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The second option presents the pages in pairs, mimicking the layout of the physical book.

He makes no allusions to books or writers; their spirits do not seem to have touched him; he has not

For all our intellectual people, followed by their books, poems, novels, essays, editorials, lectures

of a book which can have given the hint to them.

In opinions, in manners, in costumes, in books, in the aims and occupancy of life, in associates, in

As seems very proper in a book of transcendental poetry, the author withholds his name from the title

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

"I did not know until I last night saw the book advertised in a newspaper that I could trust the name

I did not know until I last night saw the book advertised in a newspaper that I could trust the name

The blind sleep, and the deaf and dumb sleep, The prisoner sleeps well in the prison . . . . the runaway

or man that has been in prison or is likely to be in prison?

the revision may have had more to do with Whitman's desire to balance day and night throughout the book

WHEN I READ THE BOOK.

Let the prison-keepers be put in prison! Let those that were prisoners take the keys! (Say!

The blind sleep, and the deaf and dumb sleep, The prisoner sleeps well in the prison—the run-away son

book-words! what are you?

17 All the hapless silent lovers, All the prisoners in the prisons, all the righteous and the wicked,

A single glance of it mocks all the investigations of man and all the instruments and books of the earth

season of every year of your life, re examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book

My words are words of a questioning, and to indicate reality; This printed and bound book . . . . but

The blind sleep, and the deaf and dumb sleep, The prisoner sleeps well in the prison . . . . the runaway

or man that has been in prison or is likely to be in prison?

A single glance of it mocks all the investigations of man and all the instruments and books of the earth

season of every year of your life, re examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book

rages with many a loud alarm and frequent advance and retreat . . . . the enemy triumphs . . . . the prison

In paintings or mouldings or carvings in mineral or wood, or in the illustrations of books or newspapers

discreditable means . . not any nastiness of appetite . . not any harshness of officers to men or judges to prisoners

second or third hand . . . . nor look through the eyes of the dead . . . . nor feed on the spectres in books

wandering savage, A farmer, mechanic, or artist . . . . a gentleman, sailor, lover or quaker, A prisoner

great authors and schools, A morning-glory at my window satisfies me more than the metaphysics of books

I become any presence or truth of humanity here, And see myself in prison shaped like another man, And

My words are words of a questioning, and to indicate reality; This printed and bound book . . . . but

printed or preached or discussed . . . . it eludes discussion and print, It is not to be put in a book

 . . . . it is not in this book, It is for you whoever you are . . . . it is no farther from you than

write what we think . . . . yet very faintly; The directory, the detector, the ledger . . . . the books

The blind sleep, and the deaf and dumb sleep, The prisoner sleeps well in the prison . . . . the runaway

and the master salutes the slave, The felon steps forth from the prison . . . . the insane becomes sane

by its breath as if I were no more than a helpless vapor . . . . all falls aside but myself and it, Books

not what is printed, preach'd, discussed—it eludes discussion and print; It is not to be put in a book—it

is not in this book; It is for you, whoever you are—it is no farther from you than your hearing and

descends and goes, instead of the carver that carved the supporting desk; When I can touch the body of books

The blind sleep, and the deaf and dumb sleep, The prisoner sleeps well in the prison—the run-away son

slave is one with the master's call, and the master salutes the slave, The felon steps forth from the prison—the

As I flit through you hastily, soon to fall and be gone, what is this book, What am I myself but one

YOU felons on trial in courts; You convicts in prison-cells—you sentenced assassins, chain'd and hand-cuff'd

with iron; Who am I, too, that I am not on trial, or in prison?

down, throwing the reins abruptly down on the horses' backs; The salesman leaving the store—the boss, book-keeper

Who are you, that wanted only a book to join you in your nonsense?

17 All the hapless silent lovers, All the prisoners in the prisons, all the righteous and the wicked,

let the prison- keepers prison-keepers be put in prison!

let those that were prisoners take the keys! (Say! why might they not just as well be transposed?)

Let books take the place of trees, animals, rivers, clouds!

me; Of their languages, governments, marriage, literature, products, games, wars, manners, crimes, prisons

book-words! what are you?

these hours supreme, No poem proud, I, chanting, bring to thee—nor mastery's rapturous verse; But a book

loud alarm, and frequent advance and retreat, The infidel triumphs—or supposes he triumphs, Then the prison

or how long; Perhaps soon, some day or night while I am singing, my voice will suddenly cease. 2 O book

This is no book; Who touches this, touches a man; (Is it night? Are we here alone?)

drawn by its breath as if I were no more than a helpless vapor—all falls aside but myself and it; Books

For it is not for what I have put into it that I have written this book, Nor is it by reading it you

how unfaltering, how affectionate and faithful they were, Then I am pensive—I hastily put down the book

library, Nor reminiscence of any deed of courage, for America, Nor literary success, nor intellect—nor book

for the book-shelf; Only a few carols, vibrating through the air, I leave, For comrades and lovers.

see these sights on the earth; I see the workings of battle, pestilence, tyranny—I see martyrs and prisoners

Books friendships philosophers priests action pleasure pride beat up and down seeking to give satisfaction

or man that has been in prison or is likely to be in prison?

