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We mean Walt Whitman's "Good-bye my Fancy."
rhythmical prejudices, will hold its own with "Crossing the Bar," or the epilogue to "Asolando": Good-bye my
going away, I know not where, Or to what fortune, or whether I may ever see you again, So good-bye my
—now separation—Good-bye my Fancy.
my Fancy. C . Review of Good-bye My Fancy
152yal.00146xxx.00866Walt Whitman's Last—Good-Bye My Fancy1891prose1 leafhandwritten; A draft of Walt
Walt Whitman's Last—Good-Bye My Fancy
treatise on the theory behind Leaves of Grass, which includes a plug for Whitman's latest work, Good-Bye My
with countless cartridges of money coming up, and of endless change going down—to none of these were my
or forbidden; and, of all men in Philadelphia, he it was whom I most desired to see and to thank for my
In a strong round hand he inscribed my name in the volume we had discussed, gave me some precious pictures
It was reprinted in Good-Bye My Fancy in 1891, with the additional note: "General Sheridan was buried
The Pallid Wreath, which was published in the Critic 18 (10 January 1891) and reprinted in Good-Bye My
leaveshandwritten; Lightly revised printer's copy of For Queen Victoria's Birthday, which was published in Good-Bye My
, a poem first published in Good-Bye My Fancy in 1891. On, on the Same, ye Jocund Twain, Manuscript
leafhandwritten; Draft fragment of a note for the short poem An Ended Day, which was first published in Good-Bye My
OV 2Good-Bye My Fancy (1891), Manuscript draftloc.05458xxx.00459Good-Bye My Fancy1891poetryprintedhandwritten14
leaves; Manuscript and corrected print material that was included in Good-Bye My Fancy (1891).
Good-Bye My Fancy
body, Unfolded only out of the inimitable poems of woman can come the poems of man, (only thence have my
WHAT am I after all but a child, pleas'd with the sound of my own name?
Who Learns My Lesson Complete? WHO LEARNS MY LESSON COMPLETE? WHO learns my lesson complete?
as every one is im- mortal immortal ; I know it is wonderful, but my eyesight is equally wonderful, and
how I was conceived in my mother's womb is equally wonderful, And pass'd from a babe in the creeping
And that my soul embraces you this hour, and we affect each other without ever seeing each other, and
ON my Northwest coast in the midst of the night a fishermen's group stands watching, Out on the lake
Dim smitten star, Orb not of France alone, pale symbol of my soul, its dearest hopes, The struggle and
IN a far-away northern county in the placid pastoral region, Lives my farmer friend, the theme of my
appears to them, (books, politics, poems, depart—all else departs,) I confess I envy only his fascination—my
WANDERING at morn, Emerging from the night from gloomy thoughts, thee in my thoughts, Yearning for thee
Thee coil'd in evil times my country, with craft and black dismay, with every meanness, treason thrust
its young, The singing thrush whose tones of joy and faith ecstatic, Fail not to certify and cheer my
If vermin so transposed, so used and bless'd may be, Then may I trust in you, your fortunes, days, my
My Picture-Gallery. MY PICTURE-GALLERY.
bugle-calls, Trooping tumultuous, filling the midnight late, bending me power- less powerless , Entering my
2 Come forward O my soul, and let the rest retire, Listen, lose not, it is toward thee they tend, Parting
the midnight, entering my slumber-chamber, For thee they sing and dance O soul.
cannot tell itself.) 3 Ah from a little child, Thou knowest soul how to me all sounds became music, My
6 Then I woke softly, And pausing, questioning awhile the music of my dream, And questioning all those
PASSAGE TO INDIA. 1 SINGING my days, Singing the great achievements of the present, Singing the strong
Struggles of many a captain, tales of many a sailor dead, Over my mood stealing and spreading they come
of you strong mountains of my land! Of you O prairies! of you gray rocks! O morning red! O clouds!
the blood burns in my veins! Away O soul! hoist instantly the anchor!
O my brave soul! O farther farther sail! O daring joy, but safe! are they not all the seas of God?
Thou knowest my years entire, my life, My long and crowded life of active work, not adoration merely;
Thou knowest the prayers and vigils of my youth, Thou knowest my manhood's solemn and visionary meditations
All my emprises have been fill'd with Thee, My speculations, plans, begun and carried on in thoughts
, I yield my ships to Thee.
My hands, my limbs grow nerveless, My brain feels rack'd, bewilder'd, Let the old timbers part, I will
THE SLEEPERS. 1 I WANDER all night in my vision, Stepping with light feet, swiftly and noiselessly stepping
I stand in the dark with drooping eyes by the worst-suffering and the most restless, I pass my hands
He whom I call answers me and takes the place of my lover, He rises with me silently from the bed.
