Really you need someone to do your homework because your to dumb to do it yourself or to lazy?
Have fun scary lady you make me laugh
But much hypocrite going on there

Lol you're coming up with random shit as comebacks because you just got proved the fuck wrong.
No i've been swamped with hw all day and will be up to 3 am doing more... I'm doing hw right now... i just would like one less thing to do, it'd help me a lot. Cool? great.

copy paste that shit so easy u can find anything on web

If she randomly decided to type in some of what I said on Google, I'm very much FUCKED.

From Calamus
“When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d”
“When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d- is an elegy on the death of Abraham Lincoln, though it never mentions the president by name. Like most elegies, it develops from the personal (the death of Lincoln and the poet’s grief) to the impersonal (the death of “all of you” and death itself); from an intense feeling of grief to the thought of reconciliation. The poem, which is one of the finest Whitman ever wrote, is a dramatization of this feeling of loss. This elegy is grander and more touching than Whitman’s other two elegies on Lincoln’s death, “0 Captain! My Captain!” and “Hush’d Be the Camps To-day.” The form is elegiac but also contains elements found in operatic music, such as the aria and recitative. The song of the hermit thrush, for example, is an “aria.”

Abraham Lincoln was shot in Washington, D.C., by Booth on April 14, 1865, and died the following day. The body was sent by train from Washington to Springfield, Illinois. As it crossed the continent, it was saluted by the people of America. Whitman has not only men and women but even natural objects saluting the dead man.

The first cycle of the poem, comprising sections 1-4, presents the setting in clear perspective. As spring returns, the lilacs blossom, and the planet Venus “nearly dropp’d in the western sky,” the poet mourns the loss “of him I love.” He mourns the “powerful western fallen star” now covered by “black murk” in the “tearful night,” and he is “powerless” and “helpless” because the cloud around him “will not free my soul.” He observes a lilac bush, is deeply affected by its perfume, and believes that “every leaf [is] a miracle.” He breaks off a small branch with “heart-shaped Leaves.” A shy, solitary thrush, like a secluded hermit, sings a song which is an expression of its inmost grief. It sings “death’s outlet song of life.”

This first section of the poem introduces the three principal symbols of the poem—the lilac, the star, and the bird. They are woven into a poetic and dramatic pattern. The meaning of Whitman’s symbols is neither fixed nor constant. The star, Venus, is identified with Lincoln, generally, but it also represents the poet’s grief for the dead. Lilacs, which are associated with everreturning spring, are a symbol of resurrection, while its heartshaped Leaves symbolize love. The purple color of the lilac, indicating the passion of the Crucifixion, is highly suggestive of the violence of Lincoln’s death. The bird is the symbol of reconciliation with death and its song is the soul’s voice. “Death’s outlet song of life” means that out of death will come renewed life. Death is described as a “dark mother” or a “strong deliveress,” which suggests that it is a necessary process for rebirth. The emotional drama in the poem is built around this symbolic framework. The continual recurrence of the spring season symbolizes the cycle of life and death and rebirth. The words “ever-returning spring,” which occur in line 3 and are repeated in line 4, emphasize the idea of rebirth and resurrection. The date of Lincoln’s assassination coincided with Easter, the time of Christ’s resurrection. These two elements provide the setting to the poem in time and space.

The second stanza of the poem describes the poet’s intense grief for the dead. Each line begins with “O,” an exclamation which is like the shape of a mouth open in woe.

The second cycle of the poem comprises sections 5-9. It describes the journey of the coffin through natural scenery and industrial cities, both representing facets of American life. The thrush’s song in section 4 is a prelude to the journey of the coffin which will pass “over the breast of the spring” through cities, woods, wheat fields, and orchards. But “in the midst of life we are in death,” as it says in the Book of Common Prayer, and now the cities are “draped in black” and the states, like “crape-veil’d women,” mourn and salute the dead. Somber faces, solemn voices, and mournful dirges mark the journey across the American continent.

To the dead man, the poet offers “my sprig of lilac,” his obituary tribute. The poet brings fresh blossoms not for Lincoln alone, but for all men. He chants a song “for you 0 sane and sacred death” and offers flowers to “the coffins all of you 0 death.”

