XVII

Estes são de facto os pensamentos de todos os homens em todas as épocas e lugares, não foram criados por mim,
Se não são teus tanto como meus, nada ou quase nada são,
Se não são o enigma e a solução, nada são,
Se não são igualmente próximos e distantes, nada são.
Esta é a erva que cresce onde houve terra e água,
Este é o ar comum que banha o globo.

Walt Whitman
Canto de mim mesmo
Assírio & Alvim, 1992
Tradução de José Agostinho Baptista

walt whitman

walt whitman
1819 - 1892

"se não estiver num lugar, procura-me noutro.
algures estarei à tua espera."

Song of myself

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.

Houses and rooms are full of perfumes—the
[ shelves are crowded with perfumes;
I breathe the fragrance myself, and know it and
[ like it;
The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I
[ shall not let it.

The atmosphere is not a perfume—it has no taste
[ of the distillation—it is odorless;
It is for my mouth forever—I am in love with it;
I will go to the bank by the wood, and become
[ undisguised and naked;
I am mad for it to be in contact with me.

The smoke of my own breath;
Echoes, ripples, buzz’d whispers, love-root,
[ silk-thread, crotch and vine;
My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my
[ heart, the passing of blood and air through
[ my lungs;
The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of
[ the shore, and dark-color’d sea-rocks,
[ and of hay in the barn;
The sound of the belch’d words of my voice,
[ words loos’d to the eddies of the wind;
A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching
[ around of arms;
The play of shine and shade on the trees as the
[ supple boughs wag;
The delight alone, or in the rush of the streets,
[ or along the fields and hill-sides;
The feeling of health, the full-noon trill,
[ the song of me rising from bed and
[ meeting the sun.


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
[ dropt,
Bearing the owner’s name someway in the
[ corners, that we may see and remark,
[ and say,
Whose?

The blab of the pave, the tires of carts, sluff of
[ boot-soles, talk of the promenaders;
The heavy omnibus, the driver with his
[ interrogating thumb, the clank of the shod
[ horses on the granite floor;
The snow-sleighs, the clinking, shouted jokes,
[ pelts of snowballs;
The hurrahs for popular favorites, the fury of
[ rous’d mobs;
The flap of the curtain’d litter, a sick man
[ inside, borne to the hospital;
The meeting of enemies, the sudden oath, the
[ blows and fall;
The excited crowd, the policeman with his star,
[ quickly working his passage to the centre of
[ the crowd;
The impassive stones that receive and return so
[ many echoes;
What groans of over-fed or half-starv’d who fall
[ sun-struck, or in fits;
What exclamations of women taken suddenly,
[ who hurry home and give birth to babes;
What living and buried speech is always vibrating
[ here—what howls restrain’d by decorum;
Arrests of criminals, slights, adulterous offers
[ made, acceptances, rejections with convex
[ lips;
I mind them or the show or resonance of them —
[ I come again and again.

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 tramp a perpetual journey,
My signs are a rain-proof coat, good shoes, and a
[ staff cut from the woods; 1200
No friend of mine takes his ease in my chair;
I have no chair, no church, no philosophy;
I lead no man to a dinner-table, library, or
[ exchange;
But each man and each woman of you I lead
[ upon a knoll,
My left hand hooking you round the waist,
My right hand pointing to landscapes of
[ continents, and a plain public road.

Not I—not any one else, can travel that road
[ for you,
You must travel it for yourself.

It is not far—it is within reach;
Perhaps you have been on it since you were born,
[ and did not know;
Perhaps it is every where on water and on land.

Shoulder your duds, dear son, and I will mine,
[ and let us hasten forth,
Wonderful cities and free nations we shall fetch
[ as we go.

If you tire, give me both burdens, and rest the
[ chuff of your hand on my hip,
And in due time you shall repay the same service
[ to me;
For after we start, we never lie by again.



Walt Whitman

When i heard at the close of day

When I heard at the close of the day how my name had been
receiv’d with plaudits in the capitol, still it was not a
happy night for me that follow’d;
And else, when I carous’d, or when my plans were accomplish’d,
still I was not happy;
But the day when I rose at dawn from the bed of perfect health,
refresh’d, singing, inhaling the ripe breath of autumn,
When I saw the full moon in the west grow pale and disappear
in the morning light,
When I wander’d alone over the beach, and undressing, bathed,
laughing with the cool waters, and saw the sun rise,
And when I thought how my dear friend, my lover, was on his
way coming, O then I was happy;
O then each breath tasted sweeter – and all that day my food
nourish’d me more – and the beautiful day pass’d well,
And the next came with equal joy – and with the next, at evening,
came my friend;
And that night, while all was still, I heard the waters roll
slowly continually up the shores,
I heard the hissing rustle of the liquid and sands, as directed to
me, whispering, to congratulate me,
For the one I love most lay sleeping by me under the same cover
in the cool night,
In the stillness, in the autumn moonbeams, his face was inclined
toward me,
And his arm lay lightly around my breast – and that night I
was happy.



Walt Whitman

O Captain! My Captain!

1

O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

2

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills;
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.

3

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.



Walt Whitman
Leaves of Grass