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To the Year 18891

HAVE I no weapon-word for thee—some message brief and 
  fierce?
Have I fought out and done indeed the battle? Is there no 
  shot left,
For all thy affections, lisps, scorns, manifold silliness? Nor for myself—my own rebellious self in thee?
Down, down, proud gorge!—though choking thee; Thy bearded throat and high-borne forehead to the gutter; Crouch low thy neck to eleemosynary gifts. WALT WHITMAN.

Notes

1. Reprinted under the new title "To the Pending Year" in Good-Bye My Fancy (1891). [back]

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