Walt Whitman was a unique and still misunderstood poet and philosopher. A Leaves of Grass is Whitman’s only collection of poetry and his life’s work. It contains 396 poems.
It contains 396 poems. Though it was first published in 1855. Walt Whitman spent most of his professional life writing and rewriting Leaves of Grass, revising it multiple times until his death.
The powerfully humanistic and timeless statement that permeates his entire body of work takes on a new context in an age of increasing single truths and media massages.

Whitman’s poetry is read slowly and absorbed slowly.
Almost everyone reads something different, as if his thoughts are destined for a time that has not yet arrived. I feel a strong magnetizing force from his verses that permeates the consciousness of my breath as Whitman tried (whether consciously or subconsciously) to contain the energy of the entire universe by experiencing and permeating it through all its dimensions.

Whitman himself wrote:
“That which is simplest, cheapest, nearest, easiest, is I, I who try my fortune, who give myself away to get more back, I dash myself to give myself to the first who reaches out for me, I do not ask heaven to come down for my sake, I give it away generously myself for ever.”

One of his thoughts that characterizes Witman’s view of the world and humanity:
“This is how you should act: Love the earth and the sun and the beasts, despise wealth, give alms to anyone who asks for them, plead for fools and fools, give your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, do not argue about God, be patient and forgiving with people, do not bow down to the known or the unknown or to man or men, deal honestly with strong uneducated persons and mothers from families, read these pages in the open air at every season of every year, take up all that you have been taught in school or church, or what books have told you, forsake all that hurts your soul, and you yourself will be a great poem, and attain the richest fluency, not only of words, but of the quiet lines of lips and face and lashes and every movement of your body. “

Excerpts from Whitman’s A Leaves of Grass of grass.

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.

I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journeywork of the stars,
And the pismire is equally perfect, and a grain of sand, and the egg of the wren,
And the tree-toad is a chef-d’ouvre for the highest,
And the running blackberry would adorn the parlors of heaven,
And the narrowest hinge in my hand puts to scorn all machinery,
And the cow crunching with depressed head surpasses any statue,
And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels,
And I could come every afternoon of my life to look at the farmer’s girl boiling her iron tea-kettle and baking shortcake.

The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me…
he complains of my gab and my loitering.
I too am not a bit tamed . . . . I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.

A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child? . . . . I do not know what it is any more than he.
I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven.

I am not an earth nor an adjunct of an earth,
I am the mate and companion of people,
all just as immortal and fathomless as myself;

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 freshkilled game,
Soundly falling asleep on the gathered leaves,
my dog and gun by my side.

This is the grass that grows wherever the land is and the water is,
This is the common air that bathes the globe.

Smile O voluptuous coolbreathed earth!
Earth of the slumbering and liquid trees!
Earth of departed sunset! Earth of the mountains misty-topt!
Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon just tinged with blue!
Earth of shine and dark mottling the tide of the river!
Earth of the limpid gray of clouds brighter and clearer for my sake!
Far-swooping elbowed earth! Rich apple-blossomed earth!
Smile, for your lover comes!

Sea of stretched ground-swells!
Sea breathing broad and convulsive breaths!
Sea of the brine of life! Sea of unshovelled and always-ready graves!
Howler and scooper of storms! Capricious and dainty sea!
I am integral with you . . . . I too am of one phase and of all phases.

I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journeywork of the stars,
And the pismire is equally perfect, and a grain of sand, and the egg of the wren,
And the tree-toad is a chef-d’ouvre for the highest,
And the running blackberry would adorn the parlors of heaven,
And the narrowest hinge in my hand puts to scorn all machinery,
And the cow crunching with depressed head surpasses any statue,
And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels,
And I could come every afternoon of my life to look at the farmer’s girl boiling her iron tea-kettle and baking shortcake.

You may read in many languages and read nothing about it;
You may read the President’s message and read nothing about it there,
Nothing in the reports from the state department or treasury department . . . . or in the daily papers, or the weekly papers,
Or in the census returns or assessors’ returns or prices current or any accounts of stock.

The sun and stars that float in the open air . . . . the appleshaped earth and we upon it . . . . surely the drift of them is something grand;
I do not know what it is except that it is grand, and that it is happiness,
And that the enclosing purport of us here is not a speculation, or bon-mot or reconnoissance,
And that it is not something which by luck may turn out well for us, and without luck must be a failure for us,
And not something which may yet be retracted in a certain contingency.

The earth recedes from me into the night, I saw that it was beautiful .

Peace is always beautiful,
The myth of heaven indicates peace and night.
The myth of heaven indicates the soul;
The soul is always beautiful . . . . it appears more or it appears less . . . . it comes or lags behind,
It comes from its embowered garden and looks pleasantly on itself and encloses the world;

Who degrades or defiles the living human body is cursed,
Who degrades or defiles the body of the dead is not more cursed

Great is goodness;
I do not know what it is any more than I know what health is . . . . but I know it is great.
Great is wickedness . . . . I find I often admire it just as much as I admire goodness:
Do you call that a paradox? It certainly is a paradox.
The eternal equilibrium of things is great, and the eternal overthrow of things is great,
And there is another paradox.
Great is life . . and real and mystical . . wherever and whoever,
Great is death . . . . Sure as life holds all parts together, death holds all parts together;
Sure as the stars return again after they merge in the light, death is great as life.