bird's ability to sing, life would cease to have any meaning. Instead, he would "surely die" without that ability to express the song he has within him.

On a deeper level then, that little message gives the suggestion that expression and song are necessary to life. We, like the thrush, cannot live without "song" and the ability to express our emotions, especially when we're suffering pain. That expression of the soul through song is what helps get us through all the pain.

SECTION 5 SUMMARY

Lines 26-27

Over 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,

Whitman loves long-winded free verse, so even though line 27 might look like two lines, it's really only one. The line is so darn long that it can't fit on one line. These monster-sized lines are kind of Whitman's thing. Check out "Form and Meter" for more on them.

Section 5 brings us into yet another setting that kind of zooms out a bit in order to see the entire "breast of spring" of the land and cities.

But we notice it's not all about spring here. We have some "gray debris" in line 27 that tells us that some sort of destruction has occurred. Usually gray debris is the consequence of explosions, gunpowder, or other man-made demolition (think the clean-up crew on a Michael Bay movie set).

So, amid all these lanes in the cities and woods of the land, little violets "peep" from the ground, pushing apart some of the gray debris that's lying around.

Yet again we have more blending of the good with the bad in an effort to accentuate the perseverance of life some more. Even with all the debris on the ground, those violets still manage to peep on through.

Notice too that we're getting our first hints of wartime in these lines. Debris doesn't come from nature—man has to create it.

So here we know that some sort of battle or conflict has occurred.

When we consider Whitman's time period, we can kind of put two and two together and figure out that we're probably talking about America's Civil War here. The word "lately" tells us that his speaker isn't looking back in time to some other war.

Lines 28-29

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,

The landscape continues with lanes (dirt roads) bordered by fields of grass and wheat. We kind of feel like we're in America's heartland at this point, with lots of farms and crops ready for harvesting. Since the grass is "endless," we feel again the speaker's sense of spring's perseverance despite all the debris we saw earlier.More importantly, something is "passing" that grass, moving along those lanes. We're not sure quite what it is yet, though.

We can say that, since "every grain from its shroud" is "uprisen," we also get a sense of nature's strength. The landscape isn't just enduring with a few shrouds of wheat. It's enduring with force, which again suggests that life goes on and can even flourish despite all of man's conflicts and upheaval. In your face, humanity.

Lines 30-32

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.

Whatever it is that's passing is now going past orchards now, with apple trees and their white and pink blossoms—how pretty.

This imagery puts us in mind of spring's fertility.

But when we get to line 31, things suddenly look dark again. Whatever's passing the orchard also happens to be "carrying a corpse" to a grave. Finally, line 32 reveals what it is (in case you haven't guessed yet): "a coffin." It's traveling night and day.

So, the coffin is really the subject of a sentence that starts way back at the start of the section. We hear all about the scenery that the coffin is moving through, but only at the very end of this section do we learn that the thing doing the sight-seeing is basically a funeral procession.

Again, even in the midst of life's rich and fertile landscape, death is present (and vice versa). Once more we have our speaker blending the vivacity of spring with the stark realities of death and wartime. Together, they make for a rather potent display of the cycles of life and death coexisting. Amid all the orchards and fields is a dead body, making its way to the grave.

 

SECTION 6 SUMMARY

Lines 33-35

Coffin 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,

There's that coffin again, passing through with that "great cloud darkening the land." Remember the cloud from Section 2? It looks like it's come back to confirm that it's not just covering the speaker's grief, but also "the land" more generally.

The mood has also become a bit more ominous with that cloud, as if dark times are brewing along with some uncertainty as to what will happen next.

Are you wondering who might be in that coffin by now? Maybe the "pomp of the inloop'd flags" that cover it gives you a clue, or the fact that entire cities are "draped in black," a sign of mourning.

Need another clue? History Note: After he was assassinated, Abraham Lincoln's body was essentially put on tour, taking him by train from Washington D.C. back to Springfield, Illinois (retracing his voyage to the U.S. presidency). Along the way, it made stops in cities so that mourners could view the coffin.

That's right: the poem's describing poor Honest Abe's funeral procession.

Lines 36-38

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,

More common indications of national mourning in these lines are with all the "States" we see. Notice the anaphora we have going on too with that repeated "With the" clause. The speaker is making a list of all the signs of pain and suffering that are being shared by many people at the same time. The repetition emphasizes the seemingly endless extent of that pain.

The "crape-veil'd women standing" serve to emphasize the toll the war has taken on countless families across the nation.

(Fashion Note: a crape veil is an old-timey, see-through cover—usually black—that would be worn over the face in a time of morning. Check one out here.)

The "show of the States" basically compares them to so many women, dressed in mourning clothes, but it also speaks to the shared mourning that's occurring following Lincoln's assassination. The States are all mourning the passing of their leader.

The processions look just as long and winding as the list our speaker has going for us here, and that's no coincidence. We're meant to feel and see the long procession of the death toll the war has brought about.

Those torches and flambeaus (another kind of torch) are also bright reminders of the life that have been lost. Even here in all the darkness we still have some light going on.

The figurative language we see in the "silent sea of faces" also serves to show a kind of unity with these folks in their time of mourning. All together they make up this "sea" of grief that can do little more than carry that torch to remember poor Abe.

Their "unbared heads" indicate the respect and honor they pay to the dead (removing hats at funerals is a show of respect).

Lines 39-41

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 "waiting depot" in line 39 refers to the train station where Lincoln's funeral train would arrive, making stops as it progressed from D.C. to Illinois.

The "dirges" (mournful music) in line 40 add another layer of mourning to this section. Along with all the gloomy imagery, we now have gloomy music to emphasize the extent of the suffering of those somber faces.

But the "thousand voices rising strong and solemn" give us reason to sense some hope, despite all the despair. Things may be gloomy but folks are still sticking together, mourning together, and remaining strong in hopes of a brighter tomorrow. (Elegies have a way of making even Shmoopers sound mushy—sorry about that.)

We even have a rather rare occurrence of alliteration in line 40 with the S words "strong and solemn." You don't usually see too many sound devices in Whitman's poetry (the guy likes to keep things "free") so we gotta grab 'em when we see 'em.

Check out "Sound Check" for more.

Line 41 is the last line in our long catalog of those "with the" clauses. If you're feeling exhausted and weighed down by all the gloom at this point, congratulations! You've successfully read this section in the way the speaker intends. We're supposed to feel burdened by all the death, hence all the repetition and "mournful voices."

Lines 42-45

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.

Line 42 sounds a bit different, right? Can anyone tell why? We'll give you a sec.

If you answered that the "you" gives us a second-person voice that invites the reader into the speaker's setting, then your bonus prize is in the mail (no really, trust us).

The unity we sense in all these "shows" of mourning is now being extended to us ("you journey"). We mentioned that Whitman likes to create unity in his poems, so there you have it.

So we, like the other mourners, are being addressed in the poem as well. We can maybe even hear those "tolling tolling bells" in line 43 as if they're right outside our window.

Yeah, probably not. In lines 44-45 we realize that the "you" is actually the coffin that's passing by. Clever, Walt, clever—this is the second time that he's put the coffin at the end of section as a terrible surprise for the reader.

The speaker is talking to the coffin directly here. It's an elegy, remember. We can talk to death and coffins as much as we like.

And what does he give the coffin? That sprig of lilac he broke off from the tall bush earlier. We thought those lilacs would become important… With that handing over of the lilac, we see some symbolism here. If the lilacs represent life's vivacity, perseverance, and rejuvenation, then the handing over we see here is a reminder of life's continuance. Don't forget to check out "Symbols, Imagery, and Wordplay" for more.

 

SECTION 7 SUMMARY

Lines 46-48

(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.

By Section 7, we're reminded that the speaker isn't just sharing that lilac with only one coffin. Oh no. He's sharing it with all coffins. (You get sprig of lilac, you get sprig of lilac…)So every coffin, dead person, and mourner is reminded of life's continuance.

We even have some more alliteration in line 47: "Blossoms and branches." The speaker sounds more songlike, as if spirits are looking up at this point.And then again we see more alliteration in line 48: "song,""sane,""sacred." Phew, our speaker is outdoing himself. But it kind of makes sense that at this point we'd see more poetic devices since the speaker is looking to console folks. Nothing says consolation like a singsong sound.(Try saying that six times fast.) The symbolism of a "fresh morning" also furthers the speaker's spirit of new days and life's continuance. We're starting to get a break of dawn amid all the gloom.

We also are beginning to see the speaker's less severe tone towards death, since he calls it "sane and sacred." It's not every day you hear death talked about in such a nice way, so we really get the sense of the speaker seeking the good amid the bad.

Lines 49-50

All over bouquets of roses,

O death, I cover you over with roses and early lilies,

Death is pretty much being smothered by flowers here. Yeah, take that, death.

But symbolically, the speaker is alerting us to life's resilience that will always "cover over" death. The repeated "over" tells us that death can't hide from life's persistent energy. The cycle continues and the roses and lilies come back every year to remind us of that.

We're also getting more of the speaker speaking directly to death via apostrophe (addressing abstract ideas or things that aren't physically present). As readers, we're observers of this little dialogue (even if death isn't speaking back). But we also feel somewhat empowered by the speaker's actions here. It's as if he's covering up death for us, since we're included in the mourners' suffering at this point.

Lines 51-54

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.)

 

It looks like the speaker is really into the whole "breaking sprigs of lilacs and pouring them over death" thing. There's not just one lilac anymore, but "copious" amounts (lots of 'em) that the speaker has.

And he's breaking them off bushes left and right. With "loaded arms" he comes pouring for everyone, including the mourners, the dead, and us. Mighty generous, eh?

But there's more going on here than just our speaker breaking off lilacs like it's going out of style. On a more symbolic level, we sense the speaker's outpouring of empathy. He's not just rattling off useless words of consolation. He's spreading the only symbol for life's perseverance that he has at his disposal. And he's doing it all in a rather sincere way. These aren't just empty actions, in other words.

We feel his sincerity most in the image of his "loaded arms" and the act of "pouring" lilacs in line 53. Maybe we can even imagine an eager young lover, doing the same sort of thing with roses for the one he loves dearly. There aren't enough roses around to prove his love, just like there aren't enough lilacs around for the speaker to extend his empathy. He feels that strongly for the mourners and of course his own grief.

The repetition of "you" also serves to further the speaker's empathy and consolation. It's as if he's speaking directly to the mourners and us readers all at the same time. There's no need to distinguish a particular audience because we're all unified in this space of mourning.

 

SECTION 8 SUMMARY

Lines 55-57

O 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,

Ah, there's that "western orb" again (and orb = star, same difference). By the beginning of Section 8 then we have another noticeable mood change. We're getting cosmic and pretty again, what with the orb "sailing the heaven." After all the mourning, it's about time we see something more pleasant, don't you think?

But remember, an orb isn't just an orb in this poem. At this point, we really see the presence of a guiding light (or leader) that's watching over all the mourning. And since Lincoln was the leader of the time, we see more symbolism here.

But the orb also seems to have some sort of omniscient knowledge that's unknown to us. The speaker kind of gets it when he says in line 56, "I know what you must have meant," but we're not quite sure about the details.

What we do sense is that the heavens are responding to all the mourning as well, giving us a nice dose of personification. In line 56, they seem "know" what's going on.

The speaker walking in silence in line 57 reinforces the sort of unspoken knowledge that both the orb and speaker seem to share. Since the night is "transparent" and "shadowy" at the same time, we sense even more the ambiguity of this knowledge that is nonetheless still felt by the speaker. How can a night be both see-through ("transparent") and dark ("shadowy")? It's a paradox, but then again death is often a puzzle that the mind can't solve.

That's probably why things are getting less straightforward here. Knowledge, like the kind the speaker references here, is an ambiguous thing when it comes to things like death and national tragedy.

That's why people have "moments of silence" in times of grieving. We may not be able to express what we know and feel inside, but it's still there to reflect up, to try to work out mentally, just like the speaker did.

Lines 58-60

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,)

No, there aren't any formatting errors here. These funky lines are just more of our overzealous Whitman trying (and failing) to squish everything into one printed line. So we're counting these lines as three lines, not five.

In these lengthy lines, we have some more figurative language to add to the imagery of that orb "bending" night after night.

Remember, in the early evening that western star appears to literally hang on the horizon, so the bending here makes sense.

But that drooping star also has another layer of symbolism to it. In drooping to the speaker's level, "while the other stars" look on, we get the sense of this prominent orb sharing in the speaker's grief and consolation. It's as if it's by his "side," which tells us that star isn't just an indifferent presence hovering above the speaker.

In fact they even "wander together" in line 60, which provides some more personification that adds to the empathy the orb appears to be extending to the speaker (the star and the speaker are buddies in a way). All in all, the mood here is one of consolation, ambiguity, and empathy expressed not through people here but rather a bigger, more omniscient presence that shares in the mourning of humans. The big takeaway here is that the mourners and the speaker aren't alone in their earthly grieving.

We have some more anaphora here too, with the repetition of "as" in each line. The function here seems to be one that puts us in the moment with the speaker and the orb. We're right there with both, walking, mourning, and pondering life's mysteries. Deep.

Lines 61-63

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,

Looks like the speaker is really driving the whole personification thing home with line 61 and the idea of the orb filled with woe. By now we're definitely feeling the sense of unity being extended in a universal way, reaching even the heavens.

The "rising ground" in line 62 is a bit odd, but we're presuming the speaker is referring to the breeze rustling the foliage that's around, making the ground look as if it's rising. Maybe he's even walking over a hill of some sort.

By line 63 though, we notice that the orb has passed as it rotates out of view. For the speaker, it's figuratively been lost in some kind of "netherworld," or black abyss. So its initial mystery and allure appear just as potent here in its exit.

Symbolically then, we may consider this orb as representing Lincoln's alluring presence. While alive, his presence shone bright in empathy and leadership and now in his tragic death he appears to have been lost in a kind of abyssal darkness that enveloped the nation. Kleenex time, gang.

 

 

Lines 64-65

As my soul in its trouble dissatisfied sank, as where you sad orb,

Concluded, dropt in the night, and was gone.

By line 64 then we feel the speaker's "troubled soul" even more as he loses the company of the empathetic orb and must do without its presence. Likewise, the speaker will have to accept the passing of his nation's hero and do without him as well.

So the idea of the speaker feeling "dissatisfied" with his sinking soul in line 64 makes perfect sense on both levels. And yet we're reminded of the "sad orb" that's sharing in the speaker's grief. It's not like the orb wants to leave. Rather, it has no choice (the Earth has to rotate after all, or else we'd all fly off it, and cycles need to continue).

So by line 65, things are "concluded" which gives us a sense of resolution at this point of the poem. The speaker appears to have submitted to both realities: losing the orb and losing Lincoln.

