Reviews for Selected Poems (Dover Thrift Editions)

The average rating for Selected Poems (Dover Thrift Editions) based on 2 reviews is 3 stars.

Review # 1 was written on 2009-03-27 00:00:00 John Como I have read as much I could! I have read apostrophes - long, exhaustive lists of apostrophes! I have felt for the common man I have felt for the common woman Yet I have found myself skimming, and rarely pausing. O these poems are coherent and distinctive. O they have their moments and doubtless somewhere amongst their long sentences and long stanzas there are jewels. But I now think of Whitman's contemporaries : of Robert Browning with longing, of Arnold with respect, and allow that even Tennyson may have had a more concentrated power.

Review # 2 was written on 2017-02-24 00:00:00 Michael Saam This selection of Whitman's poetry is divided into seven parts and includes the complete text of "Song of Myself"... From I... I am your voice - It was tied in you - In me it begins to talk. I celebrate myself to celebrate every man and woman alive; I loosen the tongue that was tied in them, It begins to talk out of my mouth. I celebrate myself to celebrate you: I say the same word for every man and woman alive. And I say that the soul is not greater than the body, And I say that the body is not greater than the soul. - Early Notebook Fragments of "Song of Myself", pg. 3 From II... 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 loafe and invite my soul, I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass. My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air, Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same, I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin, Hoping to cease not till death. Creeds and schools in abeyance, Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten, I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard, Nature without check with original energy. - Song of Myself, 1, pg. 11 From III... As I ebb'd with the ocean of life, As I wended the shores I know, As I walk'd where the ripples continually wash you Paumanok, Where they rustle up hoarse and sibilant, Where the fierce old mother endlessly cries for her castaways, I musing late in the autumn day, gazing off southward, Held by this electric self out of the pride of which I utter poems, Was seiz'd by the spirit that trails in the lines underfoot, The rim, the sediment that stands for all the water and all the land of the globe. Fascinated, my eyes reverting from the south, dropt, to follow those slender windrows, Chaff, straw, splinters of wood, weeds, and the sea-gluten, Scum, scales from shining rocks, leaves of salt-lettuce, left by the tide, Miles walking, the sound of breaking waves the other side of me, Paumanok there and then as I thought the old thought of likenesses, These you presented to me you fish-shaped island, As I wended the shores I know, As I walk'd with that electric self seeking types. - As I Ebb'd with the Ocean of Life, 1, pg. 126-127 From IV... Poets to come! orators, singers, musicians to come! Not-to-day is to justify me the answer what I am for, But you, a new brood, native, athletic, continental, greater than before known, Arouse! for you must justify me. I myself but write one or two indicative words for the future, I but advance a moment only to wheel and hurry back in the darkness. I am a man who, sauntering along without fully stopped, turns a casual look upon you and then averts his face, Leaving it to you to prove and define it, Expecting the main things from you. - Poets to Come, pg. 145 From V... City of orgies, walks and joys, City whom that I have lived and sun in your midst will one day make you illustrious, Not the pageant of you, not your shifting tableaus, your spectacles, repay me, Not the interminable rows of your houses, nor the ships at the wharves, Nor the processions in the streets, nor the bright windows with goods in them, Nor to converse with learn'd persons, or bear my share in the soiree or feast; Not those, but as I pass O Manhattan, your frequent and swift flash of eyes offering me love, Offering response to my own - these repay me, Lovers, continual lovers, only repay me. - City of Orgies, pg. 178 From VI... On the beach at night, Stands a child with her father, Watching the east, the autumn sky. Up through the darkness, While ravening clouds, the burial clouds, in black masses spreading, Lower sullen and fast athwart and down the sky, Amid a transparent clear belt of ether yet left in the east, Ascends large and calm the lord-star Jupiter, And nigh at hand, only a very little above, Swim the delicate sisters the Pleiades. From the beach the child holding the hand of her father, Those burial-clouds that lower victorious soon to devour all, Watching, silently weeps. Weep not, child, Weep not, my darling, With these kisses let me remove your tears, The ravening clouds shall not long be victorious, They shall not long possess the sky, they devour the stars only in apparition, Jupiter shall emerge, be patient, watch again another night, the Pleiades shall emerge, They are immortal, all those stars both silvery and golden shall shine out again, The great stars and the little ones shall shine out again, they endure, The vast immortal suns and the long-enduring pensive moons shall again shine. Then dearest child mournest thou only for Jupiter? Considerest thou alone the burial of the stars? Something there is, (With my lips soothing thee, adding I whisper, I give thee the first suggestion, the problem and indirection,) Something there is more immortal even than the stars, (Many the burials, many the days and nights, passing away,) Something that shall endure longer even than lustrous Jupiter Longer than sun or any revolving satellite, Or the radiant sisters the Pleiades. - On the Beach at Night, pg. 183-184 From VII... When the full-grown poet came, Out spake pleased Nature (the round impassive globe, with all its shows of day and night,) saying, He is mine; But out spake too the Soul of man, proud, jealous and unrec- onciled, Nay, he is mine alone; 'Then the full-grown poet stood between the two, and took each by the hand; And to-day and ever so stands, as blender, uniter, tightly hold- ing hands, Which he will never release until he reconciles the two, And wholly and joyously blends them. - When the Full-Grown Poet Came, pg. 204-205