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or your own judgment require— I will probably send a short MS to be added on p 199 or p 200 to bring my

My canary is singing loud & fast, as I write—Cloudy half-dripping weather, promising cold—clear skies

friend Yours rec'd & welcomed, as always—I send Vol. of "Specimen Days and Collect," with emendations—My

" by Walt Whitman for title page— making two books — But I leave the thing, (after having expressed my

one made there, if you prefer to have your own as you may—Write me often as you can—I am tied up in my

corner by paralysis, & welcome friends' letters—bad cold raw weather—my bird is singing furiously—I

She is an American, & my best friend— Walt Whitman to Ernest Rhys, 2 February 1887

while away the time—but fear being intrusive with them— I am living here in a little wooden house of my

328 Mickle Street Camden Dec: 21 '85 My dear friend Real glad to hear from you once more, as by yours

Seems to me mortality never enclosed a more beautiful spirit— The trouble ab't my eyesight passed over

had dinner &c—I go there every Sunday—So I get stirr'd up some, but not half enough—three reasons, my

natural sluggishness & the paralysis of late years, the weather, & my old, stiff, slow horse, with a

better—he gives up for the present his European tour, but is coming here soon for a week—As I close, my

st—Camden — March 26 Am ab't the same as usual—Had a bad spell two weeks ago, but am now around after my

the same (a letting down a little peg, if no more, every time)—Yes I have had superb treatment from my

wall before me this moment with the Bacon —(I am ashamed to say never before acknowledged—but it is in my

little sitting room & before my eyes every day—more than half the time is taken for Shakspere) — I am

in general health—full as well—but laid by with lameness—added to by a fall two months ago & turning my

invitations to me which I should be most glad to accept—but I find it best not to stray too far from my

Give my best love & remembrances to her? I am comfortable here in my shanty.

Kennedy again lauded his book ("Walt Whitman, the Poet of Humanity"): "I have completed (rough finish) my

and Talcott Williams are the instigators of it all—(I am receiving great & opportune Kindnesses in my

old days—& this is one of them) — The printed slip on the other side I just cut out of my Phila: Press

January 21 O'Connor reported to Whitman that "the New York publishers have uniformly refused to publish my

White, even at my expense."

; Or rude in my home in Dakotah's woods, my diet meat, my drink from the spring; Or withdrawn to muse

place, with my own day, here.

My comrade!

my intrepid nations! O I at any rate include you all with perfect love!

steamers steaming through my poems!

to my bare-stript heart, And reach'd till you felt my beard, and reach'd till you held my feet.

My voice goes after what my eyes cannot reach; With the twirl of my tongue I encompass worlds, and volumes

My ties and ballasts leave me—I travel—I sail—my elbows rest in the sea-gaps; I skirt the sierras—my

We closed with him—the yards entangled—the cannon touch'd; My captain lash'd fast with his own hands.

Now I laugh content, for I hear the voice of my little captain,(says my grandmother's father;) We have

daughters, sons, preluding, The love, the life of their bodies, meaning and being, Curious, here behold my

cycles, in their wide sweep, having brought me again, Amorous, mature—all beautiful to me—all wondrous; My

wondrous; Existing, I peer and penetrate still, Content with the present—content with the past, By my

I were nothing; From what I am determin'd to make illustrious, even if I stand sole among men; From my

The oath of the inseparableness of two together—of the woman that loves me, and whom I love more than my

warp and from the woof; (To talk to the perfect girl who understands me, To waft to her these from my

own lips—to effuse them from my own body;) From privacy—from frequent repinings alone; From plenty of

the right person not near; From the soft sliding of hands over me, and thrusting of fingers through my

beautiful, curious, breathing, laughing flesh is enough, To pass among them, or touch any one, or rest my

As I see my soul reflected in nature; As I see through a mist, one with inexpressible com- pleteness

For they do not conceal themselves, and cannot con- ceal conceal themselves. 9 O my Body!

likes of the Soul, (and that they are the Soul;) I believe the likes of you shall stand or fall with my

instep, foot-ball, toes, toe-joints, the heel; All attitudes, all the shapeliness, all the belongings of my

greater heroes and bards, They refuse to awake at the touch of any man but me: It is I, you women—I make my

babes I beget upon you are to beget babes in their turn, I shall demand perfect men and women out of my