The poet now addresses the star shining in the western sky: “Now I know what you must have meant.” Last month the star seemed as if it “had something to tell” the poet. Whitman imagines that the star was full of woe “as the night advanced” until it vanished “in the netherward black of the night.” Whitman calls upon the bird to continue singing. Yet the poet momentarily lingers on, held by the evening star, “my departing comrade.”

The symbols are retained throughout this section. The poet bestows, as a mark of affection, a sprig of lilac on the coffin. The association of death with an object of growing life is significant. The star confides in the poet—a heavenly body identifies itself with an earthly being. The star is identified with Lincoln, and the poet is still under the influence of his personal grief for the dead body of Lincoln, and not yet able to perceive the spiritual existence of Lincoln after death. The song of the hermit thrush finally makes the poet aware of the deathless and the spiritual existence of Lincoln.

In the third cycle of the poem, sections 10-13, the poet wonders how he shall sing “for the large sweet soul that has gone.” How shall he compose his tribute for the “dead one there I loved”? With his poem he wishes to “perfume the grave of him I love.” The pictures on the dead president’s tomb, he says, should be of spring and sun and Leaves, a river, hills, and the sky, the city dense with dwellings, and people at work—in short, “all the scenes of life.” The “body and soul” of America will be in them, the beauties of Manhattan spires as well as the shores of the Ohio and the Missouri rivers—all “the varied and ample land.” The “gray-brown bird” is singing “from the swamps” its “loud human song” of woe. The song has a liberating effect on the poet’s soul, although the star still holds him, as does the mastering odor” of the lilac.

In this cycle the description of natural objects and phenomena indicates the breadth of Lincoln’s vision, and the “purple” dawn, “delicious” eve, and “welcome” night suggest the continuous, endless cycle of the day, which, in turn, symbolizes Lincoln’s immortality.

Sections 14-16 comprise a restatement of the earlier themes and symbols of the poem in a perspective of immortality. The poet remembers that one day while he sat in the peaceful but “unconscious scenery of my land,” a cloud with a “long black trail” appeared and enveloped everything. Suddenly he “knew death.” He walked between “the knowledge of death” and “the thought of death.” He fled to the bird, who sang “the carol of death.” The song of the thrush follows this passage. It praises death, which it describes as “lovely,” “soothing,” and “delicate.” The “fathomless universe” is adored “for life and joy” and “sweet love.” Death is described as a “dark mother always gliding near with soft feet.” To her, the bird sings a song of “fullest welcome.” Death is a “strong deliveress” to whom “the body gratefully” nestles.

The thrush’s song is the spiritual ally of the poet. As the bird sings, the poet sees a vision: “And I saw askant the armies.” He sees “battle-corpses” and the “debris of all the slain soldiers.” These dead soldiers are happy in their resting places, but their parents and relatives continue to suffer because they have lost them. The suffering is not of the dead, but of the living.

The coffin has now reached the end of its journey. It passes the visions,” the “song of the hermit bird,” and the “tallying song” of the poet’s soul. “Death’s outlet song” is heard, “sinking and fainting,” and yet bursting with joy. The joyful psalm fills the earth and heaven. As the coffin passes him, the poet salutes it, reminding himself that the lilac blooming in the dooryard will return each spring. The coffin has reached its resting place in “the fragrant pines and the cedars dusk and dim.” The star, the bird, and the lilac join with the poet as he bids goodbye to Lincoln, his “comrade, the dead I loved so well.”

The poet’s realization of immortality through the emotional conflict of personal loss is the principal theme of this great poem, which is a symbolistic dramatization of the poet’s grief and his ultimate reconciliation with the truths of life and death.

Have fun getting an F mon that paper then don't think anyone wants to help your ugly ass

i say you google it and fucking change some damn words around. ive passed numerous powerpoint projects doing this. teachers looked it up found it and didnt do shit. because why, i changed a few things which then in turn makes it mine. gotta love copyright laws eh.

Walt Whitman is both a major poet and an outstanding personality in the history of American literature. He rose from obscurity to monumental fame, coming to be recognized as a national figure. His achievement is great, although it has been sometimes obscured by unfair, hostile criticism—or, conversely, by extravagant praise. He is essentially a poet, though other aspects of his achievement—as philosopher, mystic, or critic—have also been stressed.