Great are marriage, commerce, newspapers, books, freetrade, railroads, steamers, international mails

I see the menials of the earth, laboring, I see the prisoners in the prisons, I see the defective human

or man that has been in prison, or is likely to be in prison? 15 — Clef Poem.

The blind sleep, and the deaf and dumb sleep, The prisoner sleeps well in the prison, the run- away runaway

Let the prison-keepers be put in prison! Let those that were prisoners take the keys! (Say!

Let books take the place of trees, animals, rivers, clouds!

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

I did not know until I last night saw the book advertised in a newspaper that I could trust the name

Their shadows are projected in employments, in books, in the cities, in trade; their feet are on the

The twelve thousand large and small shops for dispensing books and newspapers—the same number of public

I see plying shuttles, the active ephemeral myriads of books also, faithfully weaving the garments of

looking cautiously to see how the rest behave, dress, write, talk, love—pressing the noses of dead books

alive, is attributable the remarkable non-personality and indistinctness of modern productions in books

make his way into the confidence of his readers, and his poems in time will become a pregnant text-book

He makes no allusions to books or writers; their spirits do not seem to have touched him; he has not

We omit much even in this short extract, for the book abounds in passages that can not be quoted in drawing-rooms

reserve and with perfect indifference as to their effect on the reader's mind; and not only is the book

this gross yet elevated, this superficial yet profound, this preposterous yet somehow fascinating book

As seems very proper in a book of transcendental poetry, the author withholds his name from the title-page

inexpressible purposes of nature, and for this haughtiest of writers that has ever yet written and printed a book

The man is the true impersonation of his book—rough, uncouth, vulgar.

cannot tell, unless it means a man who thinks that the fine essence of poetry consists in writing a book

We should have passed over this book, "LEAVES OF GRASS," with indignant contempt, had not some few Transatlantic

suppose that Walt Whitman has been learning to write, and that the compositor has got hold of his copy-book

We will neither weary nor insult our readers with more extracts from this notable book.

Emerson writes that he finds in his book "incomparable things, said incomparably well."

The book he pronounces "the most extraordinary piece of wit and wisdom that America has yet contributed

In that state he would write a book exactly like Walt Whitman's "LEAVES OF GRASS."

Three-fourths of Walt Whitman's book is poetry as catalogues of auctioneers are poems.

A Catalogue of the Household Furniture with the select collection of scarce, curious, and valuable books

creations of the modern American mind; but he is no fool, though abundantly eccentric, nor is his book

again there is no patronymic, and we can only infer that this roystering blade is the author of the book

Such, as we conceive, is the key to this strange, grotesque, and bewildering book; yet we are far from

This book should find no place where humanity urges any claim to respect, and the author should be kicked

things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books

Europe, Asia—a wandering savage, A farmer, mechanic, artist, gentleman, sailor, lover, quaker, A prisoner

great authors and schools, A morning-glory at my window satisfies me more than the metaphysics of books

Did you read in the sea-books of the old-fashioned frigate-fight?

I become any presence or truth of humanity here, And see myself in prison shaped like another man, And

drawn by its breath as if I were no more than a helpless vapor—all falls aside but myself and it; Books

For it is not for what I have put into it that I have written this book, Nor is it by reading it you

library, Nor reminiscence of any deed of courage, for America, Nor literary success, nor intellect—nor book

for the book-shelf; Only a few carols, vibrating through the air, I leave, For comrades and lovers.

see these sights on the earth; I see the workings of battle, pestilence, tyranny—I see martyrs and prisoners

Books, friendships, philosophers, priests, action, plea- sure pleasure , pride, beat up and down, seeking

As I flit through you hastily, soon to fall and be gone, what is this book, What am I myself but one

YOU felons on trial in courts; You convicts in prison-cells—you sentenced assassins, chain'd and hand-cuff'd

with iron; Who am I, too, that I am not on trial, or in prison?

down, throwing the reins abruptly down on the horses' backs; The salesman leaving the store—the boss, book-keeper

Who are you, that wanted only a book to join you in your nonsense?

17 All the hapless silent lovers, All the prisoners in the prisons, all the righteous and the wicked,

let the prison- keepers prison-keepers be put in prison!

let those that were prisoners take the keys! (Say! why might they not just as well be transposed?)

Let books take the place of trees, animals, rivers, clouds!