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Queries to My Seventieth Year

per.00122.006per.00122.006_cropped [WRITTEN FOR THE HERALD.]

Queries to My Seventieth Year.1

Approaching, nearing, curious, Thou dim, uncertain spectre—bringest thou life 
  or death?
Strength, weakness, blindness, more paralysis 
  and heavier?
Or placid skies and sun? Wilt stir the waters 
  yet?
Or haply cut me short for good? Or leave me 
  here as now,
Dull, parrot-like and old with crack'd voice 
  harping, screeching?
WALT WHITMAN.

Notes

1. Reprinted in the "Sands at Seventy" annex to Leaves of Grass (1888). [back]

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