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Whitman published it later that year as the title poem in a small book, As a Strong Bird on Pinions Free
On verso of cover: "Advertising book of the Daily Freeman."
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
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!
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?)
I answer'd, I too, haughty Shade, also sing war—and a longer and greater one than any, Waged in my book
boundless vista, and the horizon far and dim, are all here, And this is Ocean's poem. 3 Then falter not, O book
for you I fold it here, in every leaf;) Speed on, my Book!
When I Read the Book. WHEN I READ THE BOOK.
WHEN I read the book, the biography famous, And is this, then, (said I,) what the author calls a man's
yet unknown results to come, for thrice a thou- sand thousand years,) These recitatives for thee—my Book
Merged in its spirit I and mine—as the contest hinged on thee, As a wheel on its axis turns, this Book
things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books
— the sign-painter is lettering with red and gold; The canal-boy trots on the tow-path—the book-keeper
of every rank and reli- gion religion ; A farmer, mechanic, artist, gentleman, sailor, quaker; A prisoner
to consider if it really be; A morning-glory at my window satisfies me more than the metaphysics of books
I embody all presences outlaw'd or suffering; See myself in prison shaped like another man, And feel
WHEN I READ THE BOOK.
The blind sleep, and the deaf and dumb sleep, The prisoner sleeps well in the prison—the run-away son
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!
book-words! what are you?
I answer'd, I too, haughty Shade, also sing war—and a longer and greater one than any, Waged in my book
for you I fold it here, in every leaf;) Speed on, my Book!
WHEN I READ THE BOOK.
WHEN I read the book, the biography famous, And is this, then, (said I,) what the author calls a man's
Merged in its spirit I and mine—as the contest hinged on thee, As a wheel on its axis turns, this 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.
I see the menials of the earth, laboring; I see the prisoners in the prisons; I see the defective human
What are your theology, tuition, society, traditions, statute-books, now?
The shape of the prisoner's place in the court-room, and of him or her seated in the place; The shape
Let the paper remain on the desk unwritten, and the book on the shelf unopen'd!
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
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
Hutchings and Harris, to the Court of Claims, for adjudication—and was therefore unprepared to give a
The letter of the Secretary of War to the Court of Claims refers the claims of Hutchings and Harris,
Bright, & of Hutchings and Harris (War Dep't case.) Mr. Bright. So far as I am advised, Messrs.
Hutchings and Harris have filed no petition.
Book B. pp. 135, 237. this Department on the 13th of October last. Very respectfully, &c. B. H.
Book B. p. 5.
Book B. p. 6.
to take such measures as may be necessary to prevent the escape therefrom of such United States' prisoners
Book A. p. 695—& Ins. Book B. p. 12.
Book B. p 219.