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Song of Myself, X

Walt Whitman 1819 (West Hills) – 1892 (Camden)

Alone far in the wilds and mountains I hunt,
Wandering amazed at my own lightness and glee,
In the late afternoon choosing a safe spot to pass the night,
Kindling a fire and broiling the fresh-kill'd game,
Falling asleep on the gather'd leaves with my dog and gun
 by my side.
 
The Yankee clipper is under her sky-sails, she cuts the
 sparkle and scud,
My eyes settle the land, I bend at her prow or shout
 joyously from the deck.
 
The boatmen and clam-diggers arose early and stopt for me,
I tuck'd my trowser-ends in my boots and went and had a
 good time;
You should have been with us that day round the chowder-
 kettle.

I saw the marriage of the trapper in the open air in the far
 west, the bride was a red girl,
Her father and his friends sat near cross-legged and dumbly
 smoking, they had moccasins to their feet and large
 thick blankets hanging from their shoulders,
On a bank lounged the trapper, he was drest mostly in skins,
 his luxuriant beard and curls protected his neck, he held
 his bride by the hand,
She had long eyelashes, her head was bare, her coarse straight
 locks descended upon her voluptuous limbs and reach'd
 to her feet.

The runaway slave came to my house and stopt outside,
I heard his motions crackling the twigs of the woodpile,
Through the swung half-door of the kitchen I saw him
 limpsy and weak,
And went where he sat on a log and led him in and assured
 him,
And brought water and fill'd a tub for his sweated body and
 bruis'd feet,
And gave him a room that enter'd from my own, and gave
 him some coarse clean clothes,
And remember perfectly well his revolving eyes and his
 awkwardness,
And remember putting plasters on the galls of his neck and
 ankles;
He staid with me a week before he was recuperated and
 pass'd north,
I had him sit next me at table, my fire-lock lean'd in the
 corner.

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Submitted on May 13, 2011

1:45 min read
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Walt Whitman

Walter "Walt" Whitman was an American poet, essayist and journalist. more…

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