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328 Mickle Street Camden New Jersey March 27 —I am getting well towards my usual (late year) state of

health —have had a bad time ever since I saw you in Phila —my own illness, confinement to the house

On March 27 Whitman wrote in his Commonplace Book: "Am writing this in my new premises in Mickle Street—slept

Whitman: "Because you have, as it were, given me a ground for the love of men I thank you continually in my

sane people about the institution more or less sick. 2 out of the 4 doctors in bed nearly every one at my

Whitman: "Because you have, as it were, given me a ground for the love of men I thank you continually in my

Bucke is referring to Whitman's poem "My 71st Year," which was first published in the November 1889 issue

My people refused to put up the money without adequate protection."

been out now for three weeks—am writing—wish I c'd send you some nice doughnuts Mrs: D made yesterday—my

neice still in Saint Louis—my two sisters both bad health—Best Love to Harry and to Ed —Geo: must keep

Whitman occasionally referred to Stafford as "My (adopted) son" (as in a December 13, 1876, letter to

Camden New Jersey U S America May 19 I have this day forwarded to you by mail—same address as this card— my

N W | F 6 | Paid | My 29 | 76."

Whitman occasionally referred to Stafford as "My (adopted) son" (as in a December 13, 1876, letter to

have been, & are, having a cold easterly rain storm here—I enclose, on loan, the last two photos of my

October 10, 1871, Louisa Van Velsor Whitman wrote to Walt Whitman: "george and loo and Jeff insists on my

O'Connor wrote: "I have freely used the memoranda you sent, and got in as much of it as I could see my

I suppose you rec'd Engineering Record of N Y. with obituary of my dear brother Jeff at St Louis—Love

1890, contained an obituary of Thomas Jefferson Whitman, which Whitman wrote and reprinted in Good-Bye My

To My Soul TO MY SOUL.

The States—but I cannot tell whither or how long; Perhaps soon, some day or night while I am singing, my

Then all may arrive to but this; The glances of my eyes, that swept the daylight, The unspeakable love

I interchanged with women, My joys in the open air—my walks through the Man- nahatta Manahatta , The

of my mouth, rude, ignorant, arrogant— my many faults and derelictions, 38* The light touches, on my

In his March 9, 1892, letter to Traubel, Greenhalgh wrote that "Walt has taught me 'the glory of my daily

In all the departments of my life Walt entered with his loving personality & I am never alone" (Horace

Whitman, late in life, said to Horace Traubel: "[I] take my Ruskin with some qualifications."

volumes of Horace Traubel's With Walt Whitman in Camden (various publishers: 1906–1996) and Whitman's "My

at all my notions.

My crime.

All worlds are my worlds. All advances are my advances.

My Captain!”

My hands, my limbs grow nerveless, My brain feels rack’d, bewilder’d, Let the old timbers part, I will

New York, Dec 21 189 1 My dear Sir.

And my doctor was Doct Swift of that place.

I am still a little weak , but my strength is daily improving.

—I believe you can recover if you will follow my suggestions.

After that to my office 132 Nassau Street New York City.

September 3 Dear Friend At last the beloved books have reached my hand —yet now I have them, my heart

In 1861 my children took scarlet fever badly: I thought I should have lost my dear oldest girl.

My youngest was then a baby.

O the voice of my Mate: it must be so—my love rises up out of the very depths of the grief & tramples

It is not happiness I plead with God for—it is the very life of my Soul, my love is its life.

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

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

of my friends.

, probably my last.

It is called 'Good-bye, My Fancy,' and is now in the press.

with me and encouraged me in my theories.

Give my regards to all my friends, and particularly to the press fellows, for I never forget that I was

My dear Einstein, On coming back here, I find your letter of the 20th.

My paralysis has left me permanently disabled, unable to do any thing of any consequence, and yet with

ago, I bought a nice cheap lot, intending to put on a small house to haul in, & live out the rest of my

I had, & yet have I have a sort of idea that my books, (I am getting ready, or about have ready, my completed

But my means, meagre at the best, have gone for my expenses since, & now, while not hitherto actually

where I wanted you to come & see me—(& still want you, if you have a chance. ) But I spend most of my

down at an old farm down in Jersey where I have a fine secluded wood & creek & springs, where I pass my

time alone, & yet not lonesome at all (often think of you Pete & put my arm around you & hug you up

dear —I still make my brother's house at Camden my headquarters, & keep my room there—address my letters

the whole, am getting along pretty well, & good spirits The new edition of my books I sell enough of

My dear Sir, Yours of 27 January, and Leaves of Grass, received.

