Selections from "Song of Myself"

 
The following selections from "Song of Myself" are taken from the two most often taught versions of Leaves of Grass, the first edition of 1855 and the so-called "Deathbed Edition" of 1891-92.  Students and scholars are encouraged, however, to consider all versions of Whitman's poem, to understand it as an evolving work, functioning variously in the ever-shifting structures of the six distinct editions of Leaves. These editions are available online in searchable, electronic form within The Walt Whitman Hypertext Archive. 

from the 1855 edition:

    The runaway slave came to my house and stopped outside,
    I heard his motions crackling the twigs of the woodpile,
    Through the swung half-door of the kitchen I saw him limpsey and weak,
    And went where he sat on a log, and led him in and assured him,
    And brought water and filled a tub for his sweated body and bruised feet,
    And gave him a room that entered 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 passed north,
    I had him sit next me at table . . . . my firelock leaned in the corner.
from the 1891-92 edition:
    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 piasters 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.

 

from the 1855 edition:

    The negro holds firmly the reins of his four horses . . . . the block swags underneath
       on its tied-over chain,
    The negro that drives the huge dray of the stoneyard . . . . steady and tall he stands
       poised on one leg on the stringpiece,
    His blue shirt exposes his ample neck and breast and loosens over his hipband,
    His glance is calm and commanding . . . . he tosses the slouch of his hat away from
       his forehead,
    The sun falls on his crispy hair and moustache . . . . falls on the black of his polish'd
       and perfect limbs.

    I behold the picturesque giant and love him . . . . and I do not stop there,
    I go with the team also.

from the 1891-92 edition:
    The negro holds firmly the reins of his four horses, the block swags
       underneath on its tied-over chain,
    The negro that drives the long dray of the stone-yard, steady and
       tall he stands pois'd on one leg on the string-piece,
    His blue shirt exposes his ample neck and breast and loosens over
       his hip-band,
    His glance is calm and commanding, he tosses the slouch of his hat
       away from his forehead,
    The sun falls on his crispy hair and mustache, falls on the black of
       his polish'd and perfect limbs.

    I behold the picturesque giant and love him, and I do not stop
       there,
    I go with the team also.

 

from the 1855 edition:

    The disdain and calmness of martyrs,
    The mother condemned for a witch and burnt with dry wood, and her children
       gazing on;
    The hounded slave that flags in the race and leans by the fence, blowing and
       covered with sweat,
    The twinges that sting like needles his legs and neck,
    The murderous buckshot and the bullets,
    All these I feel or am.

    I am the hounded slave . . . . I wince at the bite of the dogs,
    Hell and despair are upon me . . . . crack and again crack the marksmen,
    I clutch the rails of the fence . . . . my gore dribs thinned with the ooze of my skin,
    I fall on the weeds and stones,
    The riders spur their unwilling horses and haul close,
    They taunt my dizzy ears . . . . they beat me violently over the head with their
       whip-stocks.

from the 1891-92 edition:
    The disdain and calmness of martyrs,
    The mother of old, condemn'd for a witch, burnt with dry wood, her
       children gazing on,
    The hounded slave that flags in the race, leans by the fence,
       blowing, cover'd with sweat,
    The twinges that sting like needles his legs and neck, the murderous
       buckshot and the bullets,
    All these I feel or am.

    I am the hounded slave, I wince at the bite of the dogs,
    Hell and despair are upon me, crack and again crack the marksmen,
    I clutch the rails of the fence, my gore dribs, thinn'd with the
       ooze of my skin,
    I fall on the weeds and stones,
    The riders spur their unwilling horses, haul close,
    Taunt my dizzy ears and beat me violently over the head with
       whip-stocks.