“When I Heard the Learn’d Astronomer” by Walt Whitman — Reflections in AP Lit
When I heard the learn’d astronomer,
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me,
When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them,
When I was sitting heard the astronomer where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,
How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick,
Till rising and gliding out I wander’d off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars.
In response to an in-class writing prompt: Of all the literature we have read over the entire course of the course, which work had the greatest impact on you — and why?
Frankly, I do not remember when and in what context we covered this poem. I could not even find the printout of it that we were given in class and had to resort to a haphazard Google search of “astronomer poem” — a simplified interpretation which, to my surprise, yielded “When I Heard the Learn’d Astronomer” as the first result. I want to think that many fellow disorganized yet inspired English students had had the same dilemma, to which the Poetry Foundation’s extensive library came to their aid as it did mine. All I remembered about the poem was that I had felt something when reading it. I can generally appreciate most of what I have read in English class, fueled by a hazy understanding in the back of my head that some authorized group I nebulously refer to as “the literary community” heralded this novel as the pioneer of an innovative narrative style or commended this play for its insightful commentary on so-and-so issue at the time of its writing. Every so often, though, I come across a particular work that genuinely stays with me beyond a superficial understanding of its significance. I marked this moment when I re-wrote the poem in the notebook I keep in my pencil pouch for bored doodles, aimless thoughts, and jotting down the rare quote or fact that is interesting enough to be documented.
“When I Heard the Learn’d Astronomer” fell into that last category, and felt almost fated. At the time, I felt disillusioned with school, especially the science and math classes I struggled to pay attention to (coincidentally most concerned with “proofs… figures… charts and diagrams…”). Whitman’s words spoke to me as he described the experience of disconnection with the typical classroom experience, and finding solace in the more tangible, “mystical,” “perfect silence” of the natural world. The theme that most resonated with me was the poem’s reverence for nature and its surreal ability to restore your peace of mind. I firmly believe that simply existing outside in a primarily non-man-made environment is an unbeatable experience, ingrained in an evolutionary response to the outside elements that the intellectual stimulation of something like a proof — no matter how delightfully complex — can not replace. I can think of many instances in which I felt “tired and sick,” only to step outside for a moment and regain a comforting sense of reality. Nature helps me refocus on what I consider fundamental truths of life — food and water are ultimately the only material things I “need” in my life, time is a construct, I will soon become a part of the very Earth I stand on, etc. Additionally, Whitman makes the natural world sound accepting and indifferent, compared to the suffocating “applause” of the “lecture-room” that pressures you to clap with it. He describes the student “rising and gliding” as they meander into the “moist night-air.” I like the detail that nature, unlike the astronomer and the precisions required in his field, does not direct the student on how it should be experienced. A student of nature can look up at the stars “from time to time” in their leisure, that freedom only enhancing their experience of the night sky.
To be clear, I am not denouncing the entire education system when I express my love for this poem. I have been fortunate enough to be taught by teachers who work with an intrinsic motivation to teach in a way resembling the effect of the “stars” and “night-air” in the poem. Some, I am sure, may even embrace its messages. Moreover, as the abundant “applause” for the astronomer implies, one could make several valid arguments for the structure needed to teach technical subjects such as math and science adequately. However, combined with Whitman’s excellent use of language, there is something so enticingly whimsical about the world he describes outside the bounds of the astronomer’s lecture room. Each time I re-read “When I Heard the Learn’d Astronomer,” a peace similar to the one the student experiences in the second half of the poem settles in me, and I think back to my fond memories of being in nature. You can not help but wonder if the educational institution we currently ingrain in our generations’ daily life could possibly incorporate the poem’s two enlightening worlds at once — one intellectual and one natural.