 

SECTION 9 SUMMARY

Lines 66-68

Sing 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,

Ah, we're back to that loner hermit-thrush bird, singing in the swamp again. Notice that he's coming back at a perfect time when the speaker is feeling rather alone, dissatisfied, and abandoned by his orb. So even the poem itself, with its symbolic cameo appearances, has a certain cycle to it that brings everything together.

The singing means even more to the speaker at this time, since there's little more he can do but "sing" this poem of mourning and consolation. That's why here the speaker says, "I hear your notes," and "I understand you." Those notes ring close to home now for him.

And again, the anaphora in the "I hear" clause reminds us of the connection the speaker now feels with the singer. Through repetition we sense his conviction that he does indeed understand the hermit's song now. He knows what it's like to be alone, dissatisfied, and grieving.

And yet, line 67 tells us that the singer is "bashful and tender," which gives him a softer, more beautiful side. He's not some angry bird, smashing up pig buildings on an iPhone. He's a tender, and with his song he manages to still establish a connection with the speaker.

 

Lines 69-70

But a moment I linger, for the lustrous star has detain'd me,

The star my departing comrade holds and detains me.

Even though the speaker understands the song now, he's still captivated by that star that's holding him back. He can't give himself completely to the song just yet. So even though we sensed some resolution earlier, we see here that it's not fully complete, since the star has "detain'd" (detained) the speaker.

Line 70 pretty much convinces us of the symbolism of the star. It's referred to here as a "departing comrade," so we definitely sense the connection between the star and Lincoln.

The speaker lingers, because he can't quite let go of that departing comrade. After all, letting go of those we love is the hardest part of grieving. And that's why the speaker repeats the word "detains," since it often feels like the memory of our loved ones keeps us from being able to let go. We're kind of "detained" in our memories of them.

SECTION 10 SUMMARY

Lines 71-73

O 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?

By Section 10, we see the speaker trying to "warble" his own song. The hermit-bird have has his own song and now the speaker needs his own in this time of grieving.

The successive rhetorical questions add to the speaker's struggle to put his grieving into words. He can only ask these questions without expecting any real answers.

At this point we've come to the part of the elegy where the speaker is searching for a way to verbalize his grief into something more substantial. We've gone through the mourning portion with the funeral processions and now it's time to make sense of it all through words or "song."

To paraphrase those questions, the speaker's wondering 1) how he can "sing" with life's passion for Lincoln, 2) how can he decorate ("deck"), or craft, that song so that it's worthy of Lincoln's "sweet soul," and 3) how he might make Lincoln's death bearable (adding "perfume" to the grave).

Still, we notice in line 72 that the speaker feels as if there aren't enough words to "deck" his song for such a "large sweet soul" like Lincoln. After all, the guy was a national hero, so finding the right words would likely prove to be quite the feat.

But, hey, you're the one reading the poem, Shmoopers. You be the judge: how's Walt doing with his "song" so far?

 

Lines 74-77

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.

But by line 74 the speaker figured it out. He'll use a "perfume" with sea winds from east and west, peppered with the "breath of [his] chant." Man—that's a pretty special perfume.

So even this perfume has a sense of unity to it since it knows no boundaries between east and west and the prairies in between. It makes sense then that the speaker would bust out this perfume to honor the grave of the guy who was also all about unity and breaking down boundaries.

We also sense some power behind those winds since the speaker repeats the word "blows." So the powerful winds complement the powerful man, who's now departed but whose memory and influence the speaker is trying to honor with his "chant" (i.e., this very poem).

SECTION 11 SUMMARY

Lines 78-80

O 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?

Here we have some more fussing and worrying with rhetorical questions, this time over the trappings of Lincoln's burial house.

The speaker has no idea what to hang on the walls, how to decorate ("adorn"), or anything else.

Again we get the sense that neither words nor images can sufficiently honor the memory of the one the speaker loves.

Also, this is not an actual house. The speaker is again speaking metaphorically about how he might best honor Honest Abe's memory.

These lines also seem to be getting at the rituals living folks usually perform following the passing of a loved one. The rituals are supposed to honor the dead, but really the dead have no use for them. They're more so rituals to console the living than anything else.

So all the fuss, whether we're talking about perfume, pictures, shag carpets, or other trinkets, is part of the healing process.

They become ways to put the dead to rest not so much for the dead (since they're already dead) but more so for the living.

Lines 81-84

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,

Here we get a pretty little catalogue of some pictures the speaker might use to adorn the walls of this so-called "burial house."

In true nineteenth-century fashion (before the days of Instagram), one might see pictures of farms, homes, sunsets, etc. Here we get the same, but these things are seen in the light of a sundown at "Fourth-month" (April) in which Lincoln died.

Sundown, when the light of the day disappears, is a pretty good time to decorate a burial house, don't you think?

And yet, although these pictures are intended for a burial house, we notice that they also represent a celebration of life's beauty. Even the gray smoke (perhaps evidence of war time) looks pretty and "bright."

And of course line 84 brings us back to the speaker's earlier descriptions of nature's lushness and fertility, since the trees are "prolific." So, despite the presence of death, we have some more instances of hope and perseverance here.

Lines 85-88

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.

We get more beautiful imagery here, giving us more snapshots of the nation's beauty, despite all the suffering. Notice too that these pictures are "In the distance," which suggests that the beauty is there but it's still somewhat out of reach at this time.

Things are "flowing" here too, like the river, which gives us more of that sense of continuity and progress. Things are moving and never standing still.

Line 87 gives us some imagery that's associated more so with people than the landscape, and since the dwellings are "dense," we're looking at both urban and rural scenes. It isn't just nature that's thriving.

Line 88 furthers humanity's "scenes of life" with some of the sweat and toil that goes into making those dwellings dense. The motif of "working" adds an additional layer to this section's focus on vivacity and progress. Life goes on, work continues, and humanity continues to toil away despite his uncertainty and grief. Um, yay?

All these images put together would be a perfect consolation for a man like Lincoln, who encouraged perseverance and unity in the face of hardship.

 

SECTION 12 SUMMARY

Lines 89-92

Lo, 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.

 

In line 89 we see the speaker blending these images of the land with the idea of a "body and soul." ("Lo," by the way, is an older way of saying, "behold.") So the speaker is encouraging body and soul to behold the vivacity and beauty of the land and man. With that dash, he's also making a connection between the land and the idea of a physical person with a body and soul.

It turns out that this person might kick it in Manhattan. Here we have a more urban landscape that has its own beauty with "sparkling and hurrying tides" and ships. Now we have an even fuller picture of America's land and its varying pictures of beauty.

Line 91 reminds us of America's variety, but this time hits closer to home in reference to the Civil War and the "South and the North," both of which are "in the light." Our speaker isn't taking sides here but is rather portraying both as part of America's "light."

And those "far-spreading prairies" filled with grass and corn help to unify America's variety by providing a large platform of sustenance for the country as a whole. The prairies help to feed everyone, no matter if you're in the North, South, East, or West. Once again we're given the idea of the land's fertility, from Ohio to Missouri. Suffice it to say that we've pretty much swept the entire country at this point.

Sheesh, we hope our speaker had frequent flyer miles.

Lines 93-95

Lo, the most excellent sun so calm and haughty,

The violet and purple morn with just-felt breezes,

The gentle soft-born measureless light,

To complement the prairies that feed everyone, we have the sun which is "calm and haughty" (or stuck up). We can't really blame the sun. If we made all of life one Earth possible, we'd be pretty full of ourselves, too. "Haughty" can also mean aloof, or apart, which is actually pretty accurate when it comes to something that's 93 million miles away. All the same, this is some straight-up personification of the sun, which we're pretty sure doesn't have much of an attitude about anything.

And again we get more of that sense of unity here with the image of the sun that doesn't discriminate. It's calm because no matter man's newest conflict, the sun remains the same in a sort of absolute existence. It goes on, no matter what (at least for a few billion more years).

Line 94 gives some more of that sensory imagery associated with touch this time. We can almost feel those gentle early morning breezes, see the purple sunrise. This scene is a nice counter-example to the sunset that we saw when the speaker was hanging photos in Lincoln's burial house.

And with those breezes comes that complementary "soft-born," measureless light, which again gives the impression of the sun's seemingly infinite reach.

At this point, we're noticing a lightening mood (literally) that's moved away from the evidence of grieving and has entered into a kind of consolation that alleviates (helps) humanity's suffering. We're being uplifted out of the darkness at this point, thanks to our eloquent speaker.

Lines 96-98

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.

More miracles are in store for us here. The sun, that's depicted here as figuratively "spreading" over and "bathing" all things, remains the one constant in this section, as it ought to be. (What, have you noticed any differences in the sun lately?)

No matter the varying land and people that we saw earlier, the sun is the one thing that can never be distinguished among other things. It's its own "thing," a miraculous thing at that.

In line 97, the speaker welcomes the night in a way that sounds a bit different from the more elusive and ambiguous characteristics of night that we saw earlier with the orb. Here it's just plain "delicious" (mmm, night) and most welcomed. That might be because the night is bringing some stars to the party, to light everything up. By line 98, the speaker feels so unified with the land that he even calls the cities, "my cities."

So amid all the pain and darkness, we're reminded that light (be it from the sun or starts) still envelops (covers) all things.

Therefore the world can never be that dark.

 

SECTION 13 SUMMARY

Lines 99-101

Sing 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.

Aaaand, there's that bird in the swamp again. We know how important singing is to the speaker at this point since expressing oneself (writing this poem, or "singing") is the only thing one can really do when in mourning.

We're seeing the symbolism of the bird a little more clearly now that seems to indicate expression, and more specifically the speaker's expression. We can't blame it, really. We all have that little bird inside of us that needs to be expressed, especially when grieving.

The "recesses" in line 100 also indicate the solitary nature of the speaker's voice, symbolized by the singing bird. All the same, the song is "limitless" as it pours out from the "bushes" at "dusk" (sunset). Again, we get the idea that life and expression persist in the face of darkness, or loss of light (like at dusk).

Lines 102-103

Sing on dearest brother, warble your reedy song,

Loud human song, with voice of uttermost woe.

We get another nod of connection to this singing little bird, as the speaker calls him "dearest brother." (Probably they're not related.)

Line 103 specifies that song as a "loud human song," which clarifies the bird's act of singing in a more humanizing way. The "loud" part tells us that this song isn't the sort of thing that can be silenced.

The second half of 103 explains why that loud song cannot be silenced: it comes from a "voice of uttermost woe." With that level of woe, the song must be sung and the singer must express that inner bird inside of him. All the woe needs to go somewhere and can't be bottled up inside.

Lines 104-107

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.

Line 104 gives us a kind of metaphor for the human song that's "liquid and free and tender." And line 105 connects the song directly to the soul in a kind of "wild and loose" celebration. The singer, despite his woe, is celebrating—and celebrated—here for the wonder he creates through his song. So even if it's woeful, it's still beautiful and "wondrous" in its own way.

The bird's song is also rather captivating, since the speaker says in line 106 that he only hears the singer, even though we're reminded that the "star holds [him]" (i.e., he still mourns its loss). Immediately after though, the speaker concludes that the star will "soon depart."

So although the speaker can't quite let go of the one he loves, he's seeing and hearing things in a more uplifting sort of way because of the hermit-bird's song.

The song is therefore one that reflects life's wonder, beauty, and freedom. It may be woeful, but it's also a reminder of life's wonder and the limitless human spirit that can transcend woe through song and soulful expression.

Then again, line 107 is another honest reminder of those lilacs that have a "mastering odor." So the speaker looks as if he's still flip-flopping between the more uplifting stuff and the woe he still feels and is reminded of when he smells those lilacs. Sniff, sniff.

 

SECTION 14 SUMMARY

Lines 108-11

Now 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,)

By the start of section 14, the speaker appears to be blending all settings into one moment here. We've got the landscape with its "fields of spring," the "large unconscious scenery of lakes and forests," and the "heavenly" cosmic beauty of the sky. So now we're seeing a sense of unity between all these different views of his environment. Check out "Setting" for more on this.

Line 109 prepares us for the "close of the day," but it's also setting us up for the conclusion of this particular poem. (We're not quite at the end yet, sorry Shmoopers, but we're getting there. Just keep chugging along.)

But we do get a sense of the speaker now "looking forth." He's got a larger perspective of the world around him at this time that's not just limited to his woe and his nation's woe. He's seeing the bigger, brighter picture, in other words.

He's also able to look back at "the perturb'd winds and the storms," which are symbols of the nation's Civil War conflict, as well as the bad times of Lincoln's assassination. Things have been rather windy and stormy, but now the speaker can look back at all that—so he's got that going for him.

 

Lines 112-114

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,

In these lines we definitely feel a sense of movement going on in words like "passing,""many moving,""sail'd" (sailed), and "approaching." We're sensing that forward movement the speaker referenced earlier. Life, in all its forms, is moving forward.Those "voices of children and women" in line 112 accent this idea of progress and forward motion. It's not just the menfolk who are on the move, but everyone.

The sailing ships in line 113 also capture the idea of movement in a most literal way as it moves with those "many-moving sea-tides."And of course the associative image of "summer approaching with richness" gives the added sense of fertility and beauty.

We're reminded again of the perseverance of humanity through labor and work, and complimented by the nature's fertility,

 

Lines 115-116

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,

But our speaker isn't stopping there. He's adding more to this idea of moving on and going forward, now with those "infinite separate houses" that bring forth meals and such. It's true. Folks gotta eat, no matter if they're mourning or happy.

Those "throbbing streets" also add some life to the scene, reminding us of a national pulse (since pulses beat or throb) that is still going strong "then and there." Our speaker is basically busting out with a national blood pressure test, and he's liking the results.

Here we notice too the little things that keep the American spirit alive despite difficult times. The "minutia of daily usages" makes us think of those daily routines that we may take for granted (brushing your teeth, dusting your Pokemon cards), but also constitute the majority of our "normal" daily lives. Without them, that forward motion can't really exist.

 

Lines 117-119

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.

But again we're reminded of that metaphorical cloud that's enveloping the nation with its "long black trail" of death.

Bad times, gang. Still, the speaker repeats the word "all" to also remind us that, despite that long black trail, we're still unified in our grieving.

And since the cloud "appears" in a rather sudden way here, we know that the death associated with it will not be something that's easily forgotten or ignored. Although we've had brighter and more uplifting moments in these latter sections, the presence of that cloud is still quite palpable.

But by line 119, the speaker reminds us of the "sacred" knowledge of death, which again makes death appear less severe and more so a natural or "sacred" part of life—far out.

Notice too that the speaker here appears to "know" death in a way that indicates that he has by now come to understand death in a less emotional way. In other words, he's not just associating death with his own woe. He's come to some sort of understanding here.

 

Lines 120-122

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,

Okay, things are getting a little weird here. We get the personification of death as a walking companion. (Yeah, we'll pass.)

Notice too that death appears to have two sides here: one that represents the speaker's "knowledge" of death and another that represents the speaker's "thought" of death.