ME SPONTANEOUS me, Nature, The loving day, the mounting sun, the friend I am happy with, The arm of my

friend hanging idly over my shoulder, The hill-side whiten'd with blossoms of the mountain ash, The

press'd and glued together with love, Earth of chaste love—life that is only life after love, The body of my

and trembling encircling fingers—the young man all color'd, red, ashamed, angry; The souse upon me of my

greed that eats me day and night with hungry gnaw, till I saturate what shall produce boys to fill my

What do my shouts amid lightnings and raging winds mean?)

(I bequeath them to you, my children, I tell them to you, for reasons, O bridegroom and bride.)

To rise thither with my inebriate Soul! To be lost, if it must be so!

Give me the drench of my passions! Give me life coarse and rank!

with the dancers, and drink with the drinkers; The echoes ring with our indecent calls; I take for my

love some prostitute—I pick out some low person for my dearest friend, He shall be lawless, rude, illiterate—he

shall be one condemn'd by others for deeds done; I will play a part no longer—Why should I exile my-

self myself from my companions?

ONCE I pass'd through a populous city, imprinting my brain, for future use, with its shows, architec-

over waves, towards the house of maternity, the land of migrations, look afar, Look off the shores of my

Deliriate, thus prelude what is generated, offering these, offering myself, Bathing myself, bathing my

songs in Sex, Offspring of my loins.

early in the morning, Walking forth from the bower, refresh'd with sleep; Behold me where I pass—hear my

voice—approach, Touch me—touch the palm of your hand to my Body as I pass; Be not afraid of my Body.

hitherto publish'd—from the pleasures, profits, conformities, Which too long I was offering to feed my

Soul; Clear to me, now, standards not yet publish'd—clear to me that my Soul, That the Soul of the man

substantial life, Bequeathing, hence, types of athletic love, Afternoon, this delicious Ninth-month, in my

first forty-first year, I proceed, for all who are, or have been, young men, To tell the secret of my

Scented Herbage of My Breast SCENTED HERBAGE OF MY BREAST.

SCENTED herbage of my breast, Leaves from you I yield, I write, to be perused best afterwards, Tomb-leaves

O blossoms of my blood!

grow up out of my breast! Spring away from the conceal'd heart there!

Do not remain down there so ashamed, herbage of my breast!

Who is he that would become my follower? Who would sign himself a candidate for my affections?

doned abandoned ; Therefore release me now, before troubling yourself any further—Let go your hand from my

it, Nor do those know me best who admire me, and vauntingly praise me, Nor will the candidates for my

love, (unless at most a very few,) prove victorious, Nor will my poems do good only—they will do just

and then in the silence, Alone I had thought—yet soon a silent troop gathers around me, Some walk by my

side, and some behind, and some embrace my arms or neck, They, the spirits of friends, dead or alive—thicker

lilac, with a branch of pine, Here out of my pocket, some moss which I pull'd off a live-oak in Florida

from the water by the pond-side, that I reserve, I will give of it—but only to them that love, as I my

Not Heaving From My Ribb'd Breast Only Not Heaving from my Ribb'd Breast only.

NOT heaving from my ribb'd breast only; Not in sighs at night, in rage, dissatisfied with myself; Not

in those long-drawn, ill-supprest sighs; Not in many an oath and promise broken; Not in my wilful and

savage soul's volition; Not in the subtle nourishment of the air; Not in this beating and pounding at my

O pulse of my life! Need I that you exist and show yourself, any more than in these songs.

