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Loud I call to you my love!
am, my love.
Hither, my love! Here I am! Here!
O what is my destination? O I fear it is henceforth chaos!
steadily up to my ears, Death, Death, Death, Death, Death.
O laugh when my eyes settle the land The imagery and phrasing of these lines bears some resemblance to
similarity to the following line in the poem eventually titled "I Sing the Body Electric": "As I see my
and dwells serenely behind it.— When out of a feast I eat bread only corn and roast potatoes fo for my
dinner, through my own voluntary choice it is very well and I much content, but if some arrogant head
inspiration . . . . the beating of my heart . . . . the passing of blood and air through my lungs.
My wife was indignant , and I should not wonder if she wrote a reply to it. W. W.
—I reached out my hand to feel the life-blood thrill beneath my fingers—I was faint with transport.
arms above my head to catch the stray sunbeams;—hugged it to my bosom transported with extatic emotion
;—yet never came before my vision sensual forms or thought found place in my imagination;—Was I passionless
—the warm, sympathetic tears that crept from beneath my eyelids and rolled lovingly down my bosom, soothing
my beating heart?
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.
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
them to give me the copy to make some little corrections—which I did effectually by going straight to my
And how goes it with you, my dear? I watched the N.
allow themselves to be squeezed into the stereotype mould, and wear straight collars and hats, and say "my
could go dead head if I was to apply—Jeff, I feel as if things had taken a turn with me, at last—Give my
love to Mat, and all my dear brothers, especially Georgie.
Dear Brother, I have just finished a letter to mother, and while my hand is in, I will write you a line
I enclose in my letter to Mother, a note from Hyde —nothing at all in it, except that Han is well, and
, it seems to me, like relieving me of a great weight—or removing a great obstacle that has been in my
go-ahead fellows, and don't seem to have the least doubt they are bound to make a good spec. out of my
I am very well, and hold my own about as usual.
subject that offers itself—making a compact, the-whole-surrounding, National Poem , after its sort, after my
especially with the literary classes, to make it worth your while to give them a sight of me with all my
I reserve the use of the piece in any collection of my poems I may publish in future.
Should my name be printed in the programme of contributors at any time it must not be lower down than
I reserve the right of using it in any future edition of my poems.
The package came safe to hand on Friday, containing my 20 purchased L. of G. and 20 to give away at discretion
House inform'd informed me that you accepted, and would publish, my "Bardic Symbols."
About the two lines: (See from my dead lips the ooze exuding at last!
As I know you would like to hear from me, my dear friend, I will not yet go to bed—but sit down to write
to you, that I have been here in Boston, to-day is a fortnight, and that my book is well under way.
I was going to put into the book—just took me to the stereotype foundry, and given orders to follow my
It will be out in a month—a great relief to me to have the thing off my mind.
I send my love to Helen and Emmy. Walt. Walt Whitman to Abby H. Price, 29 March 1860
, My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing of blood and air through my lungs
my bare-stript heart, And reached till you felt my beard, and reached till you held my feet.
my Soul!
We closed with him—the yards entangled—the cannon 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
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.
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
that was not the end of those nations, or any person of them, any more than this shall be the end of my
Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you, that you be my poem, I whisper with my lips close to your
O I have been dilatory and dumb, I should have made my way straight to you long ago, I should have blabbed
paint myriads of heads, but paint no head with- out without its nimbus of gold-colored light, From my
shame or the need of shame. 28* Air, soil, water, fire, these are words, I myself am a word with them—my
qualities inter- penetrate interpenetrate with theirs—my name is nothing to them, Though it were told
in the three thousand languages, what would air, soil, water, fire, know of my name?
When I undertake to tell the best, I find I cannot, My tongue is ineffectual on its pivots, My breath
of the lines only to reintroduce them in Sands at Seventy (1888), under the title Small the Theme of My
Both One's-self I Sing and Small the Theme of My Chant appeared in the 1892 edition of Leaves of Grass
cheerfully accept, A little sustenance, a hut and garden, a little money —these as I rendezvous with my
for something to repre- sent represent the new race, our self-poised Democracy, Therefore I send you my
Softly I lay my right hand upon you—you just feel it, I do not argue—I bend my head close, and half-
To My Soul TO MY SOUL.
The States—but I cannot tell whither or how long; Perhaps soon, some day or night while I am singing, my
Then all may arrive to but this; The glances of my eyes, that swept the daylight, The unspeakable love
I interchanged with women, My joys in the open air—my walks through the Man- nahatta Manahatta , The
of my mouth, rude, ignorant, arrogant— my many faults and derelictions, 38* The light touches, on my
MY spirit to yours, dear brother, Do not mind because many, sounding your name, do not understand you
I do not sound your name, but I understand you, (there are others also;) I specify you with joy, O my
divisions, jealousies, recriminations on every side, They close peremptorily upon us, to surround us, my
my brother or my sister! Keep on!
