(Shall I make my list of things in the house and skip the house that supports them?) Fetch stonecrop mixt with cedar and branches of lilac, This is the lexicographer, this the chemist, this made a grammar of the old cartouches, These mariners put the ship through dangerous unknown seas. Of the turbid pool that lies in the autumn forest, Of the moon that descends the steeps of the soughing twilight, Toss, sparkles of day and dusk—toss on the black stems that decay in the muck, I perceive that the ghastly glimmer is noonday sunbeams reflected, And debouch to the steady and central from the offspring great or small. It is a trifle, they will more than arrive there every one, and still pass on. I keep as delicate around the bowels as around the head and heart, Seeing, hearing, feeling, are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle. I follow you whoever you are from the present hour, My words itch at your ears till you understand them. It alone is without flaw, it alone rounds and completes all, Hurrah for positive science! I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars, And the pismire is equally perfect, and a grain of sand, and the egg of the wren, And the tree-toad is a chef-d’œuvre for the highest, And the running blackberry would adorn the parlors of heaven, And the narrowest hinge in my hand puts to scorn all machinery, And the cow crunching with depress’d head surpasses any statue, And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels. are you the President? Were mankind murderous or jealous upon you, my brother, my sister? There is that in me—I do not know what it is—but I know it is in me. hankering, gross, mystical, nude; How is it I extract strength from the beef I eat? (This day I am jetting the stuff of far more arrogant republics.) I CELEBRATE myself, and sing myself, And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I celebrate myself, and sing myself, And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you. It cannot fail the young man who died and was buried, Nor the young woman who died and was put by his side, Nor the little child that peep’d in at the door, and then drew back and was never seen again, Nor the old man who has lived without purpose, and feels it with bitterness worse than gall, Nor him in the poor house tubercled by rum and the bad disorder, Nor the numberless slaughter’d and wreck’d, nor the brutish koboo call’d the ordure of humanity, Nor the sacs merely floating with open mouths for food to slip in, Nor any thing in the earth, or down in the oldest graves of the earth, Nor any thing in the myriads of spheres, nor the myriads of myriads that inhabit them, Nor the present, nor the least wisp that is known. But I know it will in its turn prove sufficient, and cannot fail. I concentrate toward them that are nigh, I wait on the door-slab. Faithful and friendly the arms that have help’d me. Wherever he goes men and women accept and desire him, They desire he should like them, touch them, speak to them, stay with them. Get an answer for '"I Celebrate Myself" is the first section of Whitman's poem "Song of Myself." There's no way to fully summarize this poem, because there is so much in the poem. Press close bare-bosom’d night—press close magnetic nourishing night! Voices of the interminable generations of prisoners and slaves, Voices of the diseas’d and despairing and of thieves and dwarfs, And of the threads that connect the stars, and of wombs and of the father-stuff, And of the rights of them the others are down upon, Of the deform’d, trivial, flat, foolish, despised, Voices of sexes and lusts, voices veil’d and I remove the veil, Voices indecent by me clarified and transfigur’d. My knowledge my live parts, it keeping tally with the meaning of all things, Happiness, (which whoever hears me let him or her set out in search of this day.) Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems? Folks are around me, but they are no household of mine.

now I see it is true, what I guess’d at, And again as I walk’d the beach under the paling stars of the morning. It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow’d wilds, I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun, I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags. Wider and wider they spread, expanding, always expanding, My sun has his sun and round him obediently wheels, He joins with his partners a group of superior circuit, And greater sets follow, making specks of the greatest inside them. The young mechanic is closest to me, he knows me well, The woodman that takes his axe and jug with him shall take me with him all day, The farm-boy ploughing in the field feels good at the sound of my voice, In vessels that sail my words sail, I go with fishermen and seamen and love them. They all come to the headland to witness and assist against me.

I do not say these things for a dollar or to fill up the time while I wait for a boat, (It is you talking just as much as myself, I act as the tongue of you, Tied in your mouth, in mine it begins to be loosen’d.) Our foe was no skulk in his ship I tell you, (said he,) His was the surly English pluck, and there is no tougher or truer, and never was, and never will be; Along the lower’d eve he came horribly raking us. I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love, If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles. Blind loving wrestling touch, sheath’d hooded sharp-tooth’d touch!