Hmm, so what the heck does that mean? What's the difference? Well, here it seems that "knowledge" of death is the part that's more "sacred" and therefore more in line with an understanding, and accepting, of the nature of death.

The speaker's "thought" of death can be understood as more like those human anxieties we associate with it. Perhaps the speaker is referring to the worry, fear, or anguish that the "thought" of death brings.

Regardless, the speaker has both on each side of him. And since he's "in the middle" and is also "holding the hands" of his companions, we get the sense that neither appears here as more important than the other. He's got both of them going on in his mind.

We're also picking up on some of the symbolism behind all this walking and holding hands with death. By strolling together, perhaps we're meant to see the inextricable relationship the speaker holds with death. He can't escape death's presence, so instead he (at least halfway) embraces it, seeing death as a sort of companion rather than a super-scary Grim Reaper.

 

Lines 123-125

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.

We see the speaker again embracing the more mysterious world associated with death in line 123 as he "fled forth to the hiding receiving night." He's not afraid of the night and its darkness here and flees "to" it rather than "from" it. So we have some more evidence to support his newfound understanding of death.

In fact, he's embracing the whole dark, mysterious setting that's symbolic of death. He's going right for that "swamp in the dimness" and those "shadowy cedars and ghostly pines." It looks like he's not afraid of any of it anymore.

Say, we're noticing then a kind of transformation that's occurred within the speaker in the context of coming to terms with death. Check out our "Themes" section for more on that, though.

Lines 126-128

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.

Hey, it looks like our hermit-bird singer doesn't mind the speaker so much. He hates on everyone else, but he "receiv'd" our speaker, which is nice. It's as though the mysterious-unconscious world is embracing the speaker just as much as he's embracing it. The feeling is mutual.

The speaker's not alone, though. Don't forget he's still holding hands with "knowledge of death" and "thought" of death, making their little group a party of "comrades three." Yet, everyone here is getting along in their own, not-so-solitary way. And what connects them, oddly, is the presence of death.

So what does one do after coming to a better understanding of death? Why, sing a "carol of death," of course. And who is that carol of death dedicated to? Why, it's the one and only Abe Lincoln.

The mood at this point has therefore become more at peace with the world, the speaker's woe, and the presence of that tall skeleton guy with the dark cloak and reaper. There is still quite a bit of pain there, but the speaker (with the help of the hermit-bird) has learned to channel that pain through song. And that song has of course become the very poem we're reading.

Groovy, right?

 

Lines 129-131

From deep secluded recesses,

From the fragrant cedars and the ghostly pines so still,

Came the carol of the bird.

There are those "deep secluded recesses" again. Whitman tends to get a bit repetitive and long-winded at times, but bear with him. It's all in good elegiac fun.

So those mysterious woods and their associative deathly, other worldly atmosphere are all part of those "deep secluded recesses." It's also the place where the bird is singing its "carol of death" and the verse for Lincoln.

The setting and the song fit pretty well together in those "ghostly pines." But again, we're not sensing any fear in those ghostly pines. Rather the mood is peaceful, mysterious, and beautiful too with those "fragrant cedars" and the carol of the bird. Check out "Setting" for more on all this.

So, even before we get the song itself, we have the feeling that this song for death won't be your typical weepy elegiac carol. It will likely be more uplifting and beautiful—good times in a dark place.

 

Lines 132-134

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.

Man—it looks like the speaker is really building up this carol. Notice we haven't received the actual song yet, but we have many instances of its alluring sound, and now we see the speaker "rapt" (or enraptured, meaning really taken in) by it.

By line 133, we know the speaker isn't literally holding the hands of all his mysterious comrades: Mr. Knowledge-of-Death and Mr. Thought-of-Death. Rather we have more figurative language to suggest his understanding of these aspects of the deathly world.

Notice too that in, line 134, the speaker appears to have "tallied" (measured, recognized, understood) the "song of the bird" with the "voice of [his] spirit." So now we know that the speaker truly does understand where this hermit-bird is coming from.

He digs his rap, in other words.

Line 134 is also a kind of prelude (intro) to the song itself. So we can assume that we'll be hearing the song shortly. Right, Walt?

 

Lines 135-138

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.

Aaaand… there it is. Immediately we notice the kind of euphemism the speaker is creating through this song in order to make death appear less severe. Here it's "lovely and soothing," rather than something to be feared.

We also hear the speaker speaking directly to death again, making line 135 another example of an apostrophe.

Death also "undulate[s] round the world," which maintains the speaker's sense of unity that we've seen throughout the poem.

Death is a unifying force that affects all equally. It "arrives" to each "sooner or later." So we get the feeling that death really isn't something tragic, but rather it's a natural part of life, even when we're talking about something unnatural like Lincoln's assassination. (We're looking at you, John Wilkes Booth.)

What's more, death arrives "serenely," which adds to the image here of it being a gentle, even soothing force that's not something to be feared. (Aw, don't run away. Death just wants a hug, gang.)

The alliteration in line 138 of "delicate death" also adds to the euphemism we see here by throwing in a sing-song quality to the line's sound. Check out "Sound Check" for more.

 

Lines 139-142

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.

The speaker's pretty clear here: the "fathomless universe" in line 139 is also something to be praised rather than feared. The speaker here admits that he perhaps does not understand the universe completely ("for objects and knowledge curious"), but he still sees it as something that is fundamentally good.

Line 140 gives us some of the attributes of this "fathomless universe": life, joy, and later love in line 141. So although the universe can't be fathomed, it can still be handed its props for giving us such wonderful things.

All of the "praise!" in line 141 is therefore explanation enough in terms of life and death. We need not understand death and its universe, but only praise the joy life brings.

The personification of death in line 142 adds to this sense of death being a loving companion with "sure-enwinding arms."

Notice we don't see any black cloaks and scythes. This Grim Reaper is more loving than grim. Maybe he's wearing a black sweater vest and holding a teddy bear instead of a scythe.

So by now we're feeling the more consoling parts of this elegy that appear to move away from all the woe and encourage us to embrace the speaker's serene understanding and acceptance of death.

 

Lines 143-146

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.

Ah, line 143 could arguably be the most beautiful metaphor ever written for death. Seriously, the speaker makes death sound like a mom who's eager to throw some cookies in the oven for us. (Mmm, death-cookies.) He even adds some aural (related to hearing) imagery to the metaphor by including those "soft feet." We can almost hear that "dark mother" nearby.

And the speaker even manages to make us feel kind of guilty about always hating on death. He says in line 144 that no one ever chants songs for death "of fullest welcome." (Well, that's probably because folks aren't always eager to praise death, dude.) But the speaker's a nice guy and he sees death as something rather beautiful that deserves a song.

So in line 145 he chants for death (remember that he's referring to his own poem here as a "chant" and a "song") and he even glorifies death above all. He's definitely making up for all the haters.

And by line 146, again via apostrophe, he tells death that, whenever she indeed comes, she should do so "unfalteringly," meaning without hesitation. That's how natural death feels to him at this point. It's little different from breathing (or, you know, maybe the complete opposite), but you get the idea).

Lines 147-150

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.

As lovely and gentle as death is and all, the speaker also points out her strength in line 147 as a "strong deliveress." She's got a job to do, in other words. "Strong deliveress" is another euphemism for death that the speaker has cooked up. (Check out "Symbols, Imagery, and Wordplay") for more.

By line 148, we know the speaker has pretty much gotten over all the doom and gloom associated with death (even if the gloom was at a bare minimum in this poem). Here he "joyously sing[s]" and celebrates the dead, which is quite different from all the funeral processions we saw much earlier.

And line 149 gives us another beautiful metaphor for death and her "loving floating ocean." The speaker is making it clear to us that he has a way more optimistic idea of death. And again we sense more unity with the image of a "loving ocean" welcoming the all dead—including, one day, our speaker.

The speaker is even "laved in the flood" meaning bathed in the flood of death's bliss. For our speaker, dying has gone from this dark cloud of woe to the ultimate good-times trip.

Lines 151-154

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.

We get more apostrophes directed at death in lines 151-152. But by now we know they serve a real purpose since this particular song is for death (oh yeah, and Lincoln).

The speaker wants to do it all for death, including dances and feasts. And you thought a song was enough…

The image in lines 153-154 becomes very open and spread out, reflecting death's limitless and all-encompassing reach. Just as the cloud of death hung over the entire country, now the landscape and "high-spread sky" of life are within death's far reach.

Line 154 also adds to the openness of the imagery here by including "fields, and the huge and thoughtful night." Not only do we feel a bit uplifted in a metaphysical-spiritual way, but we also have the added bonus of feeling uplifted in an intellectual way here. The open and mysterious night is personified now as "thoughtful" too (we wonder what it's thinking about), which adds to its intrigue and beauty.

Lines 155-158

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.

Everything is peaceful and "in silence" at this point of the song. Even the ocean has "whispering waves" that don't appear to be crashing against cliffs or anything. (We get more alliteration there, by the way, that accents the "whispering" sound of the "wave.")

The soul that is "turning" to death is presumably Lincoln, since we know this song is for him. And we're not too worried about the former president either since his body appears in line 158 as "gratefully nestling close" to death. It sounds pretty cozy actually.

So everyone, even the landscape, appears to be at peace with death and is accepting of its "vast" influence. The speaker is also well beyond all of his initial woe and reminds us that he "knows" death and its ocean by now.

He's even more willing to let go of the one he loves, since he sees him here as feeling grateful for death's warm embrace.

Lines 159-162

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.

It kind of feels like we're in the Wizard of Oz at this point with all the "over the" repetition (thanks to more anaphora).

The speaker gives the impression of the carol floating over everything. Just like death that connects everything, this carol likewise reaches all places.

The speaker reminds us again of those "dense-pack'd cities" and all of the life and progress they symbolize. Within those cities are the people who keep the whole cycle of life and death alive. Without them, the song wouldn't have any use.

The mood by the very end of the song is not only peaceful, it's also joyful in its celebration of death. So death, by the end, has got her very own song that's not weepy but rather joyful about her presence. Yay, death.

Through the song then, the speaker manages to transcend (move beyond) all of his woe, and we see this transcendence most in his use of the word "float." Float on, you crazy fan of death.

SECTION 15 SUMMARY

Lines 163-165

To the tally of my soul,

Loud and strong kept up the gray-brown bird,

With pure deliberate notes spreading filling the night.

Back to our bird-pal again: it turns out that he's managed to keep up with the speaker's song the whole time. In fact, the bird even seems to have a connection with, or understanding of ("To the tally of"), the speaker's soul in line 164, which makes sense since the bird kind of symbolizes that soulful, mysterious world. Nothing is stopping that bird.

Each note the bird sings to complement the speaker's song is not only "loud and strong" but also "pure" and "deliberate," which tells us that the bird definitely knows exactly what's going on. There's no miscommunication going on here. Each note is intended to convey a specific feeling and meaning.

Notice too that these notes are "filling the night" which gives the impression of there being some light in the darkness. The night isn't just an empty void anymore. It's filled with feeling and meaning for both the speaker and the bird. So the night, just like death, isn't a scary and unknown place anymore, thanks to the song we just heard.

Lines 166-168

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.

Well, the swamp doesn't look so bad here after all. In fact we smell some "swamp-perfume" in line 167 and we're guessing it doesn't totally smell like rotting plants.

But the point seems to be that, by now, the speaker has created an entirely new perspective for himself involving death, its mysterious-unconscious world, and those death-comrades who know the place all too well. So the consolation part of the elegy appears to be nearly complete at this point.

Things are "clear" and "fresh" for him and we certainly feel the change in mood, compared to our earlier sections of woe.

So the gang is hanging out, having a little jam session, and totally digging the whole death thing without any tears. Sounds like a bona fide swamp-party, right? Yeah, we'd still probably take a pass…

Lines 169-170

While my sight that was bound in my eyes unclosed,

As to long panoramas of visions.

The speaker is seeing clearly at this point with his "eyes unclosed" and his sight that reveals a panoramic (widespread) view of everything that's going on.

We don't know just yet what these "visions" are, but we're guessing they have something to do with the war, Lincoln, the nation, and death in general.

The speaker's voice even sounds a bit different at this point of the elegy, as if it truly is uplifted out of itself and able to see such a wide scope of "visions" occurring simultaneously.

We notice that he's taking on a sort of omniscient quality that sees all things. He's kind of like a super first-person speaker.

Check out our "Speaker" section for more details.

Lines 171-173

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 indeed, the speaker sees "the armies" and all their "battle-flags" and smoke. So we're reminded once more that although the speaker has a more uplifted outlook on everything, there's still quite a bit of death and despair to be had.

But we notice too in line 172 that he describes these visions as "noiseless dreams," which suggests that there's something unreal about the horrors he's witnessing.

It's as if he's partially removed now from all of the pain and suffering that we were previously (though temporarily) immersed in. His perspective here is "askant" (askew, not straightforward) which furthers the idea of not being entirely in touch with what's going on.

But he still sees those missiles that have pierced the battle-flags. There's some symbolism in that too, with the idea of each side (notice he's not being specific) having their pride, or sense of self, injured because of the war.

Lines 174-176

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.

Here we have some more cataloguing with the repetition of "and" that describes just how "broken" and torn-up each flag has become. No side is left unscathed.

In fact, via the symbolism of only a "few shreds left" on the staffs of the flags, we get the feeling that the country will require a complete reconstruction. (Of course, that's exactly what happened following the Civil War. But the symbolism here makes the idea of reconstruction a bit more profound, we'd say.)

The remains of the flags are "torn and bloody," so the human cost of the war has literally been stained upon the very symbol of the country.

Notice too in line 176 we're reminded of "silence" again. But here it's not a peaceful silence like we saw before in the swamp.

It's more a silence of numbness that's evoked by those bloody remains of the flag. The bad times are back, folks, and in a big way.

Lines 177-179

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,

It looks as if we're being burdened by the cost of war some more with the "myriads" of "battle-corpses" and "white skeletons of young men." The speaker is certainly reminding us of where we are and what time it is, just in case we forgot during all the lovely death stuff.

Since those corpses are "young men," we have the added horror of knowing the life that's been wasted on war. The future of America has been partially lost due to the countless young lives that will no longer be able to contribute to the lively progress we saw in earlier sections.

Through more anaphora, the speaker keeps repeating, "I saw," in order to make the imagery here a bit more real to us. We're no longer looking "askant" like we were earlier. This is all right in front of us, plain to see.

The repetition of "debris" also serves to add another layer of carnage to the scene here with debris being covered by more debris. There aren't any lilacs around here to push the debris away. Instead we're really feeling the cost of war without the silver linings we saw earlier. The speaker is looking to show us the reality of war with the debris of "slain soldiers." They litter the land just like the debris after a big storm, only these are real lives that have been lost. Sad.

Lines 180-182

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,

There's Whitman again, giving what we "thought" a different more optimistic spin. Here we notice that all those dead guys aren't the ones suffering. It's the ones who are left behind that are suffering.