Walt Whitman was born in West Hills, Long Island, New York on May 31, 1819. His father, Walter, was a laborer, carpenter, and house builder. His mother, Louisa, was a devout Quaker. In 1823, the family moved to Brooklyn, where Walt had his schooling (1825-30). From 1830 to 1836 he held various jobs, some of them on newspapers in Brooklyn and Manhattan. From 1836 to 1841 he was a schoolteacher in Long Island, despite the paucity of his own education. The division of Whitman’s early life between town and country later enabled him to depict both environments with equal understanding and sympathy. He also traveled extensively throughout America, and so could appreciate the various regions of the land.

Between 1841 and 1851 Whitman edited various periodicals and newspapers. It was, apparently, during this period that he began to compose the poems which were later published as Leaves of Grass.

In 1862 Walt’s brother George was wounded in the Civil War. When Whitman traveled to Virginia to visit him, he saw large numbers of the wounded in hospitals. The Civil War was a major event in Whitman’s career, stirring both his imagination and his sensibility and making him a dresser of spiritual wounds as well as of physical ones as he worked as a volunteer in hospitals. Lincoln’s assassination (1865) also moved Whitman deeply, and several poems bear testimony of his intense grief.

In 1865 Whitman was fired from his post in the Department of the Interior in Washington because of the alleged indecency of Leaves of Grass. He was hired by the Attorney General’s office and remained there until 1873 when he suffered a mild paralytic stroke which left him a semi-invalid. In Whitman’s last years (1888-92), he was mostly confined to his room in the house which he had bought in Camden, New Jersey. Two friends, Horace Traubel and Thomas B. Harried, attended him. He died on March 26, 1892. Thus ended the lifelong pilgrimage of the Good Gray Poet (as his contemporary, critic W. D. O’Connor, called him), an immortal in American literature.

Whitman grew into almost a legendary figure, due largely to the charm and magnetism of his personality. Contemporary critics described him as a “modern Christ.” His face was called “serene, proud, cheerful, florid, grave; the features, massive and handsome, with firm blue eyes.” His head was described as “magestic, large, Homeric, and set upon his strong shoulders with the grandeur of ancient sculpture.” These descriptions tend to make Whitman appear almost a mythical personage. But he was very much alive.

Whitman was a being of paradoxes. His dual nature, a profound spirituality combined with an equally profound animality, puzzled even his admirers. John A. Symonds, an English writer, was puzzled by undercurrents of emotional and sexual abnormality in the Calamus poems and questioned Whitman on this issue. Whitman’s reply (August 19, 1890) is interesting: “My life, young manhood, mid-age, times South, etc., have been jolly bodily, and doubtless open to criticism. Though unmarried I have had six children—two are dead—one living Southern grandchild—fine boy, writes to me occasionally—circumstances... have separated me from intimate relations.” But no trace of any children of Whitman’s has been found, and it is not unlikely that he merely invented them to stave off further questions.

Whitman was truly a representative of his age and reflected its varied crosscurrents. His poetry shows the impact of the romantic idealism which reached its zenith in the years before the Civil War and also shows something of the scientific realism which dominated the literary scene after 1865. Whitman harmonizes this romanticism and realism to achieve a true representation of the spirit of America. The growth of science and technology in his time affected Whitman deeply, and he responded positively to the idea of progress and evolution. American patriotism in the nineteenth century projected the idea of history in relation to cosmic philosophy: it was thought that change and progress form part of God’s design. The historical process of America’s great growth was therefore part of the divine design, and social and scientific developments were outward facets of real spiritual progress. Whitman shared in this idea of mystic evolution. Leaves of Grass symbolizes the fulfillment of American romanticism as well as of the sense of realistic revolt against it.