I hope that you did not consider my request for your photograph impertinent.

and therefore my allusion to it.

that I did my best—however—perhaps I soared too high—in addressing Barbarians.

I had told Dowden of my not having received any reply to my cards or letters and my apprehension that

Covering all my lands—all my seashores lining! Flag of death!

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

My sacred one, my mother.

Covering all my lands—all my seashores lining! Flag of death!

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

My sacred one, my mother.

in my memory as a childish recollection.

No, I have never seen you with my physical eyes, but I feel as though I had, and it is my love for your

May this be my excuse for thrusting my small personality into the path of your Kingly one.

Even my Bible is not so bemarked.

Good bye my master and my friend!

Brooklyn Sunday afternoon July 24 1864 My dear friend Since I last wrote to you my illness has been gradually

much the same as usual—I keep pretty old-fashioned hours, rise early, dine at 1, & go to bed before 10—My

head feels clear & comfortable, & my strength has returned almost, but not quite up to what it was.

I rec'd Nelly's letter, I could not get over to New York that afternoon—Nelly, my dear friend, you must

try to bring [it] out myself, stereotype it, & print an edition of 500—I could sell that number by my

431 Stevens st cor West Camden N Jersey U S America— March 19 My dearest friend, I did not know at all

till supper with my sister-in-law last evening that you had had a conversation with her about, & special

interest in, my pecuniary condition, &c.

room house on it, in which I might live plainly & comfortably the rest of my days—& that is still my

My great wish still is to put up for myself this little three or four room home for the rest of my days

Howard Lake June 28, 1874 My Dear Friend I Receivied received your kind & Most Welcome Letter A Short

Well My Health I But Verry Very little Better But If I Had Stayed In W Va West Virginia dont don't Suppose

when I went In the army I had a Com fortable Home Was a good Lover My Mother Leives Lives In My Father

Not Seen Her For 8 year My Brothers & Sisters Lives too I Will Close My letter By Saying I Hope you

kindness And Care to me My Children Sends their Love to you Now My Dear Friend I Hope you will write

The circumstances of my family were easy; I received a good education, was intended by my father for

The eldest was my favorite.

I kept a box of my own, and frequently attended, often giving my family permission also to be present

My blood curdled as I saw there an image of the form of my son—my cruelly treated Luke—but oh, how ghastly

I clapped my hands to my ears, to keep out the appalling sounds that seemed to freeze my very blood.

Covering all my lands! all my sea-shores lining! Flag of death!

Ah my silvery beauty! ah my woolly white and crim- son crimson !

Ah to sing the song of you, my matron mighty! My sacred one, my mother.

e in my k of yet about might a insane or a drunk man.

I know you must think there has been a "level-headed" theory to my life.)

Your card of July 2 acknowledged my letter of June 27, but didn't mention my letters of June 10 or 12

I think what will please you best, will be for me to write about myself, my circumstances, my practical

My eccentricity lies in my adherence to all Nature my own nature and following the straight path of good

My dear friend, Again a few lines to you.

The past summer & fall have laid me up again, & I am now entering the sixth month of confinement in my

I have also a big 900 page Vol. nearly ready, combining all my writings, last revisions, &c.

If so I send him my affectionate remembrances—I am sitting by my oak-wood fire writing this (cold but

Love & thanks to you, my friend, & best best regards to my Irish friends all.

Friday Nov 13 1868 My dear Brother I have & still suffer so much agony I am like a child I have longed

so for a letter I have seen one to Charlie with a few lines to me If I could see one of my own folks

I dont suffer now, only my hand, the fever is gone my head is clear my mind has not wandered only when

Dr Thayer I believe thinks all my thumb wont won't get well I feel very anxious about it. dear brother

Dear broher I suffered dreadfully last night with my hand the Doctor did not come in yesterday I was

431 Stevens st Street —cor West Camden N New Jersey U S America May 5 '76 1876 My dear friend, Yours

$10 the set—$5 each Vol. can be had separately, or together, as wanted—Each will contain portraits & my

The Two, Leaves and Rivulets comprise my complete works (the latter Vol. as you see, includes Memoranda

I heartily thank my good friends of the Secularist .

with the baby boy, my brother's 6 months infant, very fine & bright, (of course)—takes much of my time

Mar 9 th 92 7 Taylor Ln— Bolton My Dear Walt Whitman Just a few lines in response to your loving message

How very kind of you to send such tokens of your love to me, tokens which go deep into my. my heart,

My little message will convey my gratitude, my deepest sympathy, and my very best love to you now— and

I have already written you my approval of your three communications in the L[ondon] D[aily] News & will

[say] that in my opinion (& now with fullest deliberation reäffirming it) all the points assumed as

I shall (as I see now) continue to be my own publisher & bookseller.

