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It seem to me more than all the print I have read in my life."

"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"

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.

It still maintains: I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable; I sound my barbaric yawp over

GOOD-BYE, MY FANCY. An Annex to Leaves of Grass By Walt Whitman. 8vo, pp. 66.

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.

His text is—and it is a stalwart text: "I stand in my place, with my own day, here!" II.

"I resist anything better than my own diversity," he says.

Clifford in his essay on "Cosmic Emotion:" "I open my scuttle at night and see the far-sprinkled far-

"My sun has his sun, and round him obediently wheels, He joins with his partners a group of superior

Hence from my shuddering sight to never more return that Show of blacken'd mutilated corpses!

knowledge that pass all the argument of the earth And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my

own And I know that the Spirit of God is the brother of my own And that all the men ever born are also

my brothers, and the women my sisters and lovers And that a kelson of the creation is love." . . . .

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.

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

That I walk up my stoop, I pause to consider if it really be.

A morning glory at my window satisfies me more than the meta- physics metaphysics of books."

I blow through my embouchures my loudest and gayest music to them. Vivas to those who have failed.

In the faces of men and women I see God, and in my own face in the glass.

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

language: "As I have looked over the proof-sheets of the preceding pages, I have once or twice feared that my

here—said: "Only that while I can't answer them at all, I feel more settled than ever to adhere to my

past—that I have always invoked that future, and surrounded myself with it, before or while singing my

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

single line or verse picked out here and there from the midst of his descriptions:— "Evening—me in my

room—the setting sun, The setting summer sun shining in my open windows window , showing the swarm of

take one breath from my tremulous lips; Take one tear, dropped aside as I go, for thought of you, Dead

I meant that you should discover me so, by my faint indirections; And I, when I meet you, mean to discover

has yet to be known; May-be seeming to me what they are (as doubtless they indeed but seem) as from my

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!"

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

white locks at the runaway sun; I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags."

It seems to me more than all the print I have read in my life."

"Between my knees my forehead was,— My lips, drawn in, said not, Alas!

My hair was over in the grass, My naked ears heard the day pass."

grave illness, I gather up the pieces of prose and poetry left over since publishing a while since my

For some reason—not explainable or definite to my own mind, yet secretly pleasing and satisfactory to

And thee, My Soul! Joys, ceaseless exercises, exaltations!

Thee for my recitative!

Roll through my chant with all thy lawless music!

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.

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

because, being a woman, and having read the uncharitable and bitter attacks upon the book, I wish to give my

There are few poems which I can read with so intense a thrill of exultation at the greatness of my destiny

. ∗ ∗ ∗ The successive growth-stages of my infancy, childhood, youth and manhood were all pass'd on Long

–49) and I split off with the Radicals, which led to rows with the boss and 'the party,' and I lost my

And then such lapses as these: By my great oak—sturdy, vital, green—give feet thick at the butt.

An hour or so after breakfast I wended my way down to the recesses of the aforesaid dell ∗ ∗ ∗ It was

just the place and time for my Adamic air-bath and flesh-brushing from head to foot.

he screams to a gaping universe: "I, Walt Whitman, an American, one of the roughs, a Cosmos; I shout my

voice high and clear over the waves; I send my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world."

From those beginning notes of sickness and love, there in the mist, From the thousand responses in my

O what is my destination? O I fear it is henceforth chaos!"

not live another day; I cannot can not rest, O God — eat Or drink or sleep, till I put forth myself, My

West, where "In a far-away faraway northern county, in the placid, pas- toral pastoral region, Lives my

farmer-friend farmer friend , the theme of my recitative, a famous Tamer of Oxen ." : This is a worthy

Me, master, years a hundred since from my parents sundered.

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

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

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.