Whitman visualized the role of a poet as a seer, as a prophetic genius who could perceive and interpret his own times and also see beyond time. The ideal poet, thought Whitman, portrays the true reality of nature and comprehends and expresses his genuine self. He holds a mirror to his self and to nature; he also illuminates the meaning and significance of the universe and man’s relation to it. An ideal poet, he believed, is the poet of man first, then of nature, and finally of God; these elements are united by the poet’s harmonious visionary power. Though the poet is concerned primarily with the world of the spirit, he accepts science and democracy within his artistic fold, since these are the basic realities of the modern world, especially that of nineteenth-century America. Recognition of the values of science and democracy is indirectly an acknowledgement of the reality of modern life. Whitman’s ideal poet is a singer of the self; he also understands the relation between self and the larger realities of the social and political world and of the spiritual universe. He intuitively comprehends the great mysteries of life—birth, death, and resurrection—and plays the part of a priest and a prophet for mankind.

Leaves of Grass, ever since its first publication in 1855, has been a puzzling collection of poems. It inspires, it enthralls, and it tantalizes-and yet, the problems it poses are numerous and varied. Whitman so completely identified himself with Leaves (“This is no book,/Who touches this touches a man”) that critics have tried to find reflections of Whitman’s own life in all the imagery and symbolism of the poems. Whitman did explore and express many aspects of his personality in Leaves. It was he himself who created the illusion that he and his poems were identical. Through these works, he found full expression as a poet—and as a man.

The first edition (1855) of Leaves of Grass consisted of ninety-five pages. The author’s name did not appear, but his picture was included. By the time the second edition was published in 1856, the volume consisted of 384 pages, with a favorable review by Emerson printed on the back cover. For this edition, Whitman not only added to the text, he also altered the poems which had previously been published. The third edition appeared in 1860 and contained 124 new poems. The fourth edition, published in 1867, was called the “workshop” edition because so much revision had gone into it. It contained eight new poems. The fifth edition (1871) included the new poem “Passage to India.” The sixth edition, in two volumes, appeared in 1876. The seventh edition was published in 1881 and is widely accepted as an authoritative edition today, although the eighth and ninth editions are equally important. The last, which is also called the “deathbed” edition because it was completed in the year of Whitman’s death (1892), represents Whitman’s final thoughts. The text used here will be that of the last, or “deathbed,” edition of 1892. Only the most significant poems of each section of Leaves of Grass will be discussed.

When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd
1
WHEN lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd,
And the great star early droop'd in the western sky in the night,
I mourn'd, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.

Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring,
Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the west,
And thought of him I love.

2
O powerful western fallen star!
O shades of night - O moody, tearful night!
O great star disappear'd - O the black murk that hides the star!
O cruel hands that hold me powerless - O helpless soul of me!
O harsh surrounding cloud that will not free my soul.


3
In the dooryard fronting an old farm-house near the white-wash'd
palings,
Stands the lilac-bush tall-growing with heart-shaped leaves of rich
green,
With many a pointed blossom rising delicate, with the perfume strong
I love,
With every leaf a miracle - and from this bush in the dooryard,
With delicate-color'd blossoms and heart-shaped leaves of rich green,
A sprig with its flower I break.

4
In the swamp in secluded recesses,
A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song.

Solitary the thrush,
The hermit withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements,
Sings by himself a song.

Song of the bleeding throat,
Death's outlet song of life, (for well dear brother I know,
If thou wast not granted to sing thou wouldist surely die.)

5
Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities,
Amid lanes and through old woods, where lately the violets peep'd
from the ground, spotting the gray debris,
Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes, passing the
endless grass,
Passing the yellow-spear'd wheat, every grain from its shroud in the
dark-brown fields uprisen,
Passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the orchards,
Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave,
Night and day journeys a coffin.

6
Coffin that passes through lanes and streets,
Through day and night with the great cloud darkening the land,
With the pomp of the inloop'd flags with the cities draped in black,
With the show of the States themselves as of crape-veil'd women
standing,
With processions long and winding and the flambeaus of the night,
With the countless torches lit, with the silent sea of faces and the
unbared heads,
With the waiting depot, the arriving coffin, and the sombre faces,
With dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising
strong and solemn,
With all the mournful voices of the dirges pour'd around the coffin,
The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs-where amid these
you journey,
With the tolling tolling bells' perpetual clang,
Here, coffin that slowly passes,
I give you my sprig of lilac.

