I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love

And as to you Corpse I think you are good manure, but that does not offend me,

busses,

My lovers suffocate me,

We have thus far exhausted trillions of winters and summers, There are trillions ahead, and trillions ahead of them.

I know perfectly well my own egotism,

The hiss of the surgeon’s knife, the gnawing teeth of his saw, Wheeze, cluck, swash of falling blood, short wild scream, and long, dull, tapering groan,

That is the tale of the murder of the four hundred and twelve young men.

Landscapes projected masculine

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.

What is a man anyhow? what am I? what are you?

The beards of the young men glisten’d with wet, it ran from their long hair, Little streams pass’d all over their bodies.

Twenty-eight young men bathe by the shore, Twenty-eight young men and all so friendly; Twenty-eight years of womanly life and all so lonesome.

her coarse straight locks descended upon her voluptuous limbs and reach’d to her feet.

Her father and his friends sat near cross-legged and dumbly smoking, they had moccasins to their feet and large thick blankets hanging from their shoulders, On a bank lounged the trapper, he was drest mostly in skins, his luxuriant beard and curls protected his neck

bride was a red girl,

Kindling a fire and broiling the fresh-kill’d game,

The suicide sprawls on the bloody floor of the bedroom, I witness the corpse with its dabbled hair, I note where the pistol has fallen.

as immortal and fathomless as myself, (They do not know how immortal, but I know.)

I am the mate and companion of people

Has any one supposed it lucky to be born? I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I know it.

And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.

The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,

poke-weed.

And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own, And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own, And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women my sisters and lovers, And that a kelson of the creation is love,

I have no mockings or arguments, I witness and wait.

Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary, Looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest, Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next, Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it.

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,

Do your work, and you shall reinforce yourself.

For every Stoic was a Stoic; but in Christendom where is the Christian?

Let a Stoic open the resources of man

Ask nothing of men

So use all that is called Fortune. Most men gamble with her, and gain all, and lose all

As our Religion, our Education, our Art look abroad, so does our spirit of society. All men plume themselves on the improvement of society, and no man improves.

And so the reliance on Property, including the reliance on governments which protect it, is the want of self-reliance.

He is supported on crutches, but lacks so much support of muscle.

Let a man then know his worth,

I suppose no man can violate his nature.

Their virtues are penances

you will always find those who think they know what is your duty better than you know it.

What I must do is all that concerns me, not what the people think.

For nonconformity the world whips you with its displeasure.

when life hangs heavy on their hands, that they might have a quieting draught out of Rip Van Winkle’s flagon

Having nothing to do at home

He obeyed with fear and trembling

but no dog was to be seen.

He was naturally a thirsty soul, and was soon tempted to repeat the draught. One taste provoked another; and he repeated his visits to the flagon so often that at length his senses were overpowered, his eyes swam in his head, his head gradually declined, and he fell into a deep sleep

most of them had enormous breeches

alacrity

heaved a heavy sigh when he thought of encountering the terrors of Dame Van Winkle

was to take gun in hand and stroll away into the woods.

termagant

Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle as years of matrimony rolled on.

was a strong dislike of all kinds of profitable labor.

the works of the Lord, and His wonderful power in carrying us along, preserving us

he gave me a pancake, about as big as two fingers. It was made of parched wheat, beaten, and fried in bear’s grease

Philip spake to me to make a shirt for his boy, which I did, for which he gave me a shilling. I offered the money to my master, but he bade me keep it

Psalm 137.1

“Naked came I out of my mother’s womb, and naked shall I return: the Lord gave, the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the name of the Lord.”

God

My own wound also growing so stiff

but God was with me in a wonderful manner

It is not my tongue, or pen, can express the sorrows of my heart, and bitterness of my spirit that I had at this departure:

God did not give them courage or activity to go over after us.

wigwams

squaws

I cannot but take notice of the strange providence of God in preserving the heathen.

it was very hard to get down their filthy trash

By the advantage of some brush which they had laid upon the raft to sit upon, I did not wet my foot

I wished her not to run away by any means, for we were near thirty miles

There were now besides myself nine English captives in this place (all of them children, except one woman).

viz.

I had one child dead, another in the wilderness, I knew not where, the third they would not let me come near to:

It being about six years, and five months old.

picture of death in my lap.

“your master will knock your child in the head,”

there being not the least crumb of refreshing that came within either of our mouths from Wednesday night to Saturday night

creatures

Who determines what counts as American literature?

There is a lot to be considered

What is the difference between American literature and American history?

consider what it means for literature to be “American.”