The hounded slave that flags in the race, leans by the fence, blowing, cover'd with sweat,
The twinges that sting like needles his legs and neck, the murderous buckshot and the bullets—
All these I feel or am.
I am the hounded slave, I wince at the bite of the dogs;
Hell and despair are upon me, crack and again crack the marksman;
I clutch the rails of the fence, my gore dribs, thinn'd with the ooze of my skin;
I fall on the weeds and stones.
The riders spur their unwilling horses, haul close.
Taunt my dizzy ears and beat me violently over the head with whip stocks.
Agonies are one of my changes of garments.
I do not ask the wounded person how he feels; I myself become the wounded person;
My hurts turn livid upon me as I lean on a cane and observe.
The twinges that sting like needles his legs and neck, the murderous buckshot and the bullets—
All these I feel or am.
I am the hounded slave, I wince at the bite of the dogs;
Hell and despair are upon me, crack and again crack the marksman;
I clutch the rails of the fence, my gore dribs, thinn'd with the ooze of my skin;
I fall on the weeds and stones.
The riders spur their unwilling horses, haul close.
Taunt my dizzy ears and beat me violently over the head with whip stocks.
Agonies are one of my changes of garments.
I do not ask the wounded person how he feels; I myself become the wounded person;
My hurts turn livid upon me as I lean on a cane and observe.
This is the method of Whitman: imaginative contemplation of the object, which identifies him with the object. It does not suggest comparison with the method of Longfellow or of Tennyson. It reminds one rather of the imaginative contemplation practised by mediæval saints, which brought out in hands and brow the marks of the Crucifixion. The vitality and validity of Whitman's report is not that of an experience observed but rather that of an experience repeated.
But Whitman lives for another reason which is worth dwelling upon for the sake of young poets