Instead those dead soldiers are "fully at rest." The speaker repeats "suffer'd" a few times in order to remind us that it's "the living" who remain who suffer, just like the speaker suffers.

So, just when we thought death is where all the suffering is located, we realize that it's the opposite. Life is where all the suffering happens. But we also have in the back of our minds all of the beauty life has to offer, which the speaker has been thoroughly describing in this poem. We know life is not all about suffering at this point.

Lines 183-184

And the wife and the child and the musing comrade suffer'd,

And the armies that remain'd suffer'd.

We get some more reminders of the folks who really suffer because of war and death. Here we have the wife, child, and comrade that remain. We even have the entire army that suffers alongside its fallen soldiers.

The "musing" part of the comrade also reminds us that the ones left behind must find ways to cope with their grief. Though we don't get any specifics here, we can imagine the sorts of things that comrade resorts to in order to cope with his grief.

The mood continues to be again a bit more somber than the poem's previous sections. But all of the fluctuating between feeling uplifted and then feeling sad again is a stark indication of the ways people grieve. We notice it's never a straightforward process, but is rather an erratic up and down rollercoaster of emotions.

 

SECTION 16 SUMMARY

Lines 185-187

Passing 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,

By the time we reach the final section, we really feel the speaker's "passing" through all of his different visions (the anaphora heightens that effect). Everything, at this point, seems to be whirling past us in one fluid motion as we near the end of the poem. Perhaps we're considering the various landscapes we've seen so far in conjunction with all the reminders of war.Nevertheless, we as readers have indeed been passing through it all with the speaker. Notice that in line 187 the speaker releases the hands of his comrades. Why?

Perhaps at this point, again since we're also nearing the end of the poem, the speaker no longer needs the assistance of his other-worldly comrades. He understands death a bit more and he's found his song to sing for Lincoln and those who suffer alongside him.

The speaker is even "passing the song of the hermit bird" and he's able to "pass" his own song of his soul in a more objective way. We don't feel him immediately engaged in the song and elegy any longer. It's as if his job is nearly complete and he's free to admire what he's created and measure ("tally") the results. So we sense a conclusion coming not. The speaker's allowing these songs to exist on their own now, in the same way he's freeing his comrades' hands.

Line 188-190

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,

And by the end we know "death's outlet song" is also a "victorious song" despite its "ever-altering" moods. So the speaker is kind of summing it all up for us here, knowing full well that we've covered the map both physically (landscapes) and emotionally.

Perhaps the song is "victorious" because it's managed to capture everything in such a carefully and beautifully constructed way. Although it's "ever-altering" we've always sensed a feeling of unity and fluidity between each section of the poem. The song is also always affirming the joy of existence in some way or another, and so by that token can be seen as "victorious" in the face of death.

Line 190 sums up the sound of the poem we just heard in its moments of "wailing" with the mourners and those "clear" enlightened notes we heard from the hermit bird and the speaker. Check out "Sound Check" for more.And yet line 191 also tells us that there's a sort of "warning" to our song-poem as well. We can presume that this warning relates to the cost of war and the toll it takes on those left behind who suffer. But, in true Whitman fashion, we're reminded of the beautiful moments we've seen that "burst with joy." We've learned to imagine death as a beautiful and praiseworthy thing that mustn't be feared.

Lines 191-194

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.

 

The song is also victorious because of its seemingly limitless reach that "covers the earth" and "heaven." Anyone and everyone can relate to this poem.

Notice that line 193 has a bit of a religious connotation in that "powerful psalm," which is something we haven't really seen in the poem. Though the poem is all about death, the speaker has been careful to steer clear of all of the religious stuff. He took a more spiritual-metaphysical route, which also helped to maintain the sense of unity, encompassing everything, that we've felt throughout the poem.

Nonetheless, that "psalm" is the closest thing we've seen as a reference to God and religion, at least so far. And it's fitting that the speaker would go with a song reference ("psalm"), rather than a liturgical one (like a sermon), since his main focus has been to express and sing the human soul.

By line 194 we feel the speaker "passing" the very heart and soul of the poem: the lilacs. So by now we definitely feel things winding down and coming full circle to where the poem began.

But we're reminded of those lilacs in the dooryard "returning with spring." Although we're leaving them for now, we know they will be back along with their reminders of life's rejuvenation, perseverance, and for the speaker, Lincoln's death.

Lines 195-197

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.

 

Now, we know things are really coming to an end since the speaker says that he is ceasing from his song for the lilacs. He's also ceasing his song for the western star and the "lustrous" comrade the star symbolizes.

So the speaker is again bringing all major symbols back to have one final cameo before the poem is sent off into the world for everyone else.

The image of that "silver face in the night" also reminds us of the poem's driving force: Lincoln. Although the speaker never explicitly stated the name of the "one he loves," we've certainly felt Lincoln's presence throughout in the landscape of his torn country that appeared equally beautiful as it did mournful. (Geography Note: Whitman would have faced west from New York to look toward Lincoln's burial place in Illinois.)

So that floating "silver face" strikes us as somewhat comforting in a weird way (as comforting as a silver place can be, anyway), as if Lincoln has been there looking on throughout the poem and song that was primarily meant for him. Aww.

Lines 198-200

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,

 

The speaker also reminds us here that the poem and song is for "each to keep" along with all those "retrievements [things to keep] of the night" we know pretty well by now (like, the hermit bird and his song).

Also, everyone gets to keep the songs—both the bird's and his own song-poem ("the tallying chant"). But wait—the prizes don't stop there. The speaker's soul has been aroused through his reflection, and so he also passes on that "echo" of inspiration to everyone (you included).

Again, we sense a sort of transformation that's occurred for the speaker because of this song. He has come to understand his loss and death in general in a far more enlightening way that isn't filled with woe and fear.

And in light of his transformation, we too have felt the effects of that "chant" that have illuminated death for us in a less severe sort of way. So the speaker's transformation has kind of changed us too. Really, it's his gift to all of us. (Man—and we didn't even get him a card.)

Lines 201-203

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,

 

Again, all things are coming together here. That "drooping star" we saw in the very beginning is back to end the poem, along with all of the speaker's comrades (including us, of course).

It's important to remember that among these comrades are the speaker's thought of death (his fear of it) and his knowledge of death (his sense of being at peace with it). Remember those guys? Well, he never really picks a favorite. He recognizes that they're both still with him, and he seems cool with that.

We're all holding hands with the speaker at this point, remembering the dead and "nearing the call of the bird." So, we get the feeling that we've all come to a better understanding of death at this point, since we feel rather close to the bird's song that's coming from those "secluded recesses."

And in this dreamlike, unified space where the speaker is "in the midst" of his memory of the dead, we feel as if it's okay to let go since their memory is "ever to keep." They won't be forgotten, and neither will Lincoln.

Lines 204-206

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.

 

By the very end, we're reminded of that "sweetest, wisest soul" of the speaker's time. He's making it clear that this elegy was indeed "for his dear sake."

And once more, the speaker blends that "trinity" together for us with the lilac, star, and bird all "twined" with the chant of his soul (this poem). We know what each symbolizes by now and we sense just how important they are to this elegy in terms of death, life's perseverance, and Lincoln's leadership.

So, it's fitting that, by line 207, all three symbols are hanging out together in the "fragrant pines and cedars dusk and dim."

Everyone is getting along in their understanding of how death works and how song helps to lift one's spirits out of the darkness.

And of course, all of the unity furthers the poem's motif of a unified country and people working together in the vast landscape of life and death.

So by the end, we don't feel the impending sense of doom that usually comes with poems about death. We feel uplifted, consoled, and somewhat more accepting of the way death works in life. We understand how all of the pieces fit together with the trinity we see here, and we know that despite death's mystery, we don't have to fear it so much. She's our "dark mother" who will invariably come to us at some point with "soft feet." And if snuggling up to that lovely, deadly lady is not the nicest metaphor for death you've ever seen, then friends, we don't know what is.

 

Summary and Analysis:

When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd""

 "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd- is an elegy on the death of Abraham Lincoln, though it never mentions the president by name. Like most elegies, it develops from the personal (the death of Lincoln and the poet's grief) to the impersonal (the death of "all of you" and death itself); from an intense feeling of grief to the thought of reconciliation. The poem, which is one of the finest Whitman ever wrote, is a dramatization of this feeling of loss. This elegy is grander and more touching than Whitman's other two elegies on Lincoln's death, "0 Captain! My Captain!" and "Hush'd Be the Camps To-day." The form is elegiac but also contains elements found in operatic music, such as the aria and recitative. The song of the hermit thrush, for example, is an "aria."

 

Abraham Lincoln was shot in Washington, D.C., by Booth on April 14, 1865, and died the following day. The body was sent by train from Washington to Springfield, Illinois. As it crossed the continent, it was saluted by the people of America. Whitman has not only men and women but even natural objects saluting the dead man.

 

The first cycle of the poem, comprising sections 1-4, presents the setting in clear perspective. As spring returns, the lilacs blossom, and the planet Venus "nearly dropp'd in the western sky," the poet mourns the loss "of him I love." He mourns the "powerful western fallen star" now covered by "black murk" in the "tearful night," and he is "powerless" and "helpless" because the cloud around him "will not free my soul." He observes a lilac bush, is deeply affected by its perfume, and believes that "every leaf [is] a miracle." He breaks off a small branch with "heart-shaped Leaves." A shy, solitary thrush, like a secluded hermit, sings a song which is an expression of its inmost grief. It sings "death's outlet song of life."

This first section of the poem introduces the three principal symbols of the poem — the lilac, the star, and the bird. They are woven into a poetic and dramatic pattern. The meaning of Whitman's symbols is neither fixed nor constant. The star, Venus, is identified with Lincoln, generally, but it also represents the poet's grief for the dead. Lilacs, which are associated with everreturning spring, are a symbol of resurrection, while its heartshaped Leaves symbolize love. The purple color of the lilac, indicating the passion of the Crucifixion, is highly suggestive of the violence of Lincoln's death. The bird is the symbol of reconciliation with death and its song is the soul's voice. "Death's outlet song of life" means that out of death will come renewed life. Death is described as a "dark mother" or a "strong deliveress," which suggests that it is a necessary process for rebirth. The emotional drama in the poem is built around this symbolic framework. The continual recurrence of the spring season symbolizes the cycle of life and death and rebirth. The words "ever-returning spring," which occur in line 3 and are repeated in line 4, emphasize the idea of rebirth and resurrection. The date of Lincoln's assassination coincided with Easter, the time of Christ's resurrection. These two elements provide the setting to the poem in time and space.

The second stanza of the poem describes the poet's intense grief for the dead. Each line begins with "O," an exclamation which is like the shape of a mouth open in woe.

The second cycle of the poem comprises sections 5-9. It describes the journey of the coffin through natural scenery and industrial cities, both representing facets of American life. The thrush's song in section 4 is a prelude to the journey of the coffin which will pass "over the breast of the spring" through cities, woods, wheat fields, and orchards. But "in the midst of life we are in death," as it says in the Book of Common Prayer, and now the cities are "draped in black" and the states, like "crape-veil'd women," mourn and salute the dead. Somber faces, solemn voices, and mournful dirges mark the journey across the American continent.

To the dead man, the poet offers "my sprig of lilac," his obituary tribute. The poet brings fresh blossoms not for Lincoln alone, but for all men. He chants a song "for you 0 sane and sacred death" and offers flowers to "the coffins all of you 0 death."

The poet now addresses the star shining in the western sky: "Now I know what you must have meant." Last month the star seemed as if it "had something to tell" the poet. Whitman imagines that the star was full of woe "as the night advanced" until it vanished "in the netherward black of the night." Whitman calls upon the bird to continue singing. Yet the poet momentarily lingers on, held by the evening star, "my departing comrade."

The symbols are retained throughout this section. The poet bestows, as a mark of affection, a sprig of lilac on the coffin. The association of death with an object of growing life is significant. The star confides in the poet — a heavenly body identifies itself with an earthly being. The star is identified with Lincoln, and the poet is still under the influence of his personal grief for the dead body of Lincoln, and not yet able to perceive the spiritual existence of Lincoln after death. The song of the hermit thrush finally makes the poet aware of the deathless and the spiritual existence of Lincoln.

In the third cycle of the poem, sections 10-13, the poet wonders how he shall sing "for the large sweet soul that has gone." How shall he compose his tribute for the "dead one there I loved"? With his poem he wishes to "perfume the grave of him I love." The pictures on the dead president's tomb, he says, should be of spring and sun and Leaves, a river, hills, and the sky, the city dense with dwellings, and people at work — in short, "all the scenes of life." The "body and soul" of America will be in them, the beauties of Manhattan spires as well as the shores of the Ohio and the Missouri rivers — all "the varied and ample land." The "gray-brown bird" is singing "from the swamps" its "loud human song" of woe. The song has a liberating effect on the poet's soul, although the star still holds him, as does the mastering odor" of the lilac.

In this cycle the description of natural objects and phenomena indicates the breadth of Lincoln's vision, and the "purple" dawn, "delicious" eve, and "welcome" night suggest the continuous, endless cycle of the day, which, in turn, symbolizes Lincoln's immortality.

Sections 14-16 comprise a restatement of the earlier themes and symbols of the poem in a perspective of immortality. The poet remembers that one day while he sat in the peaceful but "unconscious scenery of my land," a cloud with a "long black trail" appeared and enveloped everything. Suddenly he "knew death." He walked between "the knowledge of death" and "the thought of death." He fled to the bird, who sang "the carol of death." The song of the thrush follows this passage. It praises death, which it describes as "lovely,""soothing," and "delicate." The "fathomless universe" is adored "for life and joy" and "sweet love." Death is described as a "dark mother always gliding near with soft feet." To her, the bird sings a song of "fullest welcome." Death is a "strong deliveress" to whom "the body gratefully" nestles.

The thrush's song is the spiritual ally of the poet. As the bird sings, the poet sees a vision: "And I saw askant the armies." He sees "battle-corpses" and the "debris of all the slain soldiers." These dead soldiers are happy in their resting places, but their parents and relatives continue to suffer because they have lost them. The suffering is not of the dead, but of the living.

The coffin has now reached the end of its journey. It passes the visions," the "song of the hermit bird," and the "tallying song" of the poet's soul. "Death's outlet song" is heard, "sinking and fainting," and yet bursting with joy. The joyful psalm fills the earth and heaven. As the coffin passes him, the poet salutes it, reminding himself that the lilac blooming in the dooryard will return each spring. The coffin has reached its resting place in "the fragrant pines and the cedars dusk and dim." The star, the bird, and the lilac join with the poet as he bids goodbye to Lincoln, his "comrade, the dead I loved so well."

The poet's realization of immortality through the emotional conflict of personal loss is the principal theme of this great poem, which is a symbolistic dramatization of the poet's grief and his ultimate reconciliation with the truths of life and death.

