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Saturday, May 23, 1891 ).In a group portrait of Murray, Eakins, and O’Donovan (along with Eakins’s dog, Harry
Saturday, May 23, 1891 ).In a group portrait of Murray, Eakins, and O’Donovan (along with Eakins’s dog, Harry
Saturday, May 23, 1891 ).In a group portrait of Murray, Eakins, and O’Donovan (along with Eakins’s dog, Harry
describes his room as an "old ship's cabin," writing that the floor is "cover'd by a deep litter of books
memoranda, bits of light or strong twine, a bundle to be 'express'd,' and two or three venerable scrap books
describes his room as an "old ship's cabin," writing that the floor is "cover'd by a deep litter of books
memoranda, bits of light or strong twine, a bundle to be 'express'd,' and two or three venerable scrap books
down the "Leaves of Grass" from upstairs, and we read together some of the lines most in mind, the book
WHEN I READ THE BOOK.
I have made, The words of my book nothing, the drift of it every thing, A book separate, not link'd
All the hapless silent lovers, All the prisoners in the prisons, all the righteous and the wicked, All
book-words! what are you?
The blind sleep, and the deaf and dumb sleep, The prisoner sleeps well in the prison, the runaway son
—those hecatombs of battle-deaths—Those times of which, O far-off reader, this whole book is indeed finally
So here I sit gossiping in the early candle-light of old age—I and my book—casting backward glances over
business point of view "Leaves of Grass" has been worse than a failure—that public criticism on the book
identified with place and date, in a far more candid and comprehensive sense than any hitherto poem or book
My Book and I—what a period we have presumed to span!
I should say, indeed, it were useless to attempt reading the book without first carefully tallying that
J., has deposited in this office the title of a Book, the title or description of which is in the following
The subsequent adjusting interval which is so important to form'd and launch'd work, books especially
I answer'd, I too haughty Shade also sing war, and a longer and greater one than any, Waged in my book
Then falter not O book, fulfil fulfill your destiny, You not a reminiscence of the land alone, You too
soldiers not for itself alone, Far, far more stood silently waiting behind, now to advance in this book
WHEN I READ THE BOOK.
I have made, The words of my book nothing, the drift of it every thing, A book separate, not link'd
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, But a few carols vibrating through the air I leave, For comrades and lovers.
All the hapless silent lovers, All the prisoners in the prisons, all the righteous and the wicked, All
these sights on the earth, I see the workings of battle, pestilence, tyranny, I see martyrs and prisoners
These eager business aims—books, politics, art, amours, To utter nothingness? THOUGHT.
, throwing the reins abruptly down on the horses' backs, The salesman leaving the store, the boss, book-keeper
book-words! what are you?
In you whoe'er you are my book perusing, In I myself, in all the world, these currents flowing, All,
THE SINGER IN THE PRISON. 1 O sight of pity, shame and dole! O fearful thought—a convict soul.
RANG the refrain along the hall, the prison, Rose to the roof, the vaults of heaven above, Pouring in
In one, along a suite of noble rooms, 'Mid plenteous books and journals, paintings on the walls, fine
with iron, Who am I too that I am not on trial or in prison?
labor, suffering, I, tallying it, absorb in myself, Many times have I been rejected, taunted, put in prison
Perfume this book of mine O blood-red roses! Lave subtly with your waters every line Potomac!
THIS is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless, Away from books, away from art, the day erased
things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books
mill, The paving-man leans on his two-handed rammer, the reporter's lead flies swiftly over the note-book
, the sign-painter is lettering with blue and gold, The canal boy trots on the tow-path, the book-keeper
Through me many long dumb voices, Voices of the interminable generations of prisoners and slaves, Voices
Embody all presences outlaw'd or suffering, See myself in prison shaped like another man, And feel the
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, But a few carols vibrating through the air I leave, For comrades and lovers.
I see all the menials of the earth, laboring, I see all the prisoners in the prisons, I see the defective
Let the paper remain on the desk unwritten, and the book on the shelf unopen'd!
O book, O chants! must all then amount to but this? Must we barely arrive at this beginning of us?
Camerado, this is no book, Who touches this touches a man, (Is it night?
I answer'd, I too haughty Shade also sing war, and a longer and greater one than any, Waged in my book
Then falter not O book, fulfil fulfill your destiny, You not a reminiscence of the land alone, You too
Bear forth to them folded my love, (dear mariners, for you I fold it here in every leaf;) Speed on my book
soldiers not for itself alone, Far, far more stood silently waiting behind, now to advance in this book
of causes, (With vast results to come for thrice a 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
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 life
lacking on all your well-fill'd shelves, yet needed most, I bring, Forth from the war emerging, a book
I have made, The words of my book nothing, the drift of it every thing, A book separate, not link'd
Books, friendships, philosophers, priests, action, pleasure, pride, beat up and down seeking to give
To look strife, torture, prison, popular odium, face to face!
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
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
descends and goes instead of the carver that carved the supporting desk, When I can touch the body of books
All the hapless silent lovers, All the prisoners in the prisons, all the righteous and the wicked, All
a loud alarm and frequent advance and retreat, The infidel triumphs, or supposes he triumphs, The prison
me; Of their languages, governments, marriage, literature, products, games, wars, manners, crimes, prisons
The Singer in the Prison. THE SINGER IN THE PRISON. 1 O sight of pity, shame and dole!
RANG the refrain along the hall, the prison, Rose to the roof, the vaults of heaven above, Pouring in
seated, sear-faced murderers, wily counter- feiters counterfeiters , Gather'd to Sunday church in prison
While upon all, convicts and armed keepers ere they stirr'd, (Convict forgetting prison, keeper his loaded
Resumed, the large calm lady walks the narrow aisle, The wailing melody again, the singer in the prison
In one, along a suite of noble rooms, 'Mid plenteous books and journals, paintings on the walls, fine
YOU felons on trial in courts, You convicts in prison-cells, you sentenced assassins chain'd and handcuff'd
with iron, Who am I too that I am not on trial or in prison?
how uneasy they are when he moves away from them; Now I marvel what it can be he appears to them, (books
fleet, His voyage behold, his return, his great fame, His misfortunes, calumniators, behold him a prisoner
Have we not darken'd and dazed ourselves with books long enough?
The blind sleep, and the deaf and dumb sleep, The prisoner sleeps well in the prison, the runaway son
slave is one with the master's call, and the master salutes the slave, The felon steps forth from the prison
idiot or insane person appear on each of the stands; Let judges and criminals be transposed—let the prison-keepers
be put in prison—let those that were prisoners take the keys; Let them that distrust birth and death
Who are you that wanted only a book to join you in your nonsense?
In you whoe'er you are my book perusing, In I myself, in all the world, these currents flowing, All,
, throwing the reins abruptly down on the horses' backs, The salesman leaving the store, the boss, book-keeper
book-words! what are you?
shall meet—and yet our souls embrace, long, close and long;) For beings, groups, love, deeds, words, books—for