"One doubt nauseous undulating like a snake, crawl'd on the ground before me, Continually preceding my

and near, (rousing, even in dreams, a devilish exultation, and all the old mad joy, in the depths of my

forced to remember another son of the people, Robert Burns, and one involuntarily thinks of his "O, my

Love's like a red, red rose, That's newly sprung in June: O my Love's like a melodie That's sweetly

(I loved a certain person ardently and my love was unreturned, Yet out of my love have I written these

hardly patience with a man who could offer the public lines like these, and call them poetry: "I tucked my

trowser-ends into my boots, and went and had a good time."

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

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air.

My special word to thee. Hear me illustrious!

woodedge, thy touching-distant beams enough, or man matured, or young or old, as now to thee I launch my

lengthening shadows, prepare my starry nights.

or ambition to articulate and faithfully express in literary and poetic form, and uncompromisingly, my

say entirely my own way, and put it unerringly on record."

In another place the feeling of pride leads to this exclamation: "My Book and I—what a period we have

Difficult as it will be, it has become, in my opinion, imperative to achieve a shifted attitude from

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

Whitman referred to Rossetti's edition as a "horrible dismemberment of my book" in his August 12, 1871

Candidly and dispassionately reviewing all my intentions, I feel that they were creditable—and I accept

Or rather, to be quite exact, a desire that had been flitting through my previous life, or hovering on

feeling or ambition to articulate and faithfully express in literary or poetic form and uncompromisingly my

in a few lines, I shall only say the espousing principle of those lines so gives breath of life to my

Difficult as it will be it has become, in my opinion, imperative to achieve a shifted attitude from superior

communed to- gether together Mine too such wild arrays, for reasons of their own; Was't charged against my

Skirting the river road, (my forenoon walk, my rest,) Skyward in air a sudden muffled sound, the dalliance

That sport'st amid the lightning flash and thunder cloud, In them, in thy experiences, had'st thou my

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.

One of his own countrymen (a press correspondent) thus writes of him— The only American prophet to my

He has no respect for artificial barriers to poetic inspiration:— "In my opinion the time has arrived

In my opinion, I say, while admitting that the venerable and heavenly forms of chiming versification

"Yes, my brethren, oh!

And thee, My Soul! Joys, ceaseless exercises, exaltations!

in a few lines, I shall only say the espousing principle of those lines so gives breath of life to my

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 do not press my finger across my mouth, I keep as delicate around the bowels as around the head and

Amelioration is my lesson, he says with calm voice, and progress is my lesson and the lesson of all things

I am the teacher of athletes, He that by me spreads a wider breast than my own proves the width of my

own, He most honors my style who learns under it to destroy the teacher.

What is commonest and cheapest and nearest and easiest is Me, Me going in for my chances, spending for

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

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

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!

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

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

my respects.

Phantoms welcome, divine and tender, Invisible to the rest, henceforth become my companions; Follow me

Perfume therefore my chant, O Love! immortal Love!

For that we live, my brethren—that is the mission of Poets.

the sisters Death and Might, incessantly softly wash again, and ever again, this soil'd world. … For my

where he lies, white-faced and still in the coffin—I draw near; I bend down and touch lightly with my

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

I know I am august; I do not trouble my spirit to vindicate itself, or be understood; I see that the

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

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

Before I was born out of my mother, generations guided me; My embryo has never been torpid—nothing could

; Or rude in my home in Dakotah's woods, my diet meat, my drink from the spring; Or withdrawn to muse

He even dates from the United States era; in 1856, he writes: In the Year 80 of the States, My tongue

place, with my own day, here.

List close, my scholars dear!

I approached him, gave my name and reason for searching him out, and asked him if he did not find the

over waves, towards the house of maternity, the land of migrations, look afar, Look off the shores of my

"My days I sing, and the land's:" this is the key-note.

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

That I walk up my stoop!

The little light fades the immense and diaphanous shadows; The air tastes good to my palate.

'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.'

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

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

All forces have been steadily employed to complete and delight me: Now I stand on this spot with my Soul