7
(Nor for you, for one alone,
Blossoms and branches green to coffins all I bring,
For fresh as the morning, thus would I chant a song for you O sane
and sacred death.

All over bouquets of roses,
O death, I cover you over with roses and early lilies,
But mostly and now the lilac that blooms the first,
Copious I break, I break the sprigs from the bushes,
With loaded arms I come, pouring for you,
For you and the coffins all of you O death.)

8
O western orb sailing the heaven,
Now I know what you must have meant as a month since I walk'd,
As I walk'd in silence the transparent shadowy night,
As I saw you had something to tell as you bent to me night after
night,
As you droop'd from the sky low down as if to my side, (while the
other stars all look'd on,)
As we wander'd together the solemn night, (for something I know not
what kept me from sleep,)
As the night advanced, and I saw on the rim of the west how full you
were of woe,
As I stood on the rising ground in the breeze in the cool
transparent night,
As I watch'd where you pass'd and was lost in the netherward black
of the night,
As my soul in its trouble dissatisfied sank, as where you sad orb,
Concluded, dropt in the night, and was gone.

9
Sing on there in the swamp,
O singer bashful and tender, I hear your notes, I hear your call,
I hear, I come presently, I understand you,
But a moment I linger, for the lustrous star has detain'd me,
The star my departing comrade holds and detains me.

10
O how shall I warble myself for the dead one there I loved?
And how shall I deck my song for the large sweet soul that has gone?
And what shall my perfume be for the grave of him I love?

Sea-winds blown from east and west,
Blown from the Eastern sea and blown from the Western sea, till
there on the prairies meeting,
These and with these and the breath of my chant,
I'll perfume the grave of him I love.

11
O what shall I hang on the chamber walls?
And what shall the pictures be that I hang on the walls,
To adorn the burial-house of him I love?
Pictures of growing spring and farms and homes,
With the Fourth-month eve at sundown, and the gray smoke lucid and
bright,
With floods of the yellow gold of the gorgeous, indolent, sinking
sun, burning, expanding the air,
With the fresh sweet herbage under foot, and the pale green leaves
of the trees prolific,
In the distance the flowing glaze, the breast of the river, with a
wind-dapple here and there,
With ranging hills on the banks, with many a line against the sky,
and shadows,
And the city at hand with dwellings so dense, and stacks of
chimneys,
And all the scenes of life and the workshops, and the workmen
homeward returning.

12
Lo, body and soul - this land,
My own Manhattan with spires, and the sparkling and hurrying tides,
and the ships,
The varied and ample land, the South and the North in the light,
Ohio's shores and flashing Missouri,
And ever the far-spreading prairies cover'd with grass and corn.

Lo, the most excellent sun so calm and haughty,
The violet and purple morn with just-felt breezes,
The gentle soft-born measureless light,
The miracle spreading bathing all, the fulfill'd noon,
The coming eve delicious, the welcome night and the stars,
Over my cities shining all, enveloping man and land.

13
Sing on, sing on you gray-brown bird,
Sing from the swamps, the recesses, pour your chant from the bushes,
Limitless out of the dusk, out of the cedars and pines.

Sing on dearest brother, warble your reedy song,
Loud human song, with voice of uttermost woe.

O liquid and free and tender!
O wild and loose to my soul - O wondrous singer!
You only I hear - yet the star holds me, (but will soon depart,)
Yet the lilac with mastering odor holds me.

14
Now while I sat in the day and look'd forth,
In the close of the day with its light and the fields of spring, and
the farmers preparing their crops,
In the large unconscious scenery of my land with its lakes and
forests,
In the heavenly aerial beauty, (after the perturb'd winds and the
storms,)
Under the arching heavens of the afternoon swift passing, and the
voices of children and women,
The many-moving sea-tides, and I saw the ships how they sail'd,
And the summer approaching with richness, and the fields all busy
with labor,
And the infinite separate houses, how they all went on, each with
its meals and minutia of daily usages,
And the streets how their throbbings throbb'd, and the cities pent-
lo, then and there,
Falling upon them all and among them all, enveloping me with the
rest,
Appear'd the cloud, appear'd the long black trail,
And I knew death, its thought, and the sacred knowledge of death.