Symbol Analysis

LILACS

They're in the title and in almost every section of the poem. So, yeah, of course we know that lilacs must symbolize something bigger than spring. From the very beginning we understand that those lilacs in the dooryard represent ideas of hope, perseverance, and the cycles of life and death. For the speaker though, they are also reminders of the passing of the one he loved (Lincoln).

Lines 4-6: The lilacs are part of the "trinity" that the speaker uses throughout the poem. On a more personal note for the speaker, they also bring the "thought of him I loved" upon every returning spring. So, on a bigger scale they represent life's perseverance and on a smaller scale they will forever be reminders of Lincoln's passing.

Lines 12-14: The image we get here symbolizes life's fertility and strength in that "tall-growing" lilac bush. But we're later reminded of its "delicate blossoms" that also appear to symbolize the fragility of life. So just in these lines alone, we see how those lilacs represent the full spectrum of life's strength and its delicate origins.

Lines 42-45: The lilac that the speaker lays upon a passing coffin is shared between each person as a reminder of hope and the enduring human spirit. Life continues and death can never fully "cover" the beauty of that unified spirit and the land we all share together.

Lines 205-207: By the very end of the poem, the lilacs and the "trinity" that they are a part of come back as a reminder of the speaker's now-elevated understanding of death. The lilacs, star, and bird are all hanging out together in a sort of symbolic space that represents the speaker's newly-uplifted soul. Good times.

 WESTERN FALLEN STAR

That "drooping" western star is chockfull of symbolism. Early on we understand the relation between this "great star disappeared" and the untimely disappearance of the speaker's hero (Lincoln)—sad. Since it "droops" so low on the horizon, we also get the sense of it closely watching over us and empathizing with the speaker's grief. Even the heavens are unified with humanity's suffering on Earth. Thanks, heavens. We knew you had our backs.

 Lines 4-6: The "drooping" western star is also part of the speaker's "trinity." So just like the lilacs that remind the speaker of the one he loves, the western star does the same. Its "powerful" light is a stark reminder of the powerful and great man of whom the speaker will forever be reminded.

Lines 61-63: The star is full of "woe," which tells us it empathizes with the speaker's suffering. It's also by his side, which again reminds us of the heavens sharing in man's woe. Once it's "lost" in the "black of the night," we also understand that, with its departure, Lincoln is also symbolically departing this world.

Lines 69-70: The star "detains" the speaker here, which tells us that he can't quite let go of the one he loves. The memory of Lincoln and his greatness still lingers and keeps the speaker "detained" in his woe at this point of the poem.

Lines 205-207: The star is also part of the final "trinity" we see here, which gives us a sense of resolution and peace by the very end of the poem. The great power it symbolizes is not lost, but is rather there in the "fragrant pines" and the mysterious-unconscious world the speaker now understands a bit more.

 HERMIT-BIRD

Ah, that grumpy, little swamp thrush. It's alone, it hates most folks, and yet it can't help singing its head off. It also can't help symbolizing the mysterious and unconscious world where the speaker comes to have a better understanding of death. The song they sing together becomes part of the speaker's soul and therefore is also an essential element to the speaker's consolation in the face of grief and woe. Thanks bunches, thrushy.

Lines 18-22: The first time we see the hermit-bird, we know there's a connection. The speaker and the thrush both do the same thing in those "secluded recesses." They sing their song in that solitary and mysterious swamp that's symbolic of the more unconscious part of humanity.

Lines 66-68: At this point, the speaker "understands" the bird and his song. So in essence, he understands death and all the unconscious-mysterious stuff a bit better. He can relate now to the hermit-bird in their shared understanding of death through song.

Lines 126-128: The hermit-bird "receives" the speaker, so we get that both have a mutual understanding now of death. Together they compose a "carol for death" that's not scary, but rather uplifting and celebratory of that "dark mother always gliding near."

Lines 205-207: And once more we see that the speaker has now been spiritually transformed due to the bird's "wondrous song." His soul is "twined" with all the bird and the star, everyone is feeling a whole lot better about this death thing.

 

DEATH

Death never looked so good in Whitman's elegy. It's not personified, like as a Grim Reaper, but rather as a "Dark mother always gliding near with soft feet." Isn't that sweet? We just can't get over that awesome metaphor. By the end, the speaker learns to see death as a natural and even beautiful force that unifies us all. In fact, it's so great that the speaker and the bird can't help but compose a song just for death—a death duet, if you will.

Lines 46-50: At first, we see the speaker treating death like everybody else. He "covers" the coffins with reminders of life in order to prove life's perseverance. But, via apostrophe, he also addresses death as "sane and sacred." So even early on, the speaker recognizes the natural and necessary essence of death.

Lines 120-122: We see the speaker holding hands with two sides of death: the "knowledge of death" and the "thought of death." We understand that the former represents the speaker's understanding of the natural and even beautiful essence of death, while the latter represents all of those anxieties we usually have about death. And yet, everyone is holding hands and getting along.

Lines 135-163: The "song of the bird" is dedicated to death (and the one the speaker loves). It's here that we get the metaphor of death as a "Dark mother" and her "loving floating ocean." The speaker "floats this carol with joy" and celebrates the beauty and unifying power that "Undulate[s] round the world." Through this song, the speaker comes to a better understanding of death and is transformed by his acceptance and celebration of it.

THE CIVIL WAR

We can't forget about the time period in which this elegy was written, when all of those coffins were making their way to the grave. The speaker feels very passionately about the toll the war has taken on countless lives across the country. He often repeats clauses and interjections in order to emphasize the severity of death and suffering that is felt because of the war. And those "torn and bloody flags" really drive home the cost of war that will forever be stained upon the nation's history. All in all: seriously bad times, folks.

 

Lines 33-35: We know that "great cloud darkening the land" is a pretty clear metaphor for the war. The entire nation is suffering with those flags draped over countless coffins and the "cities draped in black." The states and their populations are ironically unified in their grieving, no matter which side of the war they supported.

Lines 172-177: The speaker sees the armies and all of their battle flags pierced, bloody, and torn. It doesn't matter which side the flags belong to because they're all torn and bloodied. Everything is in a sort of numbed silence at this time because of all of the death and despair.

Lines 184-185: The mothers and armies left behind are the ones who really suffer. Although the dead are at peace, the nation has been turned upside down, especially with the loss of their leader (Lincoln). Those grieving mothers symbolize the true cost of war and the countless young lives that were lost.

ANALYSIS: FORM AND METER

Free Verse

Good ol' Walt Whitman is kind of the granddaddy of free verse, Shmoopers. He lets us know that too, just by having the occasional super-long line that just can't be fit into one line alone. It's so darn free that it needs to trickle off into the next line. Perhaps that's just Whitman being a bit too overzealous and longwinded, but the fact still remains that the guy revolutionized poetry in America by shunning all those stuffy, conventional rhymes and meters.

There are no couplets, no exercises in iambic pentameter, and certainly none of that singsong vibe that can get a bit tiresome after reading one too many sonnets. Nope, Whitman paves his own way with the kind of verse that reflects the grassroots of the American spirit. It's free and informal (in the sense of sounding like nineteenth-century common talk), without needing all the prescribed rhymes. It's like the speaker is talking to us directly, like these lines in Section 4:

Death's outlet song of life, (for well dear brother I know,

If thou wast not granted to sing thou would'st surely die.) (24-25)

 

The elaborate syntax and imagery is what lend the poem its poetic punch. For instance, in Section 3 we get:

With delicate-color'd blossoms and heart-shaped leaves of rich green,

A sprig with its flower I break. (16-17)

The speaker doesn't need all the singsong rhymes to make those two lines sound like a verse taken right out of some poetic paradise. We have one beautiful adjective followed by another, that's then followed by the very poetic technique of having the subject ("I") follow the object ("A sprig"). In other words, he kind of reverses the whole subject-predicate formula (goes the cat vs. the cat goes). Hear the difference? The effect is one that propels the reader through the line. Just like the coffin that keeps showing up at the end of sections (see 5 and 6), the inverted syntax builds momentum for the reader by saving the star of the action for the end.

By using those really long lines, too, Whitman manages to tack on as many examples of figurative language and anaphora as he possibly can in order to make the poem come alive. In lieu of rhyme, he uses techniques like these to lend energy and expanse to his lines, without trapping it all in a forced meter. For example, check out Section 2:

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. (9-11)

By repeating that initial "O," we get the same sort of memorable feeling we might get from a rhyme, only it's not boring us to death with something like a predictable couplet. It feels a bit more honest, plainspoken, and, well, free. And for a poet who had his eye on the entirely of his country's experience, Whitman's form had to be as open and free as he could make it.

ANALYSIS: SPEAKER

Our speaker of "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd" sounds like Whitman's go-to universalized "I" first-person voice. By "universalized," we mean that, although the speaker uses the word "I," he does so in a way that extends the meaning of that "I" to all of us. We're all part of the speaker's perspective. (Now don't you feel special?) And since he's talking about life, death, grieving, and celebration, we can—and should—all relate on some level.

 

So, in a way he's like some super first-person speaker who often speaks from an omniscient point of view as he sweeps the nation's landscapes. First, we're in a dooryard, then we're in a mysterious swamp, then we're attending funeral processions, and then we're hanging out with death, a hermit-bird, and a western star. It's like a whirlwind: "over the breast of spring, the land, amid cities" (26). Through it all, the speaker sounds like an everyday (though still poetic) kind of guy who's being honest about his feelings and isn't afraid of letting loose with one "O!" after another.

 

And because the speaker covers so much ground in a rather thorough fashion, we really sense his grasp on the nation as a whole. It's okay if he's a little long-winded because, well, he kinda has to be in order to truly bring "blossoms and branches green to coffins all." We know from the beginning that he's extending his elegy to all who grieve, so we kind of have to cut him some slack for being all over the map at once.

 

The speaker also tends to take us for an emotional rollercoaster ride when it comes to his "ever-altering song," and he admits to being all over the map in the final section of the poem. But hey, that's how grieving goes. If the elegy sounded too smooth and controlled, we wouldn't really feel the speaker's honesty. One minute we're grieving, the next we're joyful, and by the end we're feeling all things at once, if in a somewhat peaceful way. And we have the speaker to thank for that. After all, he's the one who's brought us through so many different emotions and landscapes. He's like the most intense tour guide ever.

 

ANALYSIS: SETTING

Where It All Goes Down

Suffice it to say that our setting in "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd" covers pretty much… the entire landscape of America. That's totally Walt, for you. Not for nothing is he knows as the country's national poet. When he wrote, he wrote big, with the entire country in mind.

In this poem, One minute we're in a dooryard, the next we're traveling the prairies, and in the next we're in a big city somewhere. Occasionally our speaker even has us in a more mysterious, undefined world, one that's symbolic of the death and-or the unconscious mind. So essentially we have a balance of more concrete settings with the more ambiguous ones.

What we do know is that the time is set during the American Civil War, and those long funeral processions with the "pomp of the inloop'd flags with the cities draped in black" make it clear that the entire nation is in a state of mourning (35). The "debris and the debris of all the slain soldiers of the war" also make it clear that we're in a national state of war and upheaval (179).

When the speaker begins to consider death on a more intimate level, we also notice that the setting becomes a bit dreamlike and ambiguous in death's "loving floating ocean." So just like the swamp where the hermit-bird lives, our "Dark mother" is also located in a sort of intangible space. Depending on whether we're talking about concrete stuff like war or intangible stuff like death and the soul, the setting tends to fluctuate back and forth between real and symbolic settings.

So what's up with that back and forth? We'd venture to say that the setting—in and out of the "real world"—has a lot to do with what's going on in the speaker's mind. Remember that he's working through his attitudes toward death: fear it? hate it? embrace it? praise it? The fluctuating setting can really be seen as a reflection of the speaker's mindset. When he's not trying to take in the entire country with his setting details, Whitman's speaker is in and out of the physical world, looking to come to terms with death. Sorry, but no dash-mounted GPS will help you with that journey.

 

 ANALYSIS: SOUND CHECK

"When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd" isn't your typical nineteenth-century elegy. By virtue of free verse alone, Whitman's poem sounds fluid and open as one line often spills into the next (and some lines even run past the printed margin). That's not to mention the lines themselves, which often have one subordinate clause after another, making the final image pile up with details, meaning, and feeling, like this one in Section 16:

 

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. (189-190)

Phew. Try saying that in one breath. We dare you.

 

We're often flooded with these sorts of extended metaphors, jam-packed with extensive description. The effect on the poem's sound here is one of a frantic energy, with details piling up and the line length dragging on as the speaker struggles to make sense of death. The amount of physical force (breath and voice) needed to sound these lines out is far more than your typical poem. In putting these lines together in such a fashion Whitman is impressing on his reader the urgency, and energy, of his poetic attention.

More specifically, all of the free verse in the speaker's "ever-altering song" sounds true to life in the landscape of grieving and death. We get to hear frequently changing landscapes, which also add to the broad scope of the poem's sound, as things sound pretty, airy, and hopeful one minute and then mysterious and withdrawn or woeful in the next.

Not surprisingly, these shifts correspond with shifts in the poem's sound. When the speaker is busting out his hopeful song in praise of death, then we get examples of intentional use of sound in the poem. For example, lines 47-48 have some serious alliteration going on:

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.

 

We get B sounds happening with "blossoms" and "branches" and S words with "song,""sane," and "sacred." Actually, we notice that, whenever the speaker talks about the song for death, we tend to see a bit more attention to the sound in the lines. The hopeful and reverent attitude of the content is reinforced by the singsong qualities of the words in the lines themselves. So we get to bob our heads to the sound play, even as the speaker is singing out his praise of death itself. One way or another, it's a beat we all have to dance to some time.

 

ANALYSIS: WHAT'S UP WITH THE TITLE?

In nineteenth-century poetry, poems often use the first line for the title, and "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd" does just that. Still, the title is mighty important in ways beyond that conventional technique. Those lilacs are no ordinary lilacs and the idea of them being "last in the dooryard bloomed" is also no accident.

When we think of spring and lilacs, we immediately imagine rejuvenation, life picking up again after winter, and perhaps even ideas related to hope and perseverance. Considering that Whitman was writing an elegy here, the significance of a title that evokes ideas of hope and perseverance makes a lot of sense to us. The last thing anyone really wants after losing a loved one is to wallow in even more pain and despair. We kind of need ideas like "lilacs last in the dooryard bloomed" to get us thinking more about life's continuance and the perseverance of the human spirit.

But there's also something interesting going on here in the syntax of the title. "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd" can be read in two different ways. You could argue that the word "last" refers to the final lilacs to bloom for the season, as late blooming flowers. Or, you could say that "last" relates to the idea of memory, as in "the last time the lilacs bloomed in the dooryard" (as in last spring). Either way, Whitman has managed to get us thinking in equally optimistic ways, whether he intended to or not. Whether we imagine the hope that those remaining lilacs will eventually bloom, or thinking more along the lines of yearly rejuvenation and renewal, we're feeling mighty hopeful right from the get go.

