I am the poet of the Body; And I am the poet of the Soul. The pleasures of heaven are with me, and the pains of hell are with me; The first I graft and increase upon myself -- the latter I translate into a new tongue. I am the poet of the woman the same as the man; And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man, And I say there is nothing greater than the mother of men. I chant the chant of dilation or pride; We have had ducking and deprecating about enough; I show that size is only development. Have you outstript the rest? Are you the President? It is a trifle -- they will more than arrive there, every one, and still pass on. I am he that walks with the tender and growing night; I call to the earth and sea, half-held by the night. Press close, bare-bosom'd night! Press close, magnetic, nourishing night! Night of south winds! night of the large few stars! Still, nodding night! mad, naked, summer night. Smile, O voluptuous, cool-breath'd 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 elbow'd earth! rich, apple-blossom'd earth! Smile, for your lover comes! Prodigal, you have given me love! Therefore I to you give love! O unspeakable, passionate love!
Visions of Poets
Song Cycle by Benjamin Lees, né Benjamin George Lisniansky (1924 - 2010)
5. I am the poet of the Body  [sung text not yet checked]
- by Walt Whitman (1819 - 1892), no title, appears in Song of Myself, no. 21 [author's text checked 1 time against a primary source]
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Available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):
- ITA Italian (Italiano) (Ferdinando Albeggiani) , "Rapsodia", copyright © 2008, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
9. You sea!  [sung text not yet checked]
You sea! I resign myself to you also--I guess what you mean, I behold from the beach your crooked fingers, I believe you refuse to go back without feeling of me, We must have a turn together, I undress, hurry me out of sight of the land, Cushion me soft, rock me in billowy drowse, Dash me with amorous wet, I can repay you. Sea of stretch'd ground-swells, Sea breathing broad and convulsive breaths, Sea of the brine of life and of unshovell'd yet 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. Partaker of influx and efflux I, extoller of hate and conciliation, Extoller of amies and those that sleep in each others' arms. I am he attesting sympathy, (Shall I make my list of things in the house and skip the house that supports them?) I am not the poet of goodness only, I do not decline to be the poet of wickedness also. What blurt is this about virtue and about vice? Evil propels me and reform of evil propels me, I stand indifferent, My gait is no fault-finder's or rejecter's gait, I moisten the roots of all that has grown. Did you fear some scrofula out of the unflagging pregnancy? Did you guess the celestial laws are yet to be work'd over and rectified? I find one side a balance and the antipedal side a balance, Soft doctrine as steady help as stable doctrine, Thoughts and deeds of the present our rouse and early start. This minute that comes to me over the past decillions, There is no better than it and now. What behaved well in the past or behaves well to-day is not such wonder, The wonder is always and always how there can be a mean man or an infidel.
- by Walt Whitman (1819 - 1892), no title, appears in Song of Myself, no. 22 [author's text checked 1 time against a primary source]