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my Captain! our fearful trip is done.

Leave you not the little spot Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. O Captain!

my Captain! rise up and hear the bells! Rise up!

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still: My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse

But I, with silent trade, Walk the spot my Captain lies, In this and in "President Lincoln's Funeral

O CAPTAIN, MY CAPTAIN! O Captain, my Captain!

O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain, my Captain, rise up and hear the bells.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse

Exult O shores, and ring O bells, But I with mournful tread Walk the deck my Captain lies, To analyze

Here it is copied from [the] volume before us:— O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! O Captain! my Captain!

Leave you not the little spot, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. O Captain!

my Captain!

My captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse

But I with mournful tread Walk the spot my Captain lies, Compare with this, for poetic or pathetic feeling

There are passages in the lines entitled 'Captain, My Captain,' and in the war-lyric commencing 'Beat

my captain! our fearful trip is done!

Leave you not the little spot Where on the deck my captain lies, Fallen Cold and Dead. O captain!

my captain! rise up and hear the bells! Rise up!

My captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still; My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse

But I, with silent tread, Walk the spot; my captain lies Fallen cold and dead.

my Captain!

O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies Fallen cold and dead. O Captain!

my Captain!

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse

But I with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, The most prejudiced will not deny that that

captain!

Leave you not the little spot Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.

O captain, my captain, rise up and hear the bells; Rise up, for you the flag is flung, for you the bugle

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm—he has no pulse

But I, with silent tread Walk the spot my captain lies We have quoted enough, we think, even in these

What I experience or portray shall go from my composition without a shred of my composition.

You shall stand by my side to look in the mirror with me."

I lie in the night air in my red shirt… the pervading hush is for my sake.

We close with him: the yards entangled… the masts touched: My captain lashed fast with his own hands.

I laughed content when I heard the voice of my little captain— `We have not struck,' he composedly cried

Dozens of pages of his rhythmic prose are not worth "My Captain," which among all his compositions comes

If Whitman, after the same length of time, proves more fortunate, it will be because he wrote "My Captain

He explains his inspiration thus: Speech is the twin of my vision, it is unequal to measure itself, It

He explains the limit of his happiness: I merely stir, press, feel with my fingers, and am happy, To

touch my person to some one else's is about as much as I can stand .

Whenever he does this he writes lines that will live—notably, his "O Captain, my Captain," inspired by

the army hospitals, and his noble tribute to Lincoln (not so tender as the really rhythmic verses "My

Captain"), are things for young Americans to study.

describes himself well enough in the lines, I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable — , I sound my

He says (p. 31): Clear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not my soul.

His tribute to Abraham Lincoln (p. 262), beginning "O Captain! my Captain!"

Grass" will remain a real contribution to the thought of America, and some of the additional pieces, "My

Captain, O My Captain," "Song of the Banner at Daybreak," "Out of the Cradle, Endlessly Rocking," once

are famous everywhere; and, though later efforts have been less happy, the one exquisite song, "O, Captain

My Captain!" written on the death of Lincoln, would make him one of our honored poets forever.

future," "You do not understand me, you cannot understand me, but I can wait hundreds of years for my

— The words of my book nothing, the drift of it everything.

"Not objecting to special revelations, considering a curl of smoke or a hair on the back of my hand just

Y.) and My Life on It as Child and Young Man…Printing Office—Old Brooklyn…Lafayette…Broadway Sights…My

I have been exercised deeply about it my whole life.)

Again he was ask'd to yield, this time by a rebel captain.

The rebel captain then shot him—but at the same instant he shot the captain.

From today I enter upon my 64th year.

Bless the Lord,O my soul!

my special word to thee. Who can be a companion of thy course!

lengthening shadows, prepare my starry nights.

my Captain! our fearful trip is done.

O,the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.

I wish to see my benefactor, and have felt much like striking my tasks and visiting New York to pay you

my respects.

The air tastes good to my palate.

Was't charged against my chants they had forgotten art?

Another song on the death of Lincoln, "Oh Captain! My Captain!"

its Dantesque horror, and then, brooding over brotherhood, union, democracy, sang 'Leaves of Grass,' 'My

Captain,' 'Calamus,' and all that me quoque which forms the essential germ of the Whitman gospel: egotism

There is a lawless saying, fit only for the wise, but full of meaning for poets and great captains,—

People who know absolutely nothing of his writing, either prose or verse, who have not read even "O Captain

, My Captain," do not hesitate to assail him, to excoriate him, to blackguard him with a vehemence which

I will also want my utterances to be in spirit poems of the morning.

I have wished to put the complete union of the states in my songs without any preference or partiality

Then the simile of my friend, John Burroughs, is entirely true, 'his glove is a glove of silk, but the

few pieces which are marked by the "piano-tune" quality that he derides—the true and tender lyric of "My

Captain" and the fine poem on "Ethiopia Saluting the Colors."

by the indolent waves, I am exposed, cut by bitter and poisoned hail Steeped amid honeyed morphine , my

darkness Our vessel riddled and slowly sinking—preparations to pass to the one we had conquered— The captain

"O my brave soul! O farther, farther sail! O daring joy, but safe!

