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Onward, on, Circling, circling, moving roundward & onward As our hands we grasp for the Union all Red, white

, blue to eastward , western westward Red, white, blue, to the sou northern , southern with the breezes

poems &c. as my Christmas offering —with affectionate remembrances— Walt Whitman Walt Whitman to William

William Kingdon Clifford (1845–1879) was an English mathematician who also wrote on philosophy.

He was a heart's ease growing in the shadow: the leaves are turning white from want of sun!

William Hurrell Mallock (1849-1923) was an English author.

William White (New York: New York University Press, 1978), 1:272.

Winds blow south, or winds blow north, Day come white, or white come black, Home, or rivers and mountains

After the dilettante indelicacies of William H.

Growing among black folks as among white, Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I gave them the same,

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

Who are you, dusky woman, so ancient, hardly human, With your woolly-white and turbaned head, and bare

most novel and interesting long article in the number is Mrs Talbot's felicitous translation of Dr William

Who are you, dusky woman, so ancient, hardly, human, With your woolly-white and turbaned head, and bare

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

He wears a great cape overcoat of soft gray cloth, which falls below the knees, and a broad-brimmed white

felt hat almost as wide as the strong shoulders, over w hich a wild growth of white hair and beard blown

I smell the white roses sweet-scented and growing.

Day come white, or night come black, Home, or rivers and mountains from home, Singing all time, minding

good roads—one young lady I fell in with near where I was living had a team of her own, two handsome white

For myself I can safely say that except William Rolleston no reader or student of your poetry has studied

bride groom—I think him a lucky man— Well I must close at once, for here comes a fine lively team of white

His ruddy features were almost concealed by his white hair and beard.

His ruddy features were almost concealed by his white hair and beard.

We are glad to find the old poet in good health, and although his hair is white his heart seems to be

Spring; Benjamin Doty, of same place; in West Hills, Lemuel Carll, John Chichester, Miss Jane Rome, William

July and October, to be issued in September and October; and orders for these numbers may be sent to WILLIAM

been staying alone here in the house, as the folks have gone off on summer trip—My sister is at the White

I turned, and there in the doorway she stood, her tall figure, with a white turban on her head, her figure

William White [New York: New York University Press, 1978] 1:244).

typographical show of my poems—how they shall show (negatively as well as absolutely) on the black & white

William Rossetti is writing a hundred sonnets—writes one a day; one about John Brown is not bad: and

of light, the March-wind blows upon the Wicklow hills; Blows from over the blue Channel, making the white

like a dream again— And again the same hills and rocks, again the Sky, again the blue Channel with white

The Rossetti's too have been to see us—we didn't think William in the best health or spirits—& his wife

William White (New York: New York University Press, 1978), 1:237.

William D. O'Connor of Washington, Life Saving Service Bureau to write for you?

William White [New York: New York University Press, 1978], 1:235).

Walt Whitman Walt Whitman to William Sloane Kennedy, 25 February [1881]

—I am, sir, William Rolleston. thrown into a panic of such proceedings.

William White [New York: New York University Press, 1977], 224).

Whitman sent Leaves of Grass and Two Rivulets on the same day; see William White, "Unrecorded Whitman

William White [New York: New York University Press, 1977], 1:220).

William Sloane Kennedy to Walt Whitman, 20 January 1881

William White [New York: New York University Press, 1977], 224).

imperious waves, Or some lone bark buoy'd on the dense marine, Where joyous full of faith, spreading white

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

man was of wonderful vigor, calmness, beauty of person, The shape of his head, the pale yellow and white

swelling and deliciously aching, Limitless limpid jets of love hot and enormous, quivering jelly of love, white-blow

Examine these limbs, red, black, or white, they are cunning in tendon and nerve, They shall be stript

sea-waves hurry in and out, Not the air delicious and dry, the air of ripe summer, bears lightly along white

BEHOLD this swarthy face, these gray eyes, This beard, the white wool unclipt upon my neck, My brown

signs, I would sing your contest for the 19th Presidentiad, I would sing how an old man, tall, with white

Winds blowsouth, or winds blow north, Day come white, or night come black, Home, or rivers and mountains

shadows, Recalling now the obscure shapes, the echoes, the sounds and sights after their sorts, The white

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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