I exclude you, Not till the waters refuse to glisten for you, and the leaves to rustle for you, do my
My girl, I appoint with you an appointment—and I charge you that you make preparation to be worthy to
who should serve the good old cause, the prog- ress progress and freedom of the race, the cause of my
if that were not the resumé; Of Histories—As if such, however complete, were not less complete than my
poems; As if the shreds, the records of nations, could possibly be as lasting as my poems; As if here
AS I sit with others, at a great feast, suddenly, while the music is playing, To my mind, (whence it
it harmed me, giving others the same chances and rights as myself—As if it were not indispensable to my
My dear little wife wants to write you a letter, and will when the domestic gods are propitious, so that
—My wife sends her warm regards to you. She desires much to see you. W.W.T.
I do not know what I carry in my arms pressed close to my side and bosom!
I turn my steps to "Zion's Mill" a cemetery.
My womb is clean and pure. It is ready for thy child my love.
how lovingly will I cherish and guard it, our child my love. Thine the pleasure my love.
My motives are pure and holy. Our boy my love! Do you not already love him?
I remember I said to myself at the winter-close, before my leaves sprang at all, that I would become
a candid and unloosed summer-poet, I said I would raise my voice jocund and strong, with reference to
what was promised, When each part is peopled with free people, When there is no city on earth to lead my
I have pressed through in my own right, I have offered my style to every one—I have jour- neyed journeyed
Remember my words—I love you—I depart from materials, I am as one disembodied, triumphant, dead.
Receive me and my lover too—he will not let me go without him.
my clothes were stolen while I was abed, Now I am thrust forth, where shall I run?
I descend my western course, my sinews are flaccid, Perfume and youth course through me, and I am their
carefully darn my grandson's stockings.
How he informs against my brother and sister, and takes pay for their blood!
—What seek you do you want among my haughty and jealous democracies of the north?
woman, or my flesh and blood.
—There are my officers and my courts.—At the Capitol is my Legislature.
—It is foreign to my usages, as to my eyes and ears.—Go back to the power that sent you.
free cities, or my teeming country towns, or along my rivers, or sea shore.— 19 But why do I babble
Thither every-day life, speech, utensils, politics, per- sons persons , estates, Thither we also, I with my
O TAKE my hand, Walt Whitman! Such gliding wonders! Such sights and sounds!
change of the light and shade, I see distant lands, as real and near to the inhabitants of them, as my
see Hermes, unsuspected, dying, well-beloved, saying to the people, Do not weep for me, This is not my
race, I see the results of the perseverance and industry of my race, I see ranks, colors, barbarisms
My spirit has passed in compassion and determination around the whole earth, I have looked for equals
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
O truth of things, I am determined to press my way toward you; Sound your voice!
I exclude you; Not till the waters refuse to glisten for you, and the leaves to rustle for you, do my
to be found in these prurient pages and how any respectable House could publish the volume is beyond my
They look at me, and my eyes start out of my head; they speak to me, and I yell with de- light delight
; they touch me, and the flesh crawls off my bones.
heaven, it bears me beyond the stars, I tread upon the air, I sail upon the ether, I spread myself my
O my soul! O your soul, which is no better than my soul, and no worse, but just the same!
O my eye! 1247. These things are not in Webster's Dictionary— Unabridged, Pictorial.
death with the dying, and birth with the new-washed new- washed babe, and am not contained between my
hat and my boots.
I know perfectly well my own egotism.
strong in the knees, and of an inquiring and communicative disposi- tion disposition Also instructive in my
If I worship any particular thing, it shall be some of the spread of my own body."—p. 55.
.; TThis manuscript bears some similarity in subject to the poem that became "Who Learns My Lesson Complete
home in Kanuck woods, Or wandering and hunting, my drink water, my diet meat, Or withdrawn to muse and
In the Year 80 of The States, My tongue, every atom of my blood, formed from this soil, this air, Born
Take my leaves, America!
My comrade!
steamers steaming through my poems!
This poem later appeared as "Calamus No. 40," Leaves of Grass (1860); as "That Shadow My Likeness," Leaves
You objects that call from diffusion my meanings and give them shape!
Why are there men and women that while they are nigh me, the sun-light expands my blood?
Why, when they leave me, do my pennants of joy sink flat and lank?
It is safe—I have tried it—my own feet have tried it well. Allons! Be not detained!
I give you my hand!