Read an Excerpt
Song of Myself: A Poem of Walt Whitman, an American
I celebrate myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me, as good belongs to you.
I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease, observing a spear of summer grass.
Houses and rooms are full of perfumes-the shelves are crowded with
I breathe the fragrance myself, and know it and like it,
The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it.
The atmosphere is not a perfume--it has no taste of the distillation,
it is odorless,
It is for my mouth forever--I am in love with it,
I will go to the bank by the wood, and become undisguised and naked,
I am mad for it to be in contact with me.