Each book has my autograph. The Two Volumes are my complete works, $10 the set.

works in Two Volumes, with autograph & portraits, or some other of my books.

My article was hastily written and, though you do acknowledge my good intentions, must seem very inadequate

my power, of your work and genius.

My friend has his wife and children with him.

I made him acquainted with your works, after my return from America, and it is my own experience he has

property, my farming came to nothing, as I longed to get back to my studies, as soon as I had got well

his January 16, 1872 letter to Rudolf Schmidt, Whitman wrote that Freiligrath "translates & commends 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.

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.

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 temples

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

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 temples

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

I have loved you for years with my whole heart and soul.

I am too impetuous; I feel my subject too deeply.

And yet I am a writer and make my living by my pen.

hand your beautiful grey hair, and possibly feel your arm about my waist.

It is nothing to me who sees them; I am proud of my feeling for you.

VIGIL strange I kept on the field one night: When you, my son and my comrade, dropt at my side that day

battle, the even-contested battle; Till late in the night reliev'd, to the place at last again I made my

long-drawn sigh—Long, long I gazed; Then on the earth partially reclining, sat by your side, leaning my

chin in my hands; Passing sweet hours, immortal and mystic hours with you, dearest comrade—Not a tear

, not a word; Vigil of silence, love and death—vigil for you, my son and my soldier, As onward silently

VIGIL strange I kept on the field one night; When you my son and my comrade dropt at my side that day

battle, the even-contested battle, Till late in the night reliev'd to the place at last again I made my

long-drawn sigh, long, long I gazed, Then on the earth partially reclining sat by your side leaning my

chin in my hands, Passing sweet hours, immortal and mystic hours with you dearest comrade—not a tear

, not a word, Vigil of silence, love and death, vigil for you my son and my soldier, As onward silently

VIGIL strange I kept on the field one night, When you, my son and my comrade, dropt at my side that day

battle, the even-contested battle; Till late in the night reliev'd, to the place at last again I made my

long-drawn sigh—Long, long I gazed; Then on the earth partially reclining, sat by your side, leaning my

chin in my hands; Passing sweet hours, immortal and mystic hours with you, dearest comrade—Not a tear

, not a word; Vigil of silence, love and death—vigil for you, my son and my soldier, As onward silently

VIGIL strange I kept on the field one night; When you my son and my comrade dropt at my side that day

battle, the even-contested battle, Till late in the night reliev'd to the place at last again I made my

long-drawn sigh, long, long I gazed, Then on the earth partially reclining sat by your side leaning my

chin in my hands, Passing sweet hours, immortal and mystic hours with you dearest comrade—not a tear

, not a word, Vigil of silence, love and death, vigil for you my son and my soldier, As onward silently

at times, that I am forced to quit my painting and take to the street: and then she assumes jealousy

, and during my absence ransacks my papers, trunks and portfolios for scraps of poetry, composition of

a date that have past my memory, and these she brings forward and reads to me, and berates me with,

She smells my coat, when I come home, my gloves, my handkerchief and declares that I have been abed somewhere

Half my time is passed in gardening, and portions the rest waiting upon her, from the grocery.

it seems Centuries)—Father used to tell me I was lazy Mother denied it—and in latter years=(but O' my

own pen, ink, and paper on my own table, in a hired room, warmed by my own fire and lighted by my own

friend the past thou occupiest in my spiritual nature—.

I feel assured you will forgive any remissness of me in writing—My love my Walt is with you alway always

My Father is Dead.

earth, she cried, I charge you lose not my sons, lose not an atom, And you streams absorb them well,

, and you airs that swim above lightly impalpable, And all you essences of soil and growth, and you my

, And you trees down in your roots to bequeath to all future trees, My dead absorb or South or North—my

darlings, give my immortal heroes, Exhale me them centuries hence, breathe me their breath, let not

O my dead, an aroma sweet! Exhale them perennial sweet death, years, centuries hence.

earth, she cried, I charge you lose not my sons, lose not an atom, And you streams absorb them well,

, and you airs that swim above lightly impalpable, And all you essences of soil and growth, and you my

, And you trees down in your roots to bequeath to all future trees, My dead absorb or South or North—my

darlings, give my immortal heroes, Exhale me them centuries hence, breathe me their breath, let not

O my dead, an aroma sweet! Exhale them perennial sweet death, years, centuries hence.