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new in the office—the same old story—I have rec'd a number of papers from England with notices of my book
Hotten (1832–1873) printed Swinburne's Poems and Ballads when another publisher withdrew after the book
he rides again atop of the Broadway omnibuses and Fraternizes with drivers and boatmen—He has a New Book
At present he has a new book of prose and poetry, partially completed, to be called " Far and Near at
I see the menials of the earth, laboring, I see the prisoners in the prisons, I see the defective human
or man that has been in prison, or is likely to be in prison? 15 — Clef Poem.
The blind sleep, and the deaf and dumb sleep, The prisoner sleeps well in the prison, the run- away runaway
Let the prison-keepers be put in prison! Let those that were prisoners take the keys! (Say!
Let books take the place of trees, animals, rivers, clouds!
I rubbed my eyes a little, to see if this sunbeam were no illusion; but the solid sense of the book is
I did not know until I last night saw the book advertised in a newspaper that I could trust the name
Their shadows are projected in employments, in books, in the cities, in trade; their feet are on the
The twelve thousand large and small shops for dispensing books and newspapers—the same number of public
I see plying shuttles, the active ephemeral myriads of books also, faithfully weaving the garments of
looking cautiously to see how the rest behave, dress, write, talk, love—pressing the noses of dead books
alive, is attributable the remarkable non-personality and indistinctness of modern productions in books
make his way into the confidence of his readers, and his poems in time will become a pregnant text-book
He makes no allusions to books or writers; their spirits do not seem to have touched him; he has not
We omit much even in this short extract, for the book abounds in passages that can not be quoted in drawing-rooms
reserve and with perfect indifference as to their effect on the reader's mind; and not only is the book
this gross yet elevated, this superficial yet profound, this preposterous yet somehow fascinating book
As seems very proper in a book of transcendental poetry, the author withholds his name from the title-page
inexpressible purposes of nature, and for this haughtiest of writers that has ever yet written and printed a book
The man is the true impersonation of his book—rough, uncouth, vulgar.
cannot tell, unless it means a man who thinks that the fine essence of poetry consists in writing a book
We should have passed over this book, "LEAVES OF GRASS," with indignant contempt, had not some few Transatlantic
suppose that Walt Whitman has been learning to write, and that the compositor has got hold of his copy-book
We will neither weary nor insult our readers with more extracts from this notable book.
Emerson writes that he finds in his book "incomparable things, said incomparably well."
The book he pronounces "the most extraordinary piece of wit and wisdom that America has yet contributed
In that state he would write a book exactly like Walt Whitman's "LEAVES OF GRASS."
Three-fourths of Walt Whitman's book is poetry as catalogues of auctioneers are poems.
A Catalogue of the Household Furniture with the select collection of scarce, curious, and valuable books
creations of the modern American mind; but he is no fool, though abundantly eccentric, nor is his book
again there is no patronymic, and we can only infer that this roystering blade is the author of the book
Such, as we conceive, is the key to this strange, grotesque, and bewildering book; yet we are far from
This book should find no place where humanity urges any claim to respect, and the author should be kicked
things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books
Europe, Asia—a wandering savage, A farmer, mechanic, artist, gentleman, sailor, lover, quaker, A prisoner
great authors and schools, A morning-glory at my window satisfies me more than the metaphysics of books
Did you read in the sea-books of the old-fashioned frigate-fight?
I become any presence or truth of humanity here, And see myself in prison shaped like another man, And
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; Only a few carols, vibrating through the air, I leave, For comrades and lovers.
see these sights on the earth; I see the workings of battle, pestilence, tyranny—I see martyrs and prisoners
Books, friendships, philosophers, priests, action, plea- sure pleasure , pride, beat up and down, seeking
As I flit through you hastily, soon to fall and be gone, what is this book, What am I myself but one
YOU felons on trial in courts; You convicts in prison-cells—you sentenced assassins, chain'd and hand-cuff'd
with iron; Who am I, too, that I am not on trial, or in prison?
down, throwing the reins abruptly down on the horses' backs; The salesman leaving the store—the boss, book-keeper
Who are you, that wanted only a book to join you in your nonsense?
17 All the hapless silent lovers, All the prisoners in the prisons, all the righteous and the wicked,
let the prison- keepers prison-keepers be put in prison!
let those that were prisoners take the keys! (Say! why might they not just as well be transposed?)
Let books take the place of trees, animals, rivers, clouds!
me; