Published Works

Books by Whitman

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OF seeds dropping into the ground—of birth,

Of the steady concentration of America, inland, up-
ward, to impregnable and swarming places,

Of what Indiana, Kentucky, Ohio and the rest, are
to be,

Of what a few years will show there in Nebraska,
Colorado, Nevada, and the rest;

Of what the feuillage of America is the preparation
for—and of what all the sights, North, South,
East and West, are;

Of the temporary use of materials, for identity's
sake,

Of departing—of the growth of a mightier race than
any yet,

Of myself, soon, perhaps, closing up my songs by
these shores,

Of California—of Oregon—and of me journeying to
live and sing there;

Of the Western Sea—of the spread inland between it
and the spinal river,

Of the great pastoral area, athletic and feminine,

Of all sloping down there where the fresh free giver,
the mother, the Mississippi flows,

Of future men and women there—of happiness in
those high plateaus, ranging three thousand
miles, warm and cold;

Of cities yet unsurvey'd and unsuspected, (as I am
also, and as it must be;)

Of the new and good names—of the strong develop-
ments—of inalienable homesteads;

Of a free and original life there—of simple diet and
clean and sweet blood;

Of litheness, majestic faces, clear eyes, and perfect
physique there;

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Of immense spiritual results, future years, each side
of the Anahuacs;

Of these leaves, well understood there, (being made
for that area;)

Of the native scorn of grossness and gain there;

(O it lurks in me night and day—What is gain, after
all, to savageness and freedom?)

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