I meant that you should discover me so, by my faint indirections; And I, when I meet you, mean to discover

you read these, I, that was visible, am become invisible; Now it is you, compact, visible, realizing my

1 O TAKE my hand, Walt Whitman! Such gliding wonders! such sights and sounds!

change of the light and shade, I see distant lands, as real and near to the inhabitants of them, as my

see Hermes, unsuspected, dying, well-beloved, saying to the people, Do not weep for me, This is not my

race; I see the results of the perseverance and industry of my race; I see ranks, colors, barbarisms

F2 I have run through what any river or strait of the globe has run through; I have taken my stand on

Let me have my own way; Let others promulge the laws—I will make no account of the laws; Let others praise

I call to the world to distrust the accounts of my friends, but listen to my enemies—as I myself do;

WHO learns my lesson complete?

as every one is immortal; I know it is wonderful—but my eye-sight 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 trance of

And that my Soul embraces you this hour, and we affect each other without ever seeing each other, and

Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you, that you be my poem; I whisper with my lips close to your

O I have been dilatory and dumb; I should have made my way straight to you long ago; I should have blabb'd

paint myriads of heads, but paint no head with- out without its nimbus of gold-color'd light; From my

untrodden and mouldy—I see no longer any axe upon it; I see the mighty and friendly emblem of the power of my

I do not vaunt my love for you; I have what I have. The axe leaps!

WITH antecedents; With my fathers and mothers, and the accumulations of past ages; With all which, had

In the name of These States, and in your and my name, the Past, And in the name of These States, and

in your and my name, the Present time.

Thither every-day life, speech, utensils, politics, per- sons persons , estates; Thither we also, I with my

walks home late at night, or as I lay in my bed, they came upon me.

; That I was, I knew was of my body—and what I should be, I knew I should be of my body.

, My river and sun-set, and my scallop-edg'd waves of flood-tide, The sea-gulls oscillating their bodies

face, Which fuses me into you now, and pours my meaning into you.

loudly and musically call me by my nighest name! Live, old life!

my brother or my sister! Keep on!

I exclude you; Not till the waters refuse to glisten for you, and the leaves to rustle for you, do my

My girl, I appoint with you an appointment—and I charge you that you make preparation to be worthy to

cheerfully accept, A little sustenance, a hut and garden, a little money— these, as I rendezvous with my

Loud I call to you, my love!

who I am, my love.

Hither, my love! Here I am! Here!

But my love no more, no more with me!

O what is my destination?

Features of my equals, would you trick me with your creas'd and cadaverous march?

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

pickets, Come here, she blushingly cries—Come nigh to me, lim-ber-hipp'dlimber-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

Air, soil, water, fire—these are words; I myself am a word with them—my qualities inter- penetrate interpenetrate

with theirs—my name is nothing to them; Though it were told in the three thousand languages, what would

air, soil, water, fire, know of my name?

When I undertake to tell the best, I find I cannot, My tongue is ineffectual on its pivots, My breath

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

the graceful palmetto; I pass rude sea-headlands and enter Pamlico Sound through an inlet, and dart my

all—aplomb in the midst of irrational things, Imbued as they—passive, receptive, silent as they, Finding my

of any farm- life farm-life of These States, or of the coast, or the lakes, or Kanada, Me, wherever my

Sleep-Chasings SLEEP-CHASINGS. 1 I WANDER all night in my vision, Stepping with light feet, swiftly and

Receive me and my lover too—he will not let me go without him.

my clothes were stolen while I was abed, Now I am thrust forth, where shall I run?

carefully darn my grandson's stockings.

How he informs against my brother and sister, and takes pay for their blood!

- ward southward , Alone, held by this eternal self of me, out of the pride of which I have utter'd my

Fascinated, my eyes, reverting from the south, drop't, to follow those slender winrows, Chaff, straw,

I take what is underfoot; What is yours is mine, my father.

I throw myself upon your breast, my father, I cling to you so that you cannot unloose me, I hold you

from my dead lips the ooze exuding at last! See—the prismatic colors, glistening and rolling!)

and which are my miracles?

Realism is mine—my miracles—Take freely, Take without end—I offer them to you wherever your feet can

As to me, I know of nothing else but miracles, Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan, Or dart my sight

any one I love—or sleep in the bed at night with any one I love, Or sit at the table at dinner with my

perfect old man, or the perfect old woman, Or the sick in hospitals, or the dead carried to burial, Or my

Me, ruthless and devilish as any, that my wrists are not chain'd with iron, or my ankles with iron?

take from my lips this kiss; Whoever you are, I give it especially to you; So long!