So, as far as meaningful titles go, this one kind of takes the cake. Any way you cut it, there's hope to be found in the title alone. Even in the midst of death, ol' Walt gives us flowers.

 

ANALYSIS: CALLING CARD

Universalized "I" and Very Long Lines

You know you're dealing with Walt Whitman when you see a lot of first-person point of view that sounds as if the speaker isn't just talking about himself. If the "I" is being used more as a "we," then chances are Whitman's your poet. And if the poem is set in nineteenth-century America with a rather uplifting look at the American spirit, the consequences of war, and the splendor of the natural world, then chances are you're definitely dealing with our man Walt.

If you need any more proof, you need only take a quick look at the form of the poem. If the poem is written in free verse, with lines that are longer for than the port-o-let lines at Coachella, then you know who likely wrote it. And if you look a little closer at those lines and happen to see one highly descriptive use of figurative language and imagery after another, well, you know what's what.

To get a better idea of what we mean by his universalized "I" and very long lines of free verse, check out "Song of Myself,""Crossing Brooklyn Ferry," and "I Hear America Singing."

THEMES

THEME OF DEATH

Elegies are about… death, and also about grieving. So of course death is a major theme of "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd." Did you even doubt it? All the same, Whitman gives the topic his own spin by considering death as something more natural and beautiful than frightening. He nixed the whole Grim Reaper thing for the lovelier metaphor of a "Dark mother always gliding near with soft feet." We know—it's not as cool to put on your heavy metal t-shirts, but we have to say: we'd go with the dark mother if we have a choice.

THEME OF PERSEVERANCE

Those perennial lilacs in "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd" remind us of life's perseverance and fertility (not to mention a pretty sweet gardening set-up). The bustling cities and hardworking folks in America also remind us of life's continuance and the American spirit that perseveres, even in the face of hard times. The sun, the stars, even the thrush chilling out on his lonesome in the swam—all of these reminds us that the world goes on, no matter what.

THEME OF ADMIRATION

We can't forget whom this poem is really for. Without the speaker's admiration for the one and only Abe Lincoln, we may never have even had the poem to begin with. Not only is he an awesome vampire hunter, but he's really the star of this whole poem. That "great star disappear'd" is the driving force of "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd." And with the symbolism of the fallen western star, we certainly feel the speaker's admiration for arguably the greatest leader of American history.

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POEM2: CROSSING THE BROOKLYN FERRY

SECTION 1 SUMMARY

Lines 1-2

Flood-tide below me! I watch you, face to face;

Clouds of the west! sun there half an hour high! I see you also face to face.

From his vantage point on the ferry, the speaker addresses the water that is rushing by below him. The tide is coming in, so it's a "flood-tide."

Summoning his best Robert De Niro, he looks at the water and says, "You! Yeah, you!" – (makes the "I'm watching you" motion with his fingers) – "That's right. I'm watching you!"

The water is personified with a "face," as are the "clouds" and the "sun" that he sees reflected there.

It's a half an hour from sunset, and the sun sets in the west, which is why he notices the "clouds of the west."

As you'll discover in this poem, Whitman is a very confrontational poet, though not in an aggressive way. He's all about eye contact. As they say on Seinfeld, he's a "close talker."

SECTION 2 SUMMARY

Line 3

Crowds of men and women attired in the usual costumes! how curious you are to me!

He addresses the crowds of people on the boat, calling them "curious" (as in, "strange"). Keep an eye out for this word in the rest of the poem.

Our speaker must either be very perceptive or very quirky to find something noteworthy in an average crowd of commuters on their way home from work. He describes their work attire as "the usual costumes," which introduces a comparison with the theater. These normal people are really actors in disguises.

Lines 4-5

On the ferry-boats, the hundreds and hundreds that cross, returning home, are more curious to me than you suppose,

And you that shall cross from shore to shore years hence, are more to me, and more in my meditations, than you might suppose.

Not only are the costumed passengers curious, but they are "more curious to me than you suppose," which, not to beat a dead horse, is something of a curious statement itself. Why would the other passengers have an opinion about whether this fellow staring into the water finds them strange, or interesting?We think the speaker is protesting the anonymity of modern life, and the fact that you're not supposed to care about people you share a casual experience with.

Whitman wants his passengers to know: he does care! Not only about them, but even about the future passengers on the ferry, those who will "cross from shore to shore years hence."

SECTION 3 SUMMARY

Line 6

The impalpable sustenance of me from all things, at all hours of the day,

The speaker is like a hungry man – he's constantly hungry for the "things" of the world. By things he really he means "everything" – all the hard matter that makes up the world, including people.

Fortunately, these things manage to feed him, to give him "sustenance […] at all hours of the day." He doesn't know how they fill his craving: it's mysterious or "impalpable." They just do, kind of like milk and cookies in the middle of the night.

Lines 7-8

The simple, compact, well-joined scheme—myself disintegrated, every one disintegrated, yet part of the scheme,

The similitudes of the past, and those of the future,

The speaker describes the world as you might describe a well-made car, as a "simple, compact well-joined scheme." Things just fit together.

The speaker accepts his own "disintegration" (ahem, death), as a natural part of this larger unity. From the perspective of the scheme, things don't change between past and future.

Line 9

The glories strung like beads on my smallest sights and hearings—on the walk in the street, and the passage over the river,

Everything he sees and hears gives him pleasure, and he compares the objects of his perception to beads on a necklace. Talk about a guy who appreciates the small things in life.

Line 10-11

The current rushing so swiftly, and swimming with me far away,

The others that are to follow me, the ties between me and them,

Metaphor alert! It's important to know that the current of the incoming tide that causes the water to rush past him also represents the distances of time and space that separate the speaker from other people. He doesn't warn us of this sudden use of symbolism, he just – pardon the metaphor – dives right in.

In his mind, he imagines "swimming" with the current and being carried "far away." The idea that a person can figuratively be in two places at once is central to this poem.

 

Lines 12

The certainty of others—the life, love, sight, hearing of others.

So we're still talking about the "glories" of the surrounding world.

Among these glories are the future passengers whom the speaker addressed in Section 2, as well as the idea that people everywhere are connected by certain basic emotions and capacities, like love.

SECTION 4 SUMMARY

Lines 13-19

Others will enter the gates of the ferry, and cross from shore to shore,

Others will watch the run of the flood-tide,

Others will see the shipping of Manhattan north and west, and the heights of Brooklyn to the south and east,

Others will see the islands large and small,

Fifty years hence, others will see them as they cross, the sun half an hour high,

A hundred years hence, or ever so many hundred years hence, others will see them,

Will enjoy the sunset, the pouring in of the floodtide, the falling back to the sea of the ebb-tide.

The speaker seems to be on a mission to prove he's not unique. In this section he states that other people will do the exact same thing that he's doing right now – crossing from Manhattan to Brooklyn – and he finds that to be pretty cool.

He uses the future passengers as an excuse to describe the present journey. We suppose he's right that the islands, the sunset, and the tides will be around in fifty, a hundred, or even several hundred years.

Incidentally, we should mention one thing that's no longer a staple of New York: the Brooklyn ferries. The Brooklyn Bridge pretty much put an end to the use of ferries by commuters, which helps explain Whitman's uncharacteristic ambivalence about this engineering marvel, an example of the working man at his best.

 

SECTION 5 SUMMARY

Lines 20-22

It avails not, neither time or place—instance avails not,

I am with you, you men and women of a generation, or ever so many generations hence,

I project myself—also I return—I am with you, and know how it is.

 

"Avails" is another one of those "important" words in the poem. It means to succeed in doing or accomplishing something; in this case, to succeed in separating people. Fortunately, "neither time nor place […] avails" in that task.

Put simply, there's just no escaping the speaker of this poem. He's connected to everyone of his generation and of future generations.

If you have no idea what he's talking about at this point, just think of Obi Wan Kenobi from Star Wars. There's some mysterious connection, like "the force," that connects all people, but only some are perceptive enough to realize it.

The speaker can also "project himself" into the future. So, even as the speaker is leaning on the deck, he has dispatched a part of himself to communicate a reassuring message to us future-readers.

SECTION 6 SUMMARY

Lines 23-27

Just as you feel when you look on the river and sky, so I felt,

Just as any of you is one of a living crowd, I was one of a crowd,

Just as you are refreshed by the gladness of the river, and the bright flow, I was refreshed,

Just as you stand and lean on the rail, yet hurry with the swift current, I stood, yet was hurried,

Just as you look on the numberless masts of ships, and the thick-stemmed pipes of steamboats, I looked.

 

At this point, it sounds like he's talking directly to us, the readers. And not just us as fictional readers; it's like he's reaching off the page to grab us by the collar. "I'm just like you!" he says, shaking us back and forth.

All those spiritual experiences that you think nobody else understands – he's been through it. The exhilaration of being in a crowd, the thought of being carried away by rushing water, the amazement at a port full of boats: he knows the feeling.

Whitman is battling against the experience of "alienation," which is a fancy word to describe the way people feel disconnected and isolated from one another, even when they are going through the same thing.

Whitman thinks that alienation is a bad thing. A very bad thing. Did we mention that this poem was first published near the start of the Civil War?

 

SECTION 7 SUMMARY

Lines 28-31

I too many and many a time crossed the river, the sun half an hour high,

I watched the Twelfth Month sea-gulls—I saw them high in the air, floating with motionless wings, oscillating their bodies,

I saw how the glistening yellow lit up parts of their bodies, and left the rest in strong shadow,

I saw the slow-wheeling circles, and the gradual edging toward the south.

Now Whitman begins using one of his favorite and most famous phrases: "I too."

He's being very sneaky and trying to draw us into his experience…by pretending that it was really our experience. He's like, "Oh, so you've crossed a river many times a half hour before sunset. How funny – me too!" And some of us might be thinking, "Well, actually no, I use the Brooklyn Brid-," but we don't complete our thought, because that would make Whitman sad. Instead you've got to play along.

So, just like us, Whitman has crossed the river and watched the seagulls performing aerial acrobatics.

If you're a fan of gorgeous descriptions of nature, you might want to linger on these lines.

 

SECTION 8 SUMMARY

Lines 32-40

I too saw the reflection of the summer sky in the water,

Had my eyes dazzled by the shimmering track of beams,

Looked at the fine centrifugal spokes of light round the shape of my head in the sun-lit water,

Looked on the haze on the hills southward and south-westward,

Looked on the vapor as it flew in fleeces tinged with violet,

Looked toward the lower bay to notice the arriving ships,

Saw their approach, saw aboard those that were near me,

Saw the white sails of schooners and sloops, saw the ships at anchor,

The sailors at work in the rigging, or out astride the spars,

"I too," the speaker goes on, before recounting sights we only wish we could see because they sound so beautiful.We learn that it's summer, which means the sun is extra bright. The angle of the light as it enters the water creates a kind of halo with "fine centrifugal spokes," which surrounds the shadow of his head. We bet you've probably seen this effect before, but did you ever think it could be described so accurately?Aside from this amazing light, the speaker has also seen the hazy hills, the violet-tinged vapor rising from the water, and the sails of ships arriving in port. He can see the sailors hanging out on different parts of the ships.

Lines 41-44

The round masts, the swinging motion of the hulls, the slender serpentine pennants,

The large and small steamers in motion, the pilots in their pilot-houses,

The white wake left by the passage, the quick tremulous whirl of the wheels,

The flags of all nations, the falling of them at sun-set,

And what would the story of a maritime journey – even a ferry ride – be without some technical discussion of ships? Severely lacking, says we.

He describes the ships: their masts, the way they roll or "swing" on the water, their "serpentine pennants" or the long flags that fly from the masthead, the different-sized steamships, and "the quick tremulous whirl" of the steering wheels as they turned.

Even in the 19th century, New York was a very international port city, so the ships fly "flags of all nations."

Lines 45-46

The scallop-edged waves in the twilight, the ladled cups, the frolicsome crests and glistening,

The stretch afar growing dimmer and dimmer, the gray walls of the granite store-houses by the docks,

A "scallop" is that clam-like mollusk with the distinctive shell that looks like a ruffled potato chip. The shape of the wave reminds the speaker of a scallop shell, while the troughs of the waves remind him of "ladled cups" of water. The crests of the waves he calls "frolicsome," or playful.

He looks back toward the shore and the waves become harder and harder to distinguish.

His eyes reach the shore and the first thing he sees are the "gray walls of the granite store-houses," where cargo could be unloaded.

Lines 47-49

On the river the shadowy group, the big steam-tug closely flanked on each side by the barges—the hay-boat, the belated lighter,

On the neighboring shore, the fires from the foundry chimneys burning high and glaringly into the night,

Casting, their flicker of black, contrasted with wild red and yellow light, over the tops of houses, and down into the clefts of streets.

Notice how the sky is getting darker as the poem develops. He sees a "shadowy group" of other boats next to the shore, including the "hay boat," which literally carried hay," and a "lighter," which is like a flat-bottomed barge.

Meanwhile, on the shore, business continues after hours. The foundries are up and running, judging from their smoky chimneys.Foundries produce castings of various kinds of metals and are associated with heavy industry. The smoke from the chimneys is a "flicker of black" that "contrasts" with the bright fires from the furnaces.

SECTION 9 SUMMARY

Line 50

These, and all else, were to me the same as they are to you,

The speaker seems to think we have seen the amazing panorama he just described. In a way, we have. We've seen it in our mind's eye from reading about it.

Is Whitman saying that to hear or read about something is the same as experiencing it? What is he up to here? That's one of the big questions of the poem.

Line 51

I project myself a moment to tell you—also I return.

There he goes again, our time-traveling desperado, projecting himself into the future to warn us of a terrible, terrible fate for humanity! Or, actually, just to tell us about some boats.

SECTION 10 SUMMARY

Lines 52-55

I loved well those cities,

I loved well the stately and rapid river,

The men and women I saw were all near to me,

Others the same—others who look back on me, because I looked forward to them,

There are some strange things going on with verb tenses in this poem. Now the speaker is talking about himself as if he were in the future with us.

He is, in essence, delivering his own eulogy.

He felt close to all the people he saw, and even to us future generations.

Line 56

(The time will come, though I stop here to-day and to-night.)

Here's a very mysterious line. "The time" for what will come?He seems to be anticipating some time when he will be close to those future people, and the present moment is just a stopping place. In short, time is no obstacle to the speaker; he just chooses to be in the present.

SECTION 11 SUMMARY

Lines 57-58

What is it, then, between us?

What is the count of the scores or hundreds of years between us?

These lines might be our favorite in the entire poem. He asks, "What is it, then, between us?"

You could imagine that he already has an answer in his head – "not much" – or you could imagine he asks the question seriously, as if he were surprised that there could still be something keeping us apart despite his time-traveling powers.

In line 59, he moves closer to the implicit answer that time can't really separate people.

SECTION 12 SUMMARY

Lines 59

Whatever it is, it avails not—distance avails not, and place avails not.

