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again, this soil'd world; For my enemy is dead, a man divine as myself is dead, I look where he lies white-faced
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!
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
venerable and innocent joys, Perennial hardy life of me with joys 'mid rain and many a summer sun, And the white
you. 4 The sum of all known reverence I add up in you whoever you are, The President is there in the White
All architecture is what you do to it when you look upon it, (Did you think it was in the white or gray
bars of pig-iron, the strong clean-shaped T-rail for rail- roads railroads , Oil-works, silk-works, white-lead-works
signs, I would sing your contest for the 19th Presidentiad, I would sing how an old man, tall, with white
Winds blowsouth, 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
and seeds, the thick tangle, openings, and pink turf, Different colors, pale gray and green, purple, white
piercing and pealing, Waves, air, midnight, their savagest trinity lashing, Out in the shadows there milk-white
wending, Steadily, slowly, through hoarse roar never remitting, Along the midnight edge by those milk-white
AFTER the sea-ship, after the whistling winds, After the white-gray sails taut to their spars and ropes
For shame old maniacs—bring down those toss'd arms, and let your white hair be, Here gape your great
A huge sob—a few bubbles—the white foam spirting up—and then the women gone, Sinking there while the
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
sea-currents, the little islands, larger adjoining islands, the heights, the villas, The countless masts, the white
NOT alone those camps of white, old comrades of the wars, When as order'd forward, after a long march
William White [New York: New York University Press, 1977], 224).
William Sloane Kennedy to Walt Whitman, 20 January 1881
William White [New York: New York University Press, 1977], 1:220).
Whitman sent Leaves of Grass and Two Rivulets on the same day; see William White, "Unrecorded Whitman
William White [New York: New York University Press, 1977], 224).
—I am, sir, William Rolleston. thrown into a panic of such proceedings.
Walt Whitman Walt Whitman to William Sloane Kennedy, 25 February [1881]
William White [New York: New York University Press, 1978], 1:235).
William White (New York: New York University Press, 1978), 1:237.
William D. O'Connor of Washington, Life Saving Service Bureau to write for you?
The Rossetti's too have been to see us—we didn't think William in the best health or spirits—& his wife
of light, the March-wind blows upon the Wicklow hills; Blows from over the blue Channel, making the white
like a dream again— And again the same hills and rocks, again the Sky, again the blue Channel with white
William Rossetti is writing a hundred sonnets—writes one a day; one about John Brown is not bad: and
typographical show of my poems—how they shall show (negatively as well as absolutely) on the black & white
William White [New York: New York University Press, 1978] 1:244).
I turned, and there in the doorway she stood, her tall figure, with a white turban on her head, her figure
been staying alone here in the house, as the folks have gone off on summer trip—My sister is at the White
July and October, to be issued in September and October; and orders for these numbers may be sent to WILLIAM
Spring; Benjamin Doty, of same place; in West Hills, Lemuel Carll, John Chichester, Miss Jane Rome, William
We are glad to find the old poet in good health, and although his hair is white his heart seems to be
His ruddy features were almost concealed by his white hair and beard.
His ruddy features were almost concealed by his white hair and beard.
bride groom—I think him a lucky man— Well I must close at once, for here comes a fine lively team of white
For myself I can safely say that except William Rolleston no reader or student of your poetry has studied
good roads—one young lady I fell in with near where I was living had a team of her own, two handsome white
I smell the white roses sweet-scented and growing.
Day come white, or night come black, Home, or rivers and mountains from home, Singing all time, minding
He wears a great cape overcoat of soft gray cloth, which falls below the knees, and a broad-brimmed white
felt hat almost as wide as the strong shoulders, over w hich a wild growth of white hair and beard blown
In the night, in solitude, tears, On the white shore dripping, dripping, suck'd in by the sand, Tears
Who are you, dusky woman, so ancient, hardly human, With your woolly-white and turbaned head, and bare
most novel and interesting long article in the number is Mrs Talbot's felicitous translation of Dr William
Who are you, dusky woman, so ancient, hardly, human, With your woolly-white and turbaned head, and bare
and pealing, Waves, air, midnight, their savagest trinity lashing, Out in the shadows there, milk-white
wending, Steadily, slowly, through hoarse roar never remitting, Along the midnight edge, by those milk-white
Growing among black folks as among white, Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I gave them the same,