It is time to explain myself—let us stand up.

I saw the free souls of poets,
The loftiest bards of past ages strode before me,
Strange large men, long unwaked, undisclosed, were disclosed to me.
But the old usages of poets afford Walt Whitman no means sufficiently fit and free, and he rejects the old usages,
So the immortal poets of Asia and Europe have done their work and pass’d to other spheres.
A work remains—the work of surpassing all they have done.
(But take my leaves, you precedents, connect lovingly with them, for they connect lovingly with you.)

The book—that was always the thing. It seemed to be quite clear and determined that I should concentrate my powers on “Leaves of Grass”—the work of my life, begun in ripen’d youth and steadily pursued, never even for one brief hour abandoning my task—not diverting any of my means, strength, interest to the construction of anything else, of any other book.

The urge, the ardor, the unconquerable will, an imperious conviction,
The potent, felt, interior command,
The commands of my nature as total and irresistible as those which make the sea flow, or the globe revolve,
A message from the heavens stronger than words, whispering to me even in sleep—
These sped me on, my commission obeying, to question it never daring:
Serve in song,
Make the works,
Do not go into criticisms or arguments at all,
Just make full-blooded, rich, flush, natural works.

I had no notion of simply shining—of doing something brilliant, showy, to catch the popular imagination; I can say I never was bitten by that poisonous bug. But I had ambition—there were some things I wanted to do—some things I wanted to say.
I must drive on without hesitations—no apologies, no compromises—just drive on and on, no matter how rough, how dangerous the road may be. That has been my course from the first—to write what I must write—not hesitatingly but decisively.

It is out of struggle and turmoil I have written. I do not think even intelligent people know how much goes to the making of a book—worry, fret, anxiety—downright hard work—poverty—finally, nothingness! It is a story yet to be told.

My enterprise and questionings positively shaped themselves: How best can I express my own distinctive era and surroundings, America, democracy?
I saw that the trunk and centre whence the answer was to radiate must be an identical body and soul, a personality—the determin’d cartoon of personality that dominates, or rather stands behind, all of “Leaves of Grass,” like the unseen master and director of the show—which personality, after many considerations and ponderings, I deliberately settled should be myself—indeed could not be any other.

Anyone, to get hold of me—all I have written—would see that all my work is autobiographical. This autobiography finds its center and explication in “Leaves of Grass.” The book is autobiographic at bottom, not in the usual sense, but in a sense that makes it strikingly mine—
A young man appears in the Western world, the New World,
Is born in the free air, near the sea,
Lives an early life in the early life of a big city,
Absorbs its meanings, the past, history,
Masses of men—whores, saints, sailors, laborers, carpenters, pilots,
Goes liberal-footed everywhere,
Has no erudition—reads books, reads men, travels,
Takes everywhere, every sign, a sign to him,
Every treasure his treasure—nothing denied,
Lives the life of a war—passes through camps, enters the hospitals,
Using gifts of penetration—accumulates, accumulates,
Then lets fly—lets fly.

“Leaves Of Grass”—for them, for them have I lived, in them my work is done. I suppose there are four hundred leaves of grass, one after another, contradictory; each song of mine—each utterance in the past—having its long, long history.
Some of the main features and themes of “Leaves of Grass” may be designated as individuality, inevitable law, physical health, open air nature, democracy, comradeship, the indissoluble union, good will to other lands, respect to the past, grandeur of labor, perfect state equality, with modernness like a canopy over all, and a resumption of the old Greek ideas of nudity and the divinity of the body, with the Hebrew sacredness of paternity, while the war, the sea, the night, and poems of death are also frequently recurring themes.  

My book is terribly fragmentary; I have felt to make it a succession of growths, like the rings of a tree. But it consists of the ejaculations of one identity—held together by that iron band—individuality, personality. That is me. I was very eager to get my life according to a certain plan—to get my book written so, according to a certain plan—I was very resolute about that. I never lost my hold of the book, never yielding control for an instant to anyone. 

So “Leaves Of Grass” all have a compact unity.  It certainly is what I alone—no other—designed it should be. I set out with a design as thoroughly considered as an architect’s plan for a cathedral. The scheme was there from the start—the rest followed, building with reference to the ensemble, always bearing in mind the combination of the whole, to fully justify the parts when finished.

I chose the fundamentals for “Leaves of Grass”—heart, spirit: the initiating passions of character—chose that it should stand for, be, a human being, with all the impulses, desires, aspirations, gropings, triumphs, that go with human life, comprehended at no time by its parts, at all times by its unity.
But the book needs each of its parts to keep its perfect unity. You can detach poems from the book and wonder why they were written. But if you see them in their place in the book you know why I wrote them. 

“Leaves of Grass” does not lend itself to piecemeal quotation, can only find its reflection in ensemble, ensemble. It is only to be rightly construed by and within its own atmosphere and essential character, all of its pages and pieces coming strictly under that.
It is atmosphere, unity—it is never to be set down in traits but as a symphony—my life and recitative, fitful as motley-tongues of flame, inseparably twined and merged in one—combining all. I want it that the latest poem embraces the first, as the first the last, each claim, ideal, line, by all lines, claims, ideals, temper’d—each right and wish by other wishes, rights.

“Leaves of Grass” must be called not objective, but profoundly subjective; “I know” runs through them as a perpetual refrain. I will not reject any theme or subject because the treatment is too personal.

I am told it is mainly autobiographic, and even egotistic after all. I am accused of egotism. What good is it to argue about egotism?—the unavoidable egotism, which I finally accept, and am contented so.
I have been accused of blowing my own horn; maybe I’m guilty—just a little bit. But a certain amount of egotism is necessary; one’s egotism carries him a great way towards endurance. It is so with me.

