Academy of American Poets
View Cart | Log In 
Subscribe | More Info 
Find a Poet or Poem
Advanced Search >
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Walt Whitman
Walt Whitman
Born on May 31, 1819, Walt Whitman is the author of Leaves of Grass...
More >
Want more poems?
Subscribe to our
Poem-A-Day emails.
FURTHER READING
Poems About Friendship
After the Movie
by Marie Howe
Blue Is Beautiful Amy but the Story Is So the '90s
by Farrah Field
Book Loaned to Tom Andrews
by Bobby C. Rogers
Dear Friends
by Edwin Arlington Robinson
For N & K
by Gina Myers
Friend
by Jean Valentine
Friend,
by Jean Valentine
From the Lives of My Friends
by Michael Dickman
Given
by Joanna Klink
Heaven for Helen
by Mark Doty
Heaven for Stanley
by Mark Doty
How I Am
by Jason Shinder
I Love the Hour Just Before
by Todd Boss
Mending Wall
by Robert Frost
On Gifts For Grace
by Bernadette Mayer
On the Road to the Sea
by Charlotte Mew
sisters
by Lucille Clifton
Skunk Hour
by Robert Lowell
Stanzas in Meditation
by Gertrude Stein
Suddenly
by Sharon Olds
The Armadillo
by Elizabeth Bishop
The Soul unto itself (683)
by Emily Dickinson
This Lime Tree Bower My Prison
by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
To a Friend who sent me some Roses
by John Keats
To Amy Lowell
by Eunice Tietjens
To My Oldest Friend, Whose Silence Is Like a Death
by Lloyd Schwartz
To Thomas Moore
by George Gordon Byron
Train-Mates
by Witter Bynner
Travelling
by William Wordsworth
We Have Been Friends Together
by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
You & I Belong in This Kitchen
by Juan Felipe Herrera
Your Catfish Friend
by Richard Brautigan
Related Prose
Walt Whitman Poetfan: Jan Freeman
Sponsor a Poet Page | Add to Notebook | Email to Friend | Print

Song of Myself, X

 
by Walt Whitman

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.



Larger TypeLarger Type | Home | Help | Contact Us | Privacy Policy Copyright © 1997 - 2014 by Academy of American Poets.