When was a woman waits for me written

In search of true love which nobody found, this poem is a reminder for the ongoing search. Poems are the property of their respective owners. All information has been reproduced here for educational and informational purposes to benefit site visitors, and is provided at no charge Next Poem. Previous Poem. Walt Whitman. A Woman Waits For Me. Autoplay Next Video.

Tuesday, December 31, Download image of this poem. Report this poem. This poem has not been translated into any other language yet. I would like to translate this poem. Kevin Howard 24 April Perhaps every mite has once form'd part of a sick person—yet behold!

The grass of spring covers the prairies, The bean bursts noiselessly through the mould in the garden, The delicate spear of the onion pierces upward, The apple-buds cluster together on the apple-branches, The resurrection of the wheat appears with pale visage out of its graves, The tinge awakes over the willow-tree and the mulberry-tree, The he-birds carol mornings and evenings while the she-birds sit on their nests, The young of poultry break through the hatch'd eggs, The new-born of animals appear, the calf is dropt from the cow, the colt from the mare, Out of its little hill faithfully rise the potato's dark green leaves, Out of its hill rises the yellow maize-stalk, the lilacs bloom in the dooryards, The summer growth is innocent and disdainful above all those strata of sour dead.

What chemistry! That the winds are really not infectious, That this is no cheat, this transparent green-wash of the sea which is so amorous after me, That it is safe to allow it to lick my naked body all over with its tongues, That it will not endanger me with the fevers that have deposited themselves in it, That all is clean forever and forever, That the cool drink from the well tastes so good, That blackberries are so flavorous and juicy, That the fruits of the apple-orchard and the orange-orchard, that melons, grapes, peaches, plums, will none of them poison me, That when I recline on the grass I do not catch any disease, Though probably every spear of grass rises out of what was once a catching disease.

Now I am terrified at the Earth, it is that calm and patient, It grows such sweet things out of such corruptions, It turns harmless and stainless on its axis, with such endless successions of diseas'd corpses, It distills such exquisite winds out of such infused fetor, It renews with such unwitting looks its prodigal, annual, sumptuous crops, It gives such divine materials to men, and accepts such leavings from them at last.

OF the visages of things—And of piercing through to the accepted hells beneath; Of ugliness—To me there is just as much in it as there is in beauty—And now the ugliness of human beings is acceptable to me; Of detected persons—To me, detected persons are not, in any respect, worse than undetected per- sons—and are not in any respect worse than I am myself; Of criminals—To me, any judge, or any juror, is equally criminal—and any reputable person is also—and the President is also.

OF waters, forests, hills; Of the earth at large, whispering through medium of me; Of vista—Suppose some sight in arriere, through the formative chaos, presuming the growth, fulness, life, now attain'd on the journey; But I see the road continued, and the journey ever continued; Of what was once lacking on earth, and in due time has become supplied—And of what will yet be supplied, Because all I see and know, I believe to have purport in what will yet be supplied.

OF persons arrived at high positions, ceremonies, wealth, scholarships, and the like; To me, all that those persons have arrived at, sinks away from them, except as it results to their Bodies and Souls, So that often to me they appear gaunt and naked; And often, to me, each one mocks the others, and mocks himself or herself, And of each one, the core of life, namely happiness, is full of the rotten excrement of maggots, And often, to me, those men and women pass unwit- tingly the true realities of life, and go toward false realities, And often, to me, they are alive after what custom has served them, but nothing more, And often, to me, they are sad, hasty, unwaked son- nambules, walking the dusk.

OF ownership—As if one fit to own things could not at pleasure enter upon all, and incorporate them into himself or herself; Of Equality—As if it harm'd me, giving others the same chances and rights as myself—As if it were not indispensable to my own rights that others possess the same; Of Justice—As if Justice could be anything but the same ample law, expounded by natural judges and saviors, As if it might be this thing or that thing, according to decisions.

As I sit with others, at a great feast, suddenly, while the music is playing, To my mind, whence it comes I know not, spectral, in mist, of a wreck at sea, Of the flower of the marine science of fifty generations, founder'd off the Northeast coast, and going down—Of the steamship Arctic going down, Of the veil'd tableau—Women gather'd together on deck, pale, heroic, waiting the moment that draws so close—O the moment!

O the huge sob—A few bubbles—the white foam spirting up—And then the women gone, Sinking there, while the passionless wet flows on— And I now pondering, Are those women indeed gone? Are Souls drown'd and destroy'd so? Is only matter triumphant? OF obedience, faith, adhesiveness; As I stand aloof and look, there is to me something profoundly affecting in large masses of men, following the lead of those who do not believe in men.

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American Poets Magazine. Poems Find and share the perfect poems. A Woman Waits for Me. To Think of Time 1 To think of time—of all that retrospection! To think of to-day, and the ages continued henceforward! Have you guess'd you yourself would not continue? Have you dreaded these earth-beetles? Have you fear'd the future would be nothing to you? Is to-day nothing? Is the beginningless past nothing? If the future is nothing, they are just as surely nothing. To think that the sun rose in the east!

To think that you and I did not see, feel, think, nor bear our part! To think that we are now here, and bear our part! Not a day passes—not a minute or second, without a corpse! In a rare moment of specificity for the pronoun "you" in Whitman's work, the final lines of the poem are addressed to the women who will make possible the speaker's procreative vision. Strong, healthy, unabashed, these women receive his "gushing showers" and in turn "grow fierce and athletic girls.

As such, the poem should probably be read figuratively rather than literally; that is, insemination in this instance is directed toward those capable of bringing Whitman's poetic vision into being. Although it attempts to transform the constrictions placed upon women by nineteenth-century American society, the poem ultimately fails to extricate itself from contemporary discourse. Baym, Nina. Marlene Springer. Killingsworth, M.

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