Then with the knowledge of death as walking one side of me,
And the thought of death close-walking the other side of me,
And I in the middle as with companions, and as holding the hands of
companions,
I fled forth to the hiding receiving night that talks not,
Down to the shores of the water, the path by the swamp in the
dimness,
To the solemn shadowy cedars and ghostly pines so still.

And the singer so shy to the rest receiv'd me,
The gray-brown bird I know receiv'd us comrades three,
And he sang the carol of death, and a verse for him I love.

From deep secluded recesses,
From the fragrant cedars and the ghostly pines so still,
Came the carol of the bird.

And the charm of the carol rapt me,
As I held as if by their hands my comrades in the night,
And the voice of my spirit tallied the song of the bird.

Come lovely and soothing death,
Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving,
In the day, in the night, to all, to each,
Sooner or later delicate death.

Prais'd be the fathomless universe,
For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious,
And for love, sweet love - but praise! praise! praise!
For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding death.

Dark mother always gliding near with soft feet,
Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome?
Then I chant it for thee, I glorify thee above all,
I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come
unfalteringly.

Approach strong deliveress,
When it is so, when thou hast taken them I joyously sing the dead,
Lost in the loving floating ocean of thee,
Laved in the flood of thy bliss O death.

From me to thee glad serenades,
Dances for thee I propose saluting thee, adornments and feastings
for thee,
And the sights of the open landscape and the high-spread shy are
fitting,
And life and the fields, and the huge and thoughtful night.

The night in silence under many a star,
The ocean shore and the husky whispering wave whose voice I know,
And the soul turning to thee O vast and well-veil'd death,
And the body gratefully nestling close to thee.

Over the tree-tops I float thee a song,
Over the rising and sinking waves, over the myriad fields and the
prairies wide,
Over the dense-pack'd cities all and the teeming wharves and ways,
I float this carol with joy, with joy to thee O death.

15
To the tally of my soul,
Loud and strong kept up the gray-brown bird,
With pure deliberate notes spreading filling the night.

Loud in the pines and cedars dim,
Clear in the freshness moist and the swamp-perfume,
And I with my comrades there in the night.

While my sight that was bound in my eyes unclosed,
As to long panoramas of visions.

And I saw askant the armies,
I saw as in noiseless dreams hundreds of battle-flags,
Borne through the smoke of the battles and pierc'd with missiles I
saw them,
And carried hither and yon through the smoke, and torn and bloody,
And at last but a few shreds left on the staffs, (and all in
silence,)
And the staffs all splinter'd and broken.

I saw battle-corpses, myriads of them,
And the white skeletons of young men, I saw them,
I saw the debris and debris of all the slain soldiers of the war,
But I saw they were not as was thought,
They themselves were fully at rest, they suffer'd not,
The living remain'd and suffer'd, the mother suffer'd,
And the wife and the child and the musing comrade suffer'd,
And the armies that remain'd suffer'd.

16
Passing the visions, passing the night,
Passing, unloosing the hold of my comrades' hands,
Passing the song of the hermit bird and the tallying song of my
soul,
Victorious song, death's outlet song, yet varying ever-altering
song,
As low and wailing, yet clear the notes, rising and falling,
flooding the night,
Sadly sinking and fainting, as warning and warning, and yet again
bursting with joy,
Covering the earth and filling the spread of the heaven,
As that powerful psalm in the night I heard from recesses,
Passing, I leave thee lilac with heart-shaped leaves,
I leave thee there in the door-yard, blooming, returning with
spring.

I cease from my song for thee,
From my gaze on thee in the west, fronting the west, communing with
thee,
O comrade lustrous with silver face in the night.

Yet each to keep and all, retrievements out of the night,
The song, the wondrous chant of the gray-brown bird,
And the tallying chant, the echo arous'd in my soul,
With the lustrous and drooping star with the countenance full of
woe,
With the holders holding my hand nearing the call of the bird,
Comrades mine and I in the midst, and their memory ever to keep, for
the dead I loved so well,
For the sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and lands-and this for
his dear sake,
Lilac and star and bird twined with the chant of my soul,
There in the fragrant pines and the cedars dusk and dim.