Spontaneous Me, Lines 1-7
Spontaneous me, Nature, The loving day, the mounting sun, the friend I am happy with, The arm of my friend hanging idly over my shoulder,
The hill-side whiten’d with blossoms of the mountain ash, The same late in autumn, the hues of red, yellow, drab, purple, and light and dark green,
The rich coverlet of the grass, animals and birds, the private untrimm’d bank, the primitive apples, the pebble-stones,
Beautiful dripping fragments, the negligent list of one after another, as I happen to call them to me or think of them.
There’s a free-wheeling ease to the opening stanza of Spontaneous Me by Walt Whitman (1819–92), as the poet and his companion saunter out into the loveliness of an autumnal landscape. There’s a beguiling sense of…
