Carol of Words
1 EARTH, round, rolling, compact-suns, moons, animals-all these are words to be said; Watery, vegetable, sauroid advances-beings, premonitions, lispings of the future, Behold! these are vast words to be said. Were you thinking that
Sleepers, The
1 I WANDER all night in my vision, Stepping with light feet, swiftly and noiselessly stepping and stopping, Bending with open eyes over the shut eyes of sleepers, Wandering and confused, lost to myself,
Walt Whitman
1 I CELEBRATE myself; And what I assume you shall assume; For every atom belonging to me, as good belongs to you. I loafe and invite my Soul; I lean and loafe at my
World Below the Brine, The
THE world below the brine; Forests at the bottom of the sea-the branches and leaves, Sea-lettuce, vast lichens, strange flowers and seeds-the thick tangle, the openings, and the pink turf, Different colors, pale gray
Gliding Over All
GLIDING o’er all, through all, Through Nature, Time, and Space, As a ship on the waters advancing, The voyage of the soul-not life alone, Death, many deaths I’ll sing. 5
We Two Boys Together Clinging
WE two boys together clinging, One the other never leaving, Up and down the roads going-North and South excursions making, Power enjoying-elbows stretching-fingers clutching, Arm’d and fearless-eating, drinking, sleeping, loving, No law less than
By Broad Potomac's Shore
1 BY broad Potomac’s shore-again, old tongue! (Still uttering-still ejaculating-canst never cease this babble?) Again, old heart so gay-again to you, your sense, the full flush spring returning; Again the freshness and the odors-again
One Song, America, Before I Go
ONE song, America, before I go, I’d sing, o’er all the rest, with trumpet sound, For thee—the Future. I’d sow a seed for thee of endless Nationality; I’d fashion thy Ensemble, including Body and
Voices
NOW I make a leaf of Voices-for I have found nothing mightier than they are, And I have found that no word spoken, but is beautiful, in its place. O what is it in
As I Sat Alone by Blue Ontario's Shores
1 AS I sat alone, by blue Ontario’s shore, As I mused of these mighty days, and of peace return’d, and the dead that return no more, A Phantom, gigantic, superb, with stern visage,
From Pent-up Aching Rivers
FROM pent-up, aching rivers; From that of myself, without which I were nothing; From what I am determin’d to make illustrious, even if I stand sole among men; From my own voice resonant-singing the
Thought
OF what I write from myself-As if that were not the resumé; Of Histories-As if such, however complete, were not less complete than the preceding poems; As if those shreds, the records of nations,
Mystic Trumpeter, The
1 HARK! some wild trumpeter-some strange musician, Hovering unseen in air, vibrates capricious tunes to-night. I hear thee, trumpeter-listening, alert, I catch thy notes, Now pouring, whirling like a tempest round me, Now low,
To a Certain Cantatrice
HERE, take this gift! I was reserving it for some hero, speaker, or General, One who should serve the good old cause, the great Idea, the progress and freedom of the race; Some brave
Trickle, Drops
TRICKLE, drops! my blue veins leaving! O drops of me! trickle, slow drops, Candid, from me falling-drip, bleeding drops, From wounds made to free you whence you were prison’d, From my face-from my forehead