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

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

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

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

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

My children and grand-children—my white hair and beard, My largeness, calmness, majesty, out of the long

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

White Hall, Ky.

I remain yours truly Cassius Marcellus Clay Walt Whitman Esq. see | notes | April 1 st | 1891 White Hall

On the lower left Clay has written: "White Hall: | ky. | C. Clay."

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

How dreadfull she looks— wan and allmost entirely help less her thin gray—allmost white hair.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!

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

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

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

Winds blow south, 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

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

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

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

bay to notice the vessels arriving, Saw their approach, saw aboard those that were near me, Saw the white

pennants, The large and small steamers in motion, the pilots in their pilot- houses pilot-houses , The white

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

himself many details of the sick room—the ashen face against the pillow, the wasted hand, the long white

The cold, white mantel is massed with photographs. Faces of friends, evidently.

The woodwork is sombre white, and the paint is cracked badly in many places and is peeling off.

It was marked with a white tidy. Then more heaps of papers.

White curtains were drawn part way down.

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

Longaker, Horace Traubel & his bride (married in your room, Warry tells us) Talcott Williams, David McKay

truly glorious day here—an easterly wind with bright sunshine, a beautiful blue sky with great snow-white

This morning I read a short letter from your friend Talcott Williams acknowledging rec t of the facsimile

We send you the Review of Reviews & Black & White P.P.S.

The Black & White: A Weekly Illustrated Record and Review was an illustrated British weekly periodical

In 1912, the Black & White was incorporated with another periodical, The Sphere.

Gilchrist Talcot Williams O'Dowd Sarrazin S. Kennedy Miss Whitman Dr Longaker Capt Howell H. L.

sycamores & mountain ashes, overlooking a wide expanse of pastoral country dotted with old time, grey & white

In the middle distance lay the lake, to purple waters sparkling in the sunshine & rippling in tiny white-crested

At our feet lay the white roadway & the grey stone work of the low-arched bridge at one end of which

Upon the lovely landscape the sun shone with dazzling effulgence from out the white-cloud-flecked empyrean

I also send you this week's Black & White wh: contains a portrait of and article on Bismarck —one of

The Black & White: A Weekly Illustrated Record and Review was an illustrated British weekly periodical

In 1912, the Black & White was incorporated with another periodical, The Sphere.

morning & especially the drive in the Country where the gardens are now all radiant with blossom—the white

the cherry & the plum (—the plum blossom appears before the leaves) & the sweetly delicate pink & white

I send you this week's Black & White & Christian Commonwealth containing portraits of & articles on two

Harry's parents, George (1827–1892) and Susan Stafford (1833–1910), were tenant farmers at White Horse

The Black & White: A Weekly Illustrated Record and Review was an illustrated British weekly periodical

In 1912, the Black & White was incorporated with another periodical, The Sphere.

William Reeder to Walt Whitman, 24 November 1891

Roberts of Cambridge; William, Arthur & Ethel Thompson; and myself) are sending on to you our usual birthday

William Thompson is lately married & is working a little at bookbinding for a trade.

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

said of the children; it seemed to be, on the whole, better not to speak of the family, but only of William

Kimball for the Life Saving Report of the year that William died.

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

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

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

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

This was William Potter of Philadelphia, who was one of Wanamaker's Delegate's to the Congress—one of

book sent March 24 Swanpool Falmouth Cornwall England— March•9•1891• Dear Sir My friend Mr Gleeson White

Gleeson White, an Englishman Whitman described as a "middle-aged man very gentlemanly & pleasant," visited

William White (New York: New York University Press, 1978), 2:575.

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

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

("No finer women ever walked this earth than the women of the Williams family" said & repeated old C.V