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Me and mine, loose windrows, little corpses, Froth, snowy white, and bubbles, (See, from my dead lips

In the night, in solitude, tears, On the white shore dripping, dripping, suck'd in by the sand, Tears

and seeds, the thick tangle, openings, and pink turf, Different colors, pale gray and green, purple, white

piercing and pealing, Waves, air, midnight, their savagest trinity lashing, Out in the shadows there milk-white

wending, Steadily, slowly, through hoarse roar never remitting, Along the midnight edge by those milk-white

AFTER the sea-ship, after the whistling winds, After the white-gray sails taut to their spars and ropes

For shame old maniacs—bring down those toss'd arms, and let your white hair be, Here gape your great

buckle the straps carefully, Outdoors arming, indoors arming, the flash of the musket-barrels, The white

setting in toward land, The great steady wind from west or west-by-south, Floating so buoyant with milk-white

, I was refresh'd by the storm, I watch'd with joy the threatening maws of the waves, I mark'd the white

Some emerge on the opposite bank, others are just entering the ford—while, Scarlet and blue and snowy white

now the single figure to me, Amid all teeming and wealthy Ohio with all its cities and farms, Sickly white

bleeding to death, (he is shot in the abdomen,) I stanch the blood temporarily, (the youngster's face is white

Then to the third—a face nor child nor old, very calm, as of beautiful yellow-white ivory; Young man

of the rifle-balls, I see the shells exploding leaving small white clouds, I hear the great shells shrieking

WHO are you dusky woman, so ancient hardly human, With your woolly-white and turban'd head, and bare

WORLD take good notice, silver stars fading, Milky hue ript, weft of white detaching, Coals thirty-eight

again, this soil'd world; For my enemy is dead, a man divine as myself is dead, I look where he lies white-faced

and still in the coffin—I draw near, Bend down and touch lightly with my lips the white face in the

Ah my silvery beauty—ah my woolly white and crimson! Ah to sing the song of you, my matron mighty!

surrounding cloud that will not free my soul. 3 In the dooryard fronting an old farm-house near the white-wash'd

wheat, every grain from its shroud in the dark-brown fields uprisen, Passing the apple-tree blows of white

I saw battle-corpses, myriads of them, And the white skeletons of young men, I saw them, I saw the debris

light-green sheath, Gather the hay to its myriad mows in the odorous tranquil barns, Oats to their bins, the white

The early lilacs became part of this child, And grass and white and red morning-glories, and white and

at sunset, the river between, Shadows, aureola and mist, the light falling on roofs and gables of white

grave an ancient sorrowful mother, Once a queen, now lean and tatter'd seated on the ground, Her old white

cold ground with fore- head forehead between your knees, O you need not sit there veil'd in your old white

Or white-domed capitol with majestic figure surmounted, or all the old high-spired cathedrals, That little

some are such beautiful animals, so lofty looking; Some are buff-color'd, some mottled, one has a white

Sister of loftiest gods, Alboni's self I hear.) 4 I hear those odes, symphonies, operas, I hear in the William

The wretched features of ennuyés, the white features of corpses, the livid faces of drunkards, the sick-gray

and even to his head, he strikes out with courageous arms, he urges himself with his legs, I see his white

meas- ureless measureless love, and the son holds the father in his arms with measureless love, The white

hair of the mother shines on the white wrist of the daughter, The breath of the boy goes with the breath

A huge sob—a few bubbles—the white foam spirting up—and then the women gone, Sinking there while the

the unearthly cry, Its veins down the neck distend, its eyes roll till they show nothing but their whites

Off the word I have spoken I except not one—red, white, black, are all deific, In each house is the ovum

soiree, I heard what the singers were singing so long, Heard who sprang in crimson youth from the white

She sits in an armchair under the shaded porch of the farmhouse, The sun just shines on her old white

The cactus guarded with thorns, the laurel-tree with large white flowers, The range afar, the richness

sea-currents, the little islands, larger adjoining islands, the heights, the villas, The countless masts, the white

NOT alone those camps of white, old comrades of the wars, When as order'd forward, after a long march

golden, transparent haze of the warm afternoon sun; The aspiring lilac bushes with profuse purple or white

spasmic geyser- loops geyserloops ascending to the skies, appearing and disappearing, Nor Oregon's white

thy varied strange suggestions, (I see and plainly list thy talk and conference here,) Thy troops of white-maned

Raise main-sail and jib—steer forth, O little white-hull'd sloop, now speed on really deep waters, (I

(My verses, written first for forenoon life, and for the summer's, autumn's spread, I pass to snow-white

is, Let it remain back there on its nail suspended, With pink, blue, yellow, all blanch'd, and the white

spread your white sails my little bark athwart the imperious waves, Chant on, sail on, bear o'er the

pass up or down, white-sail'd schooners, sloops, lighters! Flaunt away, flags of all nations!

What is that little black thing I see there in the white? Loud! loud! loud!

The early lilacs became part of this child, And grass and white and red morning-glories, and white and

In calculating that decision, William O'Connor and Dr. Bucke are far more peremptory than I am.

In calculating that decision, William O'Connor and Dr. Bucke are far more peremptory than I am.

William F. Rean to Walt Whitman, 31 December 1890

Clearest sky I ever saw—norwest quite purple—Snow white on roofs and posts—Lake steaming, seething, cold-compressed—freezing—unusual

good oak fire—appetite, digestion, sleep &c might be much worse—cold—sun shining out to-day on the white

snow — Walt Whitman Walt Whitman to William Sloane Kennedy, 29 December 1890

Harry's parents, George and Susan Stafford, were tenant farmers at White Horse Farm near Kirkwood, New

Walt Whitman | see notes Jan 5, 1891 William Sloane Kennedy to Walt Whitman, 28 December 1890

Camden Sat: pm Dec: 27 '90 Snow storm two days—all white out—of course I am imprison'd—sent off four

Harry's parents, George and Susan Stafford, were tenant farmers at White Horse Farm near Kirkwood, New

As I write the sun is shining fitfully on the white-roofed houses & a few sparrows are pecking up the

William S. Ingram, DEALER IN TEA, COFFEE, SUGAR AND SPICES. 31 N. SECOND STREET.

William Ingram to Walt Whitman, 24 December 1890

Walt Whitman Walt Whitman to William Sloane Kennedy, 23 December 1890

Walt Whitman Walt Whitman to William Hawley Smith, 23 December 1890

Hearst William R. Hearst to Walt Whitman, 21 December 1890