The egotism that backs me is in part the explanation of my work, of “Leaves of Grass.” But for having it, I never could have endured the strain—passed unharmed through the fire—especially in the years when “Leaves of Grass” stood alone, unfriended but by me. I have stuck and stuck, through a something within me which my enemies would think hopeless conceit. I had to say big things about myself in order to keep in a good frame of mind until the world caught up. A man has sometimes to whistle very loud to keep a stiff upper lip.

I know as well as anyone that my poems are ambitious and egotistical. But I hope the foundations are far deeper. I call it personal force. No other man has expressed his personality so strongly in his poems. It is of the first necessity in my life that this personal prowess should be brought prominently forward—should be thrown unreservedly into our work.
A writer, to reflect life, nature—be true to himself, to his art—must throw identity, overmastering identity, personality, verve, into his pages. To throw a live man into a book—you, your friend, me, anybody else—that is the background, the heart-pulse of “Leaves of Grass.” First be yourself what you would show in your poem—such is my example and inferred rebuke to the schools of poets.

I have here various editions of my own writings, and sell them upon request.
Do you think I have written all this for my own good?
Well, perhaps I have, but not in the way you imagine—
I do not say these things for a dollar or to fill up the time while I wait for a boat.
The model of a new man, the modern man, I sing,
The pages of the lesson having writ to train myself.

As they draw to a close, I do not consider “Leaves of Grass” to be rounded and complete. But so far as it can be I think it is complete now, finish’d to the end of its opportunities and powers. I have done the work, I have thrown my life into the work, honestly, without stint, giving the book all, all, all.

After 33 years of hackling at it, all times and moods of my life, fair weather and foul, all parts of the land, and peace and war, young and old—a varied jaunt of years, with many halts and gaps of intervals, wherein more than once the last hour had apparently arrived, and we seem’d certainly going down—yet reaching port in a sufficient way through all discomfitures at last. The wonder to me is that I have carried it on to accomplish as essentially as it is.

Though I see well enough its numerous deficiencies and faults, though I think I could improve much upon it now, I don’t worry about how much better it ought to be. I am content to let it rest, to let it go as it is, without the least wish to meddle with it any more.

I consider “Leaves of Grass” and its theory experimental—because a good deal, after all, was an experiment, under the urge of powerful, quite irresistible, perhaps wilful influences, to see how such things will eventually turn out.
I slipped out, avoided the beaten paths, tried a way of my own—that was my experiment. Has it failed or succeeded? Have I fulfilled my ambition? God knows. Here I am, about stepping out, with the case still undecided.

I have said from the first that “Leaves of Grass” was bound to be either a howling success—the most glorious of triumphs—or the most lamentable, stupendous failure. I confess my brain-felt and heart-felt inability to decide which I think it is likely to be. If it deserves to live it will do so; if not, it will go to the devil, as it ought.
It still has a place, a season, I am convinced. What is that place? that season? I don’t know—I give up guessing. Here, today, at the end, with the book closed or closing, I take with easy nonchalance the chances of its present reception, and, through all misunderstandings and distrusts, the chances of its future reception.

A hundred years from now will W. W. be popularly rated a great poet—or will he be forgotten? A mighty ticklish question—which can only be left for a hundred years hence—perhaps more than that. Time alone can absolutely test my poems, or anyone’s. I may go down into history, if I go at all, as a merrymaker wearing the cap and bells rather than a prophet.

Whether to be charged as a fool, or as reckoned victor, I retain my heart’s and soul’s unmitigated faith in their own original literary plans. I feel more settled than ever to adhere to my own theory, and exemplify it.  I am sure my choice, at least for me, was well-taken—was, finally, the only path possible for me.
Candidly and dispassionately reviewing all my intentions, I feel that they were creditable, and I accept the result, whatever it may be. I glory in the surrender—have no regrets, have nothing to recall, nothing to wish reversed. 

I have had my say entirely my own way, and put it unerringly on record. Whether lost at last, unaccepted, unread—whether the world listens or turns from it—there at least it is, direct from my hands, I alone being responsible for the making of it, unstopp’d and unwarp’d by any influence outside the soul within me. That of itself is something high in the nature of reward, if we must have reward. There is everything to tempt a man to stray—little to hold him steadfast—yet to stick must at last be its own satisfaction.

The writing and rounding of “Leaves of Grass” has been the comfort of my life since it was originally commenced; my book has been to me the reason for being. If the book does not contain exhaustively within itself, and forever emanate when read, the atmosphere of normal joy and exhilaration which enveloped the making of every page—the joy, sweet joy, through many a year, in them—it will be a failure in the most important respect.
But I should be willing to jaunt the whole life over again, with all its worldly failures and serious detriments, deficiencies, and denials, to get the happiness of retraveling that part of the road.

Returning upon my poems,
Reading my own songs after a long interval,
(Sorrow and death familiar now,)
Pondering, considering, lingering long,
I am astonished to find myself capable of feeling so much—
I with my leaves and songs, trustful, admirant,
As a father to his father going takes his children along with him.
I am very, very much satisfied and relieved that the thing, in the permanent form it now is, looks as well and reads as well (to my own notion) as I anticipated,
I like it, I think, first rate.

With the great stars looking on,
And the duo looking of Saturn and ruddy Mars,
Ere closing the book, what pride! what joy!
To find them standing so well the test of death and night,
And the duo of Saturn and Mars!

NEXT: THE POET’S PURPOSE

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