Song Of Myself, IX Poem by Walt Whitman

Song Of Myself, IX

Rating: 4.4


The big doors of the country barn stand open and ready,
The dried grass of the harvest-time loads the slow-drawn wagon,
The clear light plays on the brown gray and green intertinged,
The armfuls are pack'd to the sagging mow.

I am there, I help, I came stretch'd atop of the load,
I felt its soft jolts, one leg reclined on the other,
I jump from the cross-beams and seize the clover and timothy,
And roll head over heels and tangle my hair full of wisps.

COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Michael Walker 12 March 2020

A willingness to help in manual labour on a farm is in itself poetic. To be in the moment.

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Dr Antony Theodore 14 May 2019

The clear light plays on the brown gray and green intertinged, The armfuls are pack'd to the sagging mow. Walt Whitman's greatness. thank u. tony

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Walt Whitman

Walt Whitman

New York / United States
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