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'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.'
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.
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
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.
Was't charged against my chants they had forgotten art? . . .
son and my comrade, dropt at my side that day, One look I but gave, which your dear eyes return'd with
do I not see my love fluttering out among the breakers?
Loud I call to you, my love! High and clear I shoot my voice over the waves.
Hither, my love! Here I am! here!
I round and finish little, if anything; and could not consistently with my scheme.
"'Leaves of Grass' indeed (I cannot too often reiterate) has mainly been the outcropping of my own emotional
No one will get at my verses who insists upon viewing them as a literary performance, or as aiming mainly
more foolish than the rest of the volume:— "I too am not a bit tamed—I too am untranslatable, I sound my
The last scud of day holds back for me, It flings my likeness, after the rest, and true as any, on the
I depart as air—I shake my white locks at the run-away sun, I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it
Earth of the limpid gray of clouds, brighter and clearer for my sake! Far swooping elbowed earth!
If I worship any particular thing, it shall be some of the spread of my own body."—p. 55.
their dead songs about dead Europe, and its stupid monks and priests, its chivalry, and its thing a-my-bobs
Whitman says "no one will get at my verses who insists upon viewing them as a literary performance, or
After celebrating and singing himself, he continues: "I loafe, and invite my soul."
results—and I will show that nothing can happen more beautiful than death; And I will thread a thread through my
reckon,’ he adds, with quaint colloquial arrogance, ‘I reckon I behave no prouder than the level I plant my
afternoons and sitting by him, and he liked to have me—liked to put out his arm and lay his hand on my
were hurt by being blamed by his officers for something he was entirely innocent of—said ‘I never in my