This is the shortest section of the poem, so Whitman intends to set these words apart. They are one of the climaxes of the poem, where he states his conclusion to question of whether people can be divided from one another in any sense that truly matters: no way.

Neither distance nor time can "avail" or succeed at putting up a wall between individuals.

But in that case, why do we feel so strongly that we are separated from people. Maybe it's all in our heads…

 

SECTION 13 SUMMARY

Lines 60-64

I too lived, (I was of old Brooklyn,)

I too walked the streets of Manhattan Island, and bathed in the waters around it,

I too felt the curious abrupt questionings stir within me,

In the day, among crowds of people, sometimes they came upon me,

In my walks home late at night, or as I lay in my bed, they came upon me.

Here again we get that classic Whitman phrase, "I too."

Just like us (not really), Whitman lived in Brooklyn, walked around Manhattan, and bathed in the East River, which could couldn't do today – it's much too polluted.

And there's that word "curious" again. Doesn't "curious abrupt questionings," sound a little sexual? With Whitman it's always hard to tell, because he does a good job of covering his tracks. He could be talking about his earlier "curiosity" about the other passengers on his ship, although this, too, was never described in detail.At any rate, he has these questionings at night in bed, too.

SECTION 14 SUMMARY

Lines 65-67

I too had been struck from the float forever held in solution,

I too had received identity by my body,

That I was, I knew was of my body—and what I should be, I knew I should be of my body.

 

He compares the boat on the water to a scientific specific that is preserved "in solution" to keep it fresh. It feels like time is frozen.

Then there's another characteristic Whitman moment: he expresses comfort and acceptance of his body. One of Whitman's big poetic goals was to root out the shame and squeamishness about the body. Unlike many philosophers, he does not agree with the sharp distinction between body and soul.

 

SECTION 15 SUMMARY

Lines 68-71

It is not upon you alone the dark patches fall,

The dark threw patches down upon me also,

The best I had done seemed to me blank and suspicious,

My great thoughts, as I supposed them, were they not in reality meagre? would not people laugh at me?

As the sun sets, the poem continues to get darker. Now the shadows are falling on the speaker, and he interprets these "dark patches" metaphorically as dark thoughts.

One of these thoughts is to question his achievements as essentially empty, or "blank and suspicious." He worries that people will laugh at his thoughts. This, surely, is an experience that everyone can recognize.

 

SECTION 16 SUMMARY

Lines 72-80

It is not you alone who know what it is to be evil,

I am he who knew what it was to be evil,

I too knitted the old knot of contrariety,

Blabbed, blushed, resented, lied, stole, grudged,

Had guile, anger, lust, hot wishes I dared not speak,

Was wayward, vain, greedy, shallow, sly, cowardly, malignant,

The wolf, the snake, the hog, not wanting in me,

The cheating look, the frivolous word, the adulterous wish, not wanting,

Refusals, hates, postponements, meanness, laziness, none of these wanting.

 

Continuing the theme of his dark and shadowy thoughts, the speaker says he knows evil as well as we do. Hey, we're not admitting anything (hehe…). But he does.

He gives us a list, or catalogue, of bad things he has done. They are a fairly typical group of sins, including anger, vanity, and a healthy dose of sex, including "hot wishes I dared not speak."

He compares himself to animals and says they are "not wanting in me," which means they are not lacking. Instead of saying, "I have these vices," he says, "I'm not missing these vices," as if they were an essential part of him.

Whitman valued honesty and didn't like to keep things behind closed doors.

SECTION 17 SUMMARY

Lines 81-84

But I was a Manhattanese, free, friendly, and proud

I was called by my nighest name by clear loud voices of young men as they saw me approaching or passing,

Felt their arms on my neck as I stood, or the negligent leaning of their flesh against me as I sat,

Saw many I loved in the street, or ferry-boat, or public assembly, yet never told them a word,

 

Every once in a while, Whitman throws in a funny word that sounds made up: "Manhattanese" is one of these words. Literally, it means someone from Manhattan, like a Chinese person is from China.

The speaker feels like a native New Yorker, and he's darned proud of it. Young men shout his name as he walks through the streets.

Better yet, they shout his "nighest name," the name that refers most closely to his true self, like a super-secret code name.

They put their arms around him like an old pal. He knows lots of people around town, but he "never told them a word" about his secret, inner thoughts. Are those the thoughts that we're reading right now? We can't be sure.

Lines 85-88

Lived the same life with the rest, the same old laughing, gnawing, sleeping,

Played the part that still looks back on the actor or actress,

The same old role, the role that is what we make it, as great as we like,

Or as small as we like, or both great and small.

Like a spy, the speaker blended in among his fellow citizens, and all the while they were none the wiser: Mwa-haha!

Whitman might be making a distinction between public and private selves. Our public selves are like roles that we perform in daily life in order to fit in. These roles can be big, small, or "both great and small." Our private selves are the part of us we find most difficult to express or feel ashamed to express.

Whitman is all about trying to create an atmosphere where people feel comfortable opening up their private selves to other people. He's not so naïve as to think that this can be done with the snap of one's fingers, and this section shows some acceptance for the theatrical nature of social life.

SECTION 18 SUMMARY

Lines 89-91

Closer yet I approach you,

What thought you have of me, I had as much of you—I laid in my stores in advance,

I considered long and seriously of you before you were born.

Mr. Whitman, are you trying to seduce us?

Now that he has made us feel more comfortable by confessing some of his inner thoughts, he inches closer and tries to change the subject to us. He turns the table on the reader, saying that he knows as much about us as we do about him. He thought about us even before we were born.

Like a farmer who saves his crop of "lays his stores in advance," Whitman has been saving up thoughts of us for just this moment.

 

 

SECTION 19 SUMMARY

Lines 92-94

Who was to know what should come home to me?

Who knows but I am enjoying this?

Who knows but I am as good as looking at you now, for all you cannot see me?

 

Perhaps no other poet moves so quickly to make friends with the reader as Whitman does. He plays with the reader's expectation that we can observe the writer at a safe distance.

Reading this poem is like a homecoming, and the speaker is like family. He could be even be watching you…right now…through the window! The speaker acts like he can see right through us. We can't hide from him.

SECTION 20 SUMMARY

Lines 95-97

It is not you alone, nor I alone,

Not a few races, nor a few generations, nor a few centuries,

It is that each came, or comes, or shall come, from its due emission, without fail, either now, or then, or henceforth.

Whitman is often thought of as an all-inclusive or "democratic" poet, and these lines are a perfect example. He doesn't divide people in individuals, races, or even generations. As far as he's concerned, all people are part of the same chain or pattern and have equal dignity.

As context, we should mention that Whitman strongly believed in the abolition of slavery and equal rights for all people.

SECTION 21 SUMMARY

Line 98

Every thing indicates—the smallest does, and the largest does,

We think that this section points back to Section 3 and the discussion of the "well-joined scheme," the grand design of the world. We can never see the whole scheme, but "every thing indicates" what it looks like. Small things tell us just as much about the world as large things do.

You can see why Whitman is a favorite of environmentalists and biologists everywhere.

Line 99

A necessary film envelops all, and envelops the Soul for a proper time.

He has been saying all along that all things are connected, but now he gets a little more specific (with emphasis on "a little").

Everything, he says, is "enveloped" or contained by a "necessary film." Note that "film" doesn't mean "movie" – those weren't invented yet. It means something like a thin, invisible substance that coats everything, the way that wax coats leaves. Bubbles, for example, are composed of a kind of "film" (as are the soap scum that coats your bathroom walls).

But Whitman's uses "film" in a positive sense. The film also coats the "Soul" – as long as we're alive.

SECTION 22 SUMMARY

Lines 100-105

Now I am curious what sight can ever be more stately and admirable to me than my mast-hemm'd Manhatta,

My river and sun-set, and my scallop-edged waves of flood-tide,

The sea-gulls oscillating their bodies, the hay-boat in the twilight, and the belated lighter;

Curious what Gods can exceed these that clasp me by the hand, and with voices I love call me promptly and loudly by my nighest name as I approach,

Curious what is more subtle than this which ties me to the woman or man that looks in my face,

Which fuses me into you now, and pours my meaning into you.

There's that word "curious" again, used to describe his deep, unanswerable questions. He wonders, basically, "What could be better than this?"

He briefly describes the waves, the sea gulls, and the boats again. Then he takes a subtle shot at religion and philosophy, saying that his spiritual experience on the ferry "exceeds" even the "Gods," and his connection to other people is more "subtle" than any lofty thoughts.

He feels at one with us as readers. He "pours" his meaning into us like water into an empty glass.

SECTION 23 SUMMARY

Lines 106-109

We understand, then, do we not?

What I promised without mentioning it, have you not accepted?

What the study could not teach—what the preaching could not accomplish is accomplished, is it not?

What the push of reading could not start is started by me personally, is it not?

 

Without even knowing it, we've been negotiating an agreement with our speaker. As they say in the mafia, we've reached "an understanding." Hopefully this doesn't mean that we now owe him our life savings.

Whitman is talking in vague and mystical terms about the power of art and poetry to produce a change in people without them realizing it. But most artists don't make an announcement about it like our speaker does, "See, you're changed now, aren't you!"

Again he takes a dig at school and religion by saying that his poem has fulfilled the goals that teaching and preaching could not. Maybe this stance has something to do with the fact that Whitman was largely self-taught as a poet, an example of what the American philosopher Ralph Waldo Emerson called "self-reliance."

SECTION 24 SUMMARY

Lines 110-115

Flow on, river! flow with the flood-tide, and ebb with the ebb-tide!

Frolic on, crested and scallop-edged waves!

Gorgeous clouds of the sunset! drench with your splendor me, or the men and women generations after me;

Cross from shore to shore, countless crowds of passengers!

Stand up, tall masts of Mannahatta!—stand up, beautiful hills of Brooklyn!

Bully for you! you proud, friendly, free Manhattanese!

He pulls a classic poetic trick: addressing the things around him, he orders them to do the things they are already doing. He sounds like the conductor of an orchestra: "Strings, louder! Now trumpets! Drums, I need more drums!"

He summons back all the sights and sounds of the ferryboat, often repeating the same language he has used earlier in the poem, like "scallop-edged waves" and "men and women generations after me."

Instead of "Manhattan," he uses the Native American word, "Mannahatta" in line 111, emphasizing the legacy and continuity between different peoples.

Lines 116-117

Throb, baffled and curious brain! throw out questions and answers!

Suspend here and everywhere, eternal float of solution!

He describes his own brain as "baffled and curious" and "throbbing," and the scenery around him as a scientific specimen, suspended for all time in a "float of solution."

Lines 118-131

Blab, blush, lie, steal, you or I or any one after us!

Gaze, loving and thirsting eyes, in the house, or street, or public assembly!

Sound out, voices of young men! loudly and musically call me by my nighest name!

Live, old life! play the part that looks back on the actor or actress!

Play the old role, the role that is great or small, according as one makes it!

Consider, you who peruse me, whether I may not in unknown ways be looking upon you;

Be firm, rail over the river, to support those who lean idly, yet haste with the hasting current;

Fly on, sea-birds! fly sideways, or wheel in large circles high in the air;

Receive the summer-sky, you water! and faithfully hold it, till all downcast eyes have time to take it from you;

Diverge, fine spokes of light, from the shape of my head, or any one's head, in the sun-lit water;

Come on, ships from the lower bay! pass up or down, white-sailed schooners, sloops, lighters!

Flaunt away, flags of all nations! be duly lowered at sunset;

Burn high your fires, foundry chimneys! cast black shadows at nightfall! cast red and yellow light over the tops of the houses;

Appearances, now or henceforth, indicate what you are;

 

One by one, he marches through the major images of the poem. If the poem were a symphony, this section would be called the "recapitulation." It serves to remind the reader of all that came before.

Whereas before he showed things separately, mixed with his own thoughts and commentary, here he combines them into one big picture.

Lines 132-136

You necessary film, continue to envelop the Soul;

About my body for me, and your body for you, be hung our divinest aromas;

Thrive, cities! bring your freight, bring your shows, ample and sufficient rivers;

Expand, being than which none else is perhaps more spiritual;

Keep your places, objects than which none else is more lasting.

 

These lines return to some of the poem's philosophical themes: that appearances are an indication of a deeper reality, that things are connected by a "necessary film," that nothing is more spiritual than physical reality, and nothing is more eternal than everyday objects.

From these lines, one has to wonder with the philosophy of the American Transcendentalists, who believed that there was one big Soul underlying all of nature. Whitman never uses the plural form, "souls," in this poem. He only uses the singular "Soul."

SECTION 25 SUMMARY

Lines 137-140

We descend upon you and all things—we arrest you all,

We realize the Soul only by you, you faithful solids and fluids,

Through you color, form, location, sublimity, ideality,

Through you every proof, comparison, and all the suggestions and determinations of ourselves.

 

The speaker has become even more inclusive. He uses the plural "we" form instead of the individual "me" or "I."

One of the most difficult aspects of Whitman's poetry is figuring out to whom the pronouns refer. He wants to leave it ambiguous.

The message in these lines is that "we" – whoever that might be – achieve or "realize" the spiritual reality of the Soul only through the material reality of the things.

This thought poses a challenge to some forms of Christian theology, which claim that spiritual reality is all that matters, and that people shouldn't put faith in the world of material things. Whitman reverses the claim and says that we only know the spirit through Nature.

Like a chemist, Whitman boils the entire scene down into "solids and fluids." (Hey, what about gases?) These basic materials provide us with physical qualities like color, form, and location; spiritual qualities like the "sublime" and the "ideal" (fancy philosophical terms we won't get into here); and intellectual achievements like "proofs" and "comparisons."

Where we might see the muddy East River and a bunch of ships, the speaker sees the building blocks of the world.

 

SECTION 26 SUMMARY

Lines 141-142

You have waited, you always wait, you dumb, beautiful ministers! you novices!

We receive you with free sense at last, and are insatiate henceforward,

 

Hold on – we're diving even further into the weeds of philosophy.

The things of the world have been waiting for us to view them with fresh eyes, or "free sense." Once we have seen them in the right way, we are "insatiate"; literally, we can't get enough. We're hungry for more things. More! MORE!

Incidentally, there's a slight pun here, because the speaker is on a ferry and there are probably real people "waiting" at the other end for the passengers to arrive. But the speaker is addressing not just real people, but all the things from section 24. These things are "dumb" because they aren't literally talking.

Using another comparison to religion, the speaker calls the things "ministers" and "novices." This means they are like both teachers in a religious order and also members-in-training.

 

Lines 143-145

Not you any more shall be able to foil us, or withhold yourselves from us,

We use you, and do not cast you aside—we plant you permanently within us,

We fathom you not—we love you—there is perfection in you also,

 

Like a slippery fish trying to wriggle away, the basic things in the world have eluded or "foiled" us in the past.

But not this time. We're going to use these things without throwing them away. We're going to "plant" them inside us like seeds. Even though we don't fully understand or "fathom" these things, we love them anyway and now they are perfect.

