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To the Year 1889
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]