. 2 I descend my western course, my sinews are flaccid, Perfume and youth course through me and I am
darn my grandson's stockings.
dear brothers' and sisters' sake, for the soul's sake, Wending my way through the homes of men, rich
words, mine only, Young and strong I pass knowing well I am destin'd myself to an early death; But my
charity has no death—my wisdom dies not, neither early nor late, And my sweet love bequeath'd here and
of reminiscences, brooding, with many wiles, (Though it was thought I was baffled and dispel'd, and my
side, warlike, equal with any, real as any, Nor time nor change shall ever change me or my words. 4
in the room where I eat or sleep, I should be satisfied, And if the corpse of any one I love, or if my
YET, yet, ye downcast hours, I know ye also, Weights of lead, how ye clog and cling at my ankles, Earth
Despairing cries float ceaselessly toward me, The call of my nearest lover, putting forth, alarm'd, uncertain
, The sea I am quickly to sail, come tell me, Come tell me where I am speeding, tell me my destination
And you O my soul where you stand, Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space, Ceaselessly
need be form'd, till the ductile anchor hold, Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my
Softly I lay my right hand upon you, you just feel it, I do not argue, I bend my head close and half
arrive, or pass'd on farther than those of the earth, I henceforth no more ignore them than I ignore my
AS I sit with others at a great feast, suddenly while the music is playing, To my mind, (whence it comes
thee, And royal feudal Europe sails with thee. 5 Beautiful world of new superber birth that rises to my
(Lo, where arise three peerless stars, To be thy natal stars my country, Ensemble, Evolution, Freedom
my special word to thee. Hear me illustrious!
wood edge, thy touching-distant beams enough, Or man matured, or young or old, as now to thee I launch my
launch thy subtle dazzle and thy strength for these, Prepare the later afternoon of me myself—prepare my
lengthen- ing lengthening shadows, Prepare my starry nights.
This face owes to the sexton his dismalest fee, An unceasing death-bell tolls there. 3 Features of my
I saw the face of the most smear'd and slobbering idiot they had at the asylum, And I knew for my consolation
what they knew not, I knew of the agents that emptied and broke my brother, The same wait to clear the
near the garden pickets, Come here she blushingly cries, Come nigh to me limber-hipp'd man, Stand at my
upon you, Fill me with albescent honey, bend down to me, Rub to me with your chafing beard, rub to my
refreshing night the walks of Paradise, I scent the grass, the moist air and the roses; Thy song expands my
and for my sensuous eyes, Bring the old pageants, show the feudal world.
the terrible tableaus. 7 O trumpeter, methinks I am myself the instrument thou playest, Thou melt'st my
heart, my brain—thou movest, drawest, chan- gest changest them at will; And now thy sullen notes send
soul, renew its languishing faith and hope, Rouse up my slow belief, give me some vision of the future
THEE for my recitative, Thee in the driving storm even as now, the snow, the winter-day declining, Thee
Roll through my chant with all thy lawless music, thy swinging lamps at night, Thy madly-whistled laughter
my South! O quick mettle, rich blood, impulse and love! good and evil! O all dear to me!
O dear to me my birth-things—all moving things and the trees where I was born—the grains, plants, rivers
, Dear to me my own slow sluggish rivers where they flow, distant, over flats of silvery sands or through
, the Tombigbee, the Santee, the Coosa and the Sabine, O pensive, far away wandering, I return with my
parrots in the woods, I see the papaw-tree and the blos- soming blossoming titi; Again, sailing in my
I WAS asking for something specific and perfect for my city, Whereupon lo!
there is in a name, a word, liquid, sane, unruly, musical, self-sufficient, I see that the word of my
my city!
As I sit writing here, sick and grown old, Not my least burden is that dulness of the years, querilities
, Ungracious glooms, aches, lethargy, constipation, whimpering ennui, May filter in my daily songs.
My Canary Bird. MY CANARY BIRD.
Queries to My Seventieth Year. QUERIES TO MY SEVENTIETH YEAR.
After the dazzle of day is gone, Only the dark, dark night shows to my eyes the stars; After the clangor
of organ majestic, or chorus, or perfect band, Silent, athwart my soul, moves the symphony true.
Would you the undulation of one wave, its trick to me transfer, Or breathe one breath of yours upon my
past war, the battles, hospital sights, the wounded and the dead, Myself through every by-gone phase—my
idle youth—old age at hand, My three-score years of life summ'd up, and more, and past, By any grand
Where day and night I wend thy surf-beat shore, Imaging to my sense thy varied strange suggestions, (
These snowy hairs, my feeble arm, my frozen feet, For them thy faith, thy rule I take, and grave it to
Far back, related on my mother's side, Old Salt Kossabone, I'll tell you how he died: (Had been a sailor
destination"—these the last words— when Jenny came, he sat there dead, Dutch Kossabone, Old Salt, related on my
, Manrico's passionate call, Ernani's, sweet Gennaro's, I fold thenceforth, or seek to fold, within my
My science-friend, my noblest woman-friend, (Now buried in an English grave—and this a memory-leaf for
Small the Theme of My Chant. From the 1867 edition L. of G. SMALL THE THEME OF MY CHANT.
Small the theme of my Chant, yet the greatest—namely, One's- Self One's-Self —a simple, separate person
My Days I sing, and the Lands—with interstice I knew of hap- less hapless War.
the midday sun, the impalpable air—for life, mere life, For precious ever-lingering memories, (of you my
mother dear —you, father—you, brothers, sisters, friends,) For all my days—not those of peace alone—the
war's chosen ones, The cannoneers of song and thought—the great artillerists—the foremost leaders, captains
them without me were seeds only, latent, unborn; And forever, by day and night, I give back life to my