Leaves of Grass

by Walt Whitman Narrated by Robin Field

Overview

One of the great innovative figures in American letters, Walt Whitman created a daring new kind of poetry that became a major force in world literature. His poems have been woven into the very fabric of the American character and have continued to provide inspiration to people and poets for generations.

Leaves of Grass is Whitman's masterpiece, written in a pure, uninhibited style and combining sensual and mystical sensibilities. Ralph Waldo Emerson, whose essay “The Poet” inspired the work, praised it, saying*“I find it the most extraordinary piece of wit and wisdom America has yet contributed.”*Self-published in 1855, it was repeatedly expanded and revised by Whitman throughout the rest of his life. This recording follows the final, most complete edition which appeared in 1892, the year of Whitman's death.

Among the poems in the collection are “Song of Myself,” “I Sing the Body Electric,” and “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd,” Whitman's elegy to the assassinated president Abraham Lincoln.

Editorial Reviews

Booknews

A selection of the writings of Whitman from the volumes , , , , , , , , , , , , and others. Annotation c. by Book News, Inc., Portland, Or.

From the Publisher

"Whitman's best poems have that permanent quality of being freshly painted, of not being dulled by the varnish of the years." —Malcolm Cowley

Product Details

BN ID:	2940169665376
Publisher:	Blackstone Audio, Inc.
Publication date:	05/01/2009
Edition description:	Unabridged

Read an Excerpt

One's Self I Sing

One's-Self I sing, a simple separate person,
Yet utter the word Democratic, the word En-Masse.

Of physiology from top to toe I sing,
Not physiognomy alone nor brain alone is worthy for the Muse, I say the Form complete is worthier far,
The Female equally with the Male I sing.

Of Life immense in passion, pulse, and power,
Cheerful, for freest action form'd under the laws divine,
The Modern Man I sing.

---

As I Ponder'd in Silence

As I ponder'd in silence,
Returning upon my poems, considering, lingering long,
A Phantom arose before me with distrustful aspect,
Terrible in beauty, age, and power,
The genius of poets of old lands,
As to me directing like flame its eyes,
With finger pointing to many immortal songs,
And menacing voice, What singest thou? it said,
Know'st thou not there is hut one theme for ever-enduring bards?
And that is the theme of War, the fortune of battles,
The making of perfect soldiers.

Be it so, then I answer'd.
I too haughty Shade also sing war, and a longer and greater one than any,
Waged in my book with varying fortune, with flight, advance and retreat, victory deferr'd and wavering,
(Yet methinks certain, or as good as certain, at the last,) the field the world,
For life and death., for the Body and for the eternal Soul,
Lo, I too am come, chanting the chant of battles,
I above all promote brave soldiers.

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