Whitman was sometimes compared to a religious prophet or mystics, and in these lines, it's easy to see why.

Lines 146-147

You furnish your parts toward eternity,

Great or small, you furnish your parts toward the Soul.

 

All the things of the world provide or "furnish" the parts that make up eternity. (What is eternity? Sorry, but Whitman isn't going to answer all your deepest questions here.)

Returning to the distinction between "great and small" – earlier he used these words to describe the roles of actors – he says that everything, no matter what size, provides the parts that make up the unified Soul.

Or is it the individual Soul? Or are they both the same thing? Here we thought we had answers, but we're left only with more questions.

Summary and Analysis: 

"Crossing Brooklyn Ferry"

This poem was originally called "Sun-Down Poem" (1856), and the present title was given it in 1860. It was substantially revised in 1881.

The major image in the poem is the ferry. It symbolizes continual movement, backward and forward, a universal motion in space and time. The ferry moves on, from a point of land, through water, to another point of land. Land and water thus form part of the symbolistic pattern of the poem. Land symbolizes the physical; water symbolizes the spiritual. The circular flow from the physical to the spiritual connotes the dual nature of the universe. Dualism, in philosophy, means that the world is ultimately composed of, or explicable in terms of, two basic entities, such as mind and matter. From a moral point of view, it means that there are two mutually antagonistic principles in the universe — good and evil. In Whitman's view, both the mind and the spirit are realities and matter is only a means which enables man to realize this truth. His world is dominated by a sense of good, and evil has a very subservient place in it. Man, in Whitman's world, while overcoming the duality of the universe, desires fusion with the spirit. In this attempt, man tries to transcend the boundaries of space and time.

The ferry symbolizes this spatial and temporal movement. It is also associated with the groups of men and women who ride it, who have ridden it, and who will ride it. The coming together of these men and women symbolizes the spiritual unity of men in this world.

The poet first addresses the elements — the tide, the clouds, and the sun — saying, "I see you face to face." He next observes the crowds of men and women on the ferryboats: "How curious you are to me" he says, for he thinks of these people in relation to those who "shall cross from shore to shore years hence." The poet meditates on the relationships between the various generations of men.

This first section establishes the setting of the poem. The poet is on the bank, and he observes the ferry as well as the passengers, whom he expands to symbolize the large united self of mankind. The tide, the cloud, and the sun become integral characters in this spiritual drama between the poet and the elements. The poet first responds to natural objects and then to people with the ultimate aim of bringing about an imaginative fusion between himself and the reader.

In the second section, the men and women on the ferryboat become the eternal "impalpable sustenance" of the poet. He thinks of "the simple, compact, well-join'd scheme" of the universe and believes himself to be "disintegrated yet part of the scheme." He thinks again about all the people of the future who will enter the gates of the ferry and cross from shore to shore."

The poet thinks about his role in relation to the nature of the universe. To him, the universe seems compact, harmonious, and well-adjusted. He is part of the multitude of men, part of the eternal processes of birth, life, and death. Whitman probes into the future and identifies himself with persons who will cross the river "a hundred years hence." Thus a link is established between the poet and the "others" — including future readers.

In section 3, Whitman declares that neither time nor place really matter, for he is part of this generation and of many generations hence. He speaks to future generations and tells them that their experiences are not new: "I too many and many a time cross'd the river of old,/Watched the Twelfth-month sea-gulls, . . . /Saw the reflection of the summer sky in the water." He, too, saw the ships arriving, "the sailors at work," and "the flags of all nations." He, too, saw "the fires from the foundry chimneys burning high and glaringly into the night."

This third section reveals the poet's desire to transcend time, place, and distance in order to establish contact with people of future generations. His own experience is similar to that of the reader years from now.

The description of the journey on the river is very vivid. The movement of the day from morning until midnight is parallel to the movement of the poet from one side of the river to another and from the physical to the spiritual.

In section 4, Whitman declares his deep love for the cities, the river, and the people. This section is transitional and marks the beginning of the change of the poet's attitude toward men and objects. For the first time (in this poem) he becomes emotionally involved in his relationships with other people and things. The reference to the future is prophetic and anticipates the growth of spiritual kinship between the poet and the reader.

The poet, in section 5, poses a question about the relationship between himself and the generations to come. Even if there are hundreds of years between them, they are united by things which do not change. He, too, lived in Brooklyn and walked the Manhattan streets. He, too, "felt the curious abrupt questionings" stir within him. He believes that his body, his physical existence, has become a ferry uniting him with all mankind.

Thus section 5 is the central core of the poem. The poet, in seeking his own physical and spiritual identity, endeavors to unite his sensibility with that of his reader. His experience transcends the limits of the Brooklyn ferry and is universalized. His quest now becomes more intellectual than before; the "curious abrupt questionings" are no longer emotional. Wishing to suggest the quality of spiritual unification, Whitman has used the metaphor of a chemical solution: "The float forever held in solution" is the infinite ocean of spiritual life which contains the "potential" of all life. The spiritual solution is the source of one's being. The use of the term "solution" is significant because it indicates the merging of man's existence with his spirit. Spiritually, he is united with future generations and with all of mankind.

In section 6 the poet tells us that he has been engulfed by the same "dark patches" of doubt which have engulfed the reader. His best actions have appeared "blank" and "suspicious." He, too, has known "what it was to be evil" and he, too, "blabb'd, blush'd, resented, lied, stole, grudg'd,/Had guile, anger, lust, hot wishes I dared not speak." But life, finally, is what we make it — "the same old role . . . as great as we like,/Or as small as we like." The "old knot of contrariety" the poet has experienced refers to Satan and his evil influence on man, which creates the condition of contraries, of moral evil and good in human life. The poet suffered from these evil influences, as have all men. So, the poet implies, do not feel alone because you have been this way — one must accept both the pure and the impure elements of life.

In section 7, the poet, addressing his reader, says: "Closer yet I approach you." The poet is thinking as much of the reader-yet-unborn as the reader, while he reads, is now thinking of the poet. And perhaps now, though he cannot be seen, the poet is watching the reader. The poet is trying to establish a link between himself and his future readers. The link is not only of location (as on the ferry) but of thought processes as well. These thought processes will eventually lead to the mystical fusion between the poet and the reader.

In section 8, Whitman describes the beauty of the Manhattan harbor, the sunset on the river, the seagulls, and the twilight. He realizes that the bonds between himself and other people are subtle but enduring. Between himself and the person who "looks in my face" is the subtlest bond. The union between himself and others cannot be understood in ordinary terms, by teaching, or by preaching — it is more mystical and intuitive. Recalling the scene of the river and the people with whom he was associated, he evokes the spiritual bond that links man with his fellow men. The reference to fusion ("which fuses me into you now") is the basic ideal the poet sought in the beginning. The union with the reader is mystical and beyond the bounds of rational thought or philosophy.

In section 9, the poet invokes the river to flow "with the flood-tide," the clouds to shower upon him and the other passengers, and the "tall masts of Mannahatta" to stand up. He calls on everything — the bird, the sky, and the water — to keep on fulfilling their function with splendor, for everything is part of the universal life flow. The poet desires that the "eternal float of solution" should suspend itself everywhere. Physical objects, like "dumb, beautiful ministers," wait for their union with the poet's soul. Thus, at the end of the poem, Whitman addresses himself to material objects, which are also part of the life process because they are useful to man.

This section is significant in that it uses the language of incantation. The poet invokes the images of his experiences to suggest the flowing of time. The physical existence of man is like a ferry plying between the two shores of mortality and immortality. He and his fancy (his imagination) use objects to express the idea of the search for the eternal beyond the transient. This search, or the function of fancy, is exemplified by the ferry ride which moves from a point in the physical world to a destination in the spiritual world. This journey of the spirit can take place easily in a universe which is harmonious and well adjusted.

 

Themes, Motifs and Symbols

Themes

DEMOCRACY AS A WAY OF LIFE

Whitman envisioned democracy not just as a political system but as a way of experiencing the world. In the early nineteenth century, people still harbored many doubts about whether the United States could survive as a country and about whether democracy could thrive as a political system. To allay those fears and to praise democracy, Whitman tried to be democratic in both life and poetry. He imagined democracy as a way of interpersonal interaction and as a way for individuals to integrate their beliefs into their everyday lives. “Song of Myself” notes that democracy must include all individuals equally, or else it will fail.

 

In his poetry, Whitman widened the possibilities of poetic diction by including slang, colloquialisms, and regional dialects, rather than employing the stiff, erudite language so often found in nineteenth-century verse. Similarly, he broadened the possibilities of subject matter by describing myriad people and places. Like William Wordsworth, Whitman believed that everyday life and everyday people were fit subjects for poetry. Although much of Whitman’s work does not explicitly discuss politics, most of it implicitly deals with democracy: it describes communities of people coming together, and it imagines many voices pouring into a unified whole. For Whitman, democracy was an idea that could and should permeate the world beyond politics, making itself felt in the ways we think, speak, work, fight, and even make art.

THE CYCLE OF GROWTH AND DEATH

Whitman’s poetry reflects the vitality and growth of the early United States. During the nineteenth century, America expanded at a tremendous rate, and its growth and potential seemed limitless. But sectionalism and the violence of the Civil War threatened to break apart and destroy the boundless possibilities of the United States. As a way of dealing with both the population growth and the massive deaths during the Civil War, Whitman focused on the life cycles of individuals: people are born, they age and reproduce, and they die. Such poems as “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d” imagine death as an integral part of life. The speaker of “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d” realizes that flowers die in the winter, but they rebloom in the springtime, and he vows to mourn his fallen friends every year just as new buds are appearing. Describing the life cycle of nature helped Whitman contextualize the severe injuries and trauma he witnessed during the Civil War—linking death to life helped give the deaths of so many soldiers meaning.

 

THE BEAUTY OF THE INDIVIDUAL

Throughout his poetry, Whitman praised the individual. He imagined a democratic nation as a unified whole composed of unique but equal individuals. “Song of Myself” opens in a triumphant paean to the individual: “I celebrate myself, and sing myself” (1). Elsewhere the speaker of that exuberant poem identifies himself as Walt Whitman and claims that, through him, the voices of many will speak. In this way, many individuals make up the individual democracy, a single entity composed of myriad parts. Every voice and every part will carry the same weight within the single democracy—and thus every voice and every individual is equally beautiful. Despite this pluralist view, Whitman still singled out specific individuals for praise in his poetry, particularly Abraham Lincoln. In 1865, Lincoln was assassinated, and Whitman began composing several elegies, including “O Captain! My Captain!” Although all individuals were beautiful and worthy of praise, some individuals merited their own poems because of their contributions to society and democracy.

 

Motifs

LISTS

Whitman filled his poetry with long lists. Often a sentence will be broken into many clauses, separated by commas, and each clause will describe some scene, person, or object. These lists create a sense of expansiveness in the poem, as they mirror the growth of the United States. Also, these lists layer images atop one another to reflect the diversity of American landscapes and people. In “Song of Myself,” for example, the speaker lists several adjectives to describe Walt Whitman in section 24. The speaker uses multiple adjectives to demonstrate the complexity of the individual: true individuals cannot be described using just one or two words. Later in this section, the speaker also lists the different types of voices who speak through Whitman. Lists are another way of demonstrating democracy in action: in lists, all items possess equal weight, and no item is more important than another item in the list. In a democracy, all individuals possess equal weight, and no individual is more important than another.

THE HUMAN BODY

Whitman’s poetry revels in its depictions of the human body and the body’s capacity for physical contact. The speaker of “Song of Myself” claims that “copulation is no more rank to me than death is” (521) to demonstrate the naturalness of taking pleasure in the body’s physical possibilities. With physical contact comes spiritual communion: two touching bodies form one individual unit of togetherness. Several poems praise the bodies of both women and men, describing them at work, at play, and interacting. The speaker of “I Sing the Body Electric” (1855) boldly praises the perfection of the human form and worships the body because the body houses the soul. This free expression of sexuality horrified some of Whitman’s early readers, and Whitman was fired from his job at the Indian Bureau in 1865 because the secretary of the interior found Leaves of Grass offensive. Whitman’s unabashed praise of the male form has led many critics to argue that he was homosexual or bisexual, but the repressive culture of the nineteenth century prevented him from truly expressing those feelings in his work.

RHYTHM AND INCANTATION

 Many of Whitman’s poems rely on rhythm and repetition to create a captivating, spellbinding quality of incantation. Often, Whitman begins several lines in a row with the same word or phrase, a literary device called anaphora. For example, the first four lines of “When I Heard the Learn’d Astronomer” (1865) each begin with the word when. The long lines of such poems as “Song of Myself” and “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d” force readers to inhale several bits of text without pausing for breath, and this breathlessness contributes to the incantatory quality of the poems. Generally, the anaphora and the rhythm transform the poems into celebratory chants, and the joyous form and structure reflect the joyousness of the poetic content. Elsewhere, however, the repetition and rhythm contribute to an elegiac tone, as in “O Captain! My Captain!” This poem uses short lines and words, such as heart and father, to mournfully incant an elegy for the assassinated Abraham Lincoln.

Symbols

PLANTS

Throughout Whitman’s poetry, plant life symbolizes both growth and multiplicity. Rapid, regular plant growth also stands in for the rapid, regular expansion of the population of the United States. In “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d,” Whitman uses flowers, bushes, wheat, trees, and other plant life to signify the possibilities of regeneration and re-growth after death. As the speaker mourns the loss of Lincoln, he drops a lilac spray onto the coffin; the act of laying a flower on the coffin not only honors the person who has died but lends death a measure of dignity and respect. The title Leaves of Grass highlights another of Whitman’s themes: the beauty of the individual. Each leaf or blade of grass possesses its own distinct beauty, and together the blades form a beautiful unified whole, an idea Whitman explores in the sixth section of “Song of Myself.” Multiple leaves of grass thus symbolize democracy, another instance of a beautiful whole composed of individual parts. In 1860, Whitman published an edition of Leaves of Grass that included a number of poems celebrating love between men. He titled this section “The Calamus Poems,” after the phallic calamus plant.

THE SELF

Whitman’s interest in the self ties into his praise of the individual. Whitman links the self to the conception of poetry throughout his work, envisioning the self as the birthplace of poetry. Most of his poems are spoken from the first person, using the pronoun I. The speaker of Whitman’s most famous poem, “Song of Myself,” even assumes the name Walt Whitman, but nevertheless the speaker remains a fictional creation employed by the poet Whitman. Although Whitman borrows from his own autobiography for some of the speaker’s experiences, he also borrows many experiences from popular works of art, music, and literature. Repeatedly the speaker of this poem exclaims that he contains everything and everyone, which is a way for Whitman to reimagine the boundary between the self and the world. By imaging a person capable of carrying the entire world within him, Whitman can create an elaborate analogy about the ideal democracy, which would, like the self, be capable of containing the whole world.