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.
Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropped,
Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we
may see and remark, and say Whose?
Or I guess the grass is itself a child. . . .the produced babe
of the vegetation.
Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow
zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the
same, I receive them the same.
And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.
Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them;
It may be you are from old people and from women, and
from offspring taken soon out of their mother's laps,
And here you are the mother's laps.
This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old
mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.
O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues!
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths
for nothing.
I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men
and women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring
taken soon out of their laps.
What do you think has become of the young and old men?
What do you think has become of the women and
children?
They are alive and well somewhere;
The smallest sprouts show there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait
at the end to arrest it,
And ceased the moment life appeared.
All goes onward and outward. . . .and nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and
luckier.
I love how it uses grass to explain the circle of life. He explains that those who die (their beards, their hair, the young or the old) nurture and feed the grass to grow and hence life continues around and around never ending and never waisting anything symbolising no ending only a new beginning. All that is lost can be re sewn, giving life to the grass and forming why and what it stands for an might be. Beautiful
After a long reading, one thing is clear from this specific poem, the child is Whitman himself and deliberately wants to communicate a truth....... They are alive and well somewhere; The smallest sprouts show there is really no death, And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it, And ceased the moment life appeared. Here the asker and the answerer....both the poet plays within a single conscious. Nice.
Grass is given such a beautiful description by Walt Whitman - the superb green creation.
THREE: It celebrates the beauty of existence and encourages us to embrace both life and death as integral parts of our journey. TOP Marks!
TWO: By observing the grass, we can learn valuable lessons about existence and our place in the world. This poem invites readers to contemplate life, mortality, and the shared experiences that bind us together.
ONE: This excellent poem explores several themes, including life, death, nature, spirituality, and innocence. The grass, with its universal presence, becomes a metaphor for this interconnectedness.
Much needed read tonight, arising upon unknown changes in my life - feels like a death, but all-knowing tells me its abreast of a new life. Beautiful prose,
I was wondering after the grass is plucked why then does it's color remain and it's form not instantly stiff'n. it can even still can be woven.