) For that, O God—be it my latest word — here on my knees, Old, poor, and paralysed—I thank thee.

"My terminus near, The clouds already closing in upon me, The voyage balk'd, the course disputed, lost

, I yield my ships to .

"My hands, my limbs, grow nerveless; My brain feels rack'd, bewilder'd; Let the old timbers part I will

Earth of the limpid gray of clouds brighter and clearer for my sake! Far-swooping elbowed earth!

darkness , Our vessel riddled and slowly sinking…preparations to pass to the one we had conquered, The captain

'My foothold is tenon'd and mortis'd in granite; I laugh at what you call dissolution; And I know the

, my Captain,' 'When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloomed.'

What I experience or portray shall go from my composition without a shred of my composition.

You shall stand by my side and look in the mirror with me.'

place with my own day here.'

though momentary view of them, and then of their course on and on southeast, till gradually fading—(my

Moreover, just as his one successful lyrical poem, "My Captain," is enough to disprove all his theories

earth, she cried—I charge you, lose not my sons!

’d; And you trees, down in your roots, to bequeath to all future trees, My dead absorb—my young men’s

coffin that slowly passes, I give you my sprig of lilac.

And how shall I deck my song for the large sweet soul that has gone?

And what shall my perfume be, for the grave of him I love?

"Song of my Cid" is an epic poem of the mid-12th century and the earliest surviving work of Spanish literature

puto translates from Latin to "I am a human being: I regard nothing of human concern as foreign to my

puto translates from Latin to "I am a human being: I regard nothing of human concern as foreign to my

"So here I sit gossiping in the early candle-light of old age—I and my book—casting backward glances

over our travelled road…That I have not gained the acceptance of my own time but have fallen back on

I had my choice when I commenced.

I present my tribute, drop my bit of laurel into the still warm, firm hand of the victorious singer.

These snowy hairs, my feeble arm, my frozen feet, For them thy faith, thy rule, I take and grave it to

Whitman defended himself by reversing his previous commentary and writing "My Tribute to Four Poets"

bit of pathos—indubitably human—in my eye, confess now am I not a man and a brother?"

place, with my own day, here."

my dwell- dwelling .)"

'O the life of my senses and flesh, transcending my senses and flesh.'

my South! O quick mettle, rich blood, impulse and love! good and evil! O all dear to me!"

my South!O quick mettle, rich blood, impulse and love! good and evil! O all dear to me!"

last yawp, which (the review) you were frank enough to print in your last issue, emboldens me to speak my

Last Winter I got on skates, my first appearance before an icy audience for fifteen years.

U. is the poet of my concern, her suggestion to that effect was a strong point in favor of Mr.

s fondness for poetry doesn't at all interfere with the clearness of my café noir, the lightness of my

with my lordly prerogative.

We mean Walt Whitman's "Good-bye my Fancy."

rhythmical prejudices, will hold its own with "Crossing the Bar," or the epilogue to "Asolando": Good-bye my

going away, I know not where, Or to what fortune, or whether I may ever see you again, So good-bye my

—now separation—Good-bye my Fancy.

my Fancy. C . Review of Good-bye My Fancy

And in my own day and maturity, my eyes have seen and ears heard, Lincoln, Grant and Emerson, and my

I have put my name with pen and ink with my own hand in the present volume.

I felt it all as positively then in my young days as I do now in my old ones: to formulate a poem whose

, and has been the comfort of my life since it was originally commenced.

Then the simile of my friend, John Burroughs, is entirely true.

GOOD-BYE MY FANCY. * T HERE is something at once very pathetic and courageous in this definitive leave-taking

My life and recitative . . . . . .I and my recitatives, with faith and love Waiting to other work, to

And again: Good-bye my Fancy, Farewell dear mate, dear love!

May-be it is you the mortal knot really undoing, turning— so now finally Good-bye—and hail, my Fancy.

Good-Bye My Fancy

"I round and finish little, if anything; and could not, consistently with my scheme.

Whitman tells us, "Ever since what might be call'd thought, or the budding of thought, fairly began in my

I felt it all as positively then in my young days as I do now in my old ones; to formulate a poem whose

My book ought to emanate buoyancy and gladness legitimately enough, for it was grown out of those elements

, and has been the comfort of my life since it was originally commenced."

I loafe and invite my soul. I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of sum- mer summer grass.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air, Born here of parents born here from

stuck up, and am in my place.

Now comes a passage remarkable for its nobility: "With music strong I come, with my cornets and my drums

I beat and pound for the dead, I blow through my embouchures my loudest and gayest for them.

My feet strike an apex of the apices of the stairs, On every step bunches of ages, and larger bunches

Cycles ferried my cradle, rowing and rowing like cheerful boatmen, For room to me stars kept aside in

I open my scuttle at night and see the far-sprinkled systems, And all I see multiplied as high as I can

; No friend of mine takes his ease in my chair;— I have no chair, no church, no philosophy, I lead no

man to a dinner-table, library, exchange; But each man and each woman of you I lead upon a knoll, My

I cannot tell how my ankles bend . . . . nor whence the cause of my faintest wish, Nor the cause of the

To walk up my stoop is unaccountable . . . . I pause to consider if it really be.

My voice goes after what my eyes cannot reach, With the twirl of my tongue I encompass worlds and volumes

Speech is the twin of my vision . . . . it is unequal to measure itself.

I merely stir, press, feel with my fingers, and am happy, To touch my person to some one else's is about

"After completing my poems," then, writes Mr.

"That I have not gain'd the acceptance of my own time; that from a worldly and business point of view

I had my choice when I commenced.

"The best comfort of the whole business is that I have had my say entirely my own way—the value thereof

No one will get at my verses who insists upon viewing them as a literary performance."

So says Walt Whitman in a foot-note to the little volume which he has just put forth ("Good-bye, my Fancy

Here is his poetical good bye:— Good-bye my Fancy! Farewell dear mate, dear love!

my Fancy.

Essentially my own printed records, all my volumes, are doubtless but offhand utterances from Personality

Indeed the whole room is a sort of result and storage collection of my own past life.

I loafe and invite my Soul, I lean and loafe at my ease, observing a spear of summer grass.

The smoke of my own breath, Echoes, ripples, buzzed whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and vine

, My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing of blood and air through my lungs

The sound of the belched words of my voice, words loosed to the eddies of the wind, A few light kisses

Our poet goes on to say (105): I know I am august, I do not trouble my spirit to vindicate itself or

since, after the closest inquiry, "I find no sweeter fat than sticks to my own bones."

If I worship any particular thing, it shall be some the spread of my own body."

As for Mine, Mine has the idea of my own, and what's Mine is my own, and my own is all Mine and believes

in your and my name, the Present time. 6.

I lie in the night air in my red shirt—the pervading hush is for my sake, Painless after all I lie, exhausted

." ***** "O despairer, here is my neck, You shall not go down! Hang your whole weight upon me."

My moral constitution may be hopelessly tainted or—too sound to be tainted, as the critic wills, but

, Earth of the limpid grey of clouds brighter and clearer for my sake! Far swooping elbowed earth!

The damp of the night drives deeper into my soul."

———Under Niagara, the cataract falling like a veil over my countenance ."

do I not see my love fluttering out there among the breakers?

Loud I call to you, my love!

who I am, my love.

Hither, my love! Here I am! Here!

But my love no more, no more with me! We two together no more!

thereof—and no less in myself than the whole of the Mannahatta in itself, Singing the song of These, my

ever united lands—my body no more inevitably united, part to part, and made one identity, any more than

my lands are inevitably united, and made one identity, Nativities, climates, the grass of the great

with a secret wish that I had not begun to read and a vow that I would never do the like again), by my

Lowell voices in the best way it can be voiced this limitation, or to my mind wrong poetic notion, in

"Behind the hill, behind the sky, Behind my inmost thought, he sings; No feet avail; to hear it nigh,

—you say in "New York;" but I had my hearing of most of those you mention elsewhere.

Sidney Morse . ∗ "Good-Bye, my Fancy!" Walt Whitman. 1891. The Second Annex to "Leaves of Grass"

I rubbed my eyes a little, to see if this sunbeam were no illusion; but the solid sense of the book is

head at nightfall, and he is fain to say,— I too am not a bit tamed—I too am untranslatable; I sound my

I loafe and invite my soul, I lean and loafe at my ease…observing a spear of summer grass.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeeful green stuff woven.

All I mark as my own you shall offset it with your own, Else it were time lost listening to me.

I know perfectly well my own egotism. . . .

I will put in my poems, that with you is heroism, upon land and sea. . . .

On my way a moment I pause, Here for you! And here for America!

of my own, And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women my sisters and lovers,

Earth of the limpid gray of clouds, brighter and clear- er clearer for my sake!

succeeding poem, we have him clearly in trance, and the impressing spirit speaking through him:— Take my

see Hermes, unsuspected, dying, well-beloved, saying to the people, Do not weep for me, This is not my

Here is one which again proclaims his purpose:— I stand in my place, with my own day, here.

And what are my miracles? 2.

side, and some behind, and some embrace my arms and neck.

philosopher's life in the quiet woodland ways, Where if I cannot be gay let a passionless peace be my

And my heart is a handful of dust, And the wheels go over my head, And my bones are shaken with pain,

What I experience or portray shall go from my composition without a shred of my composition.

You shall stand by my side, and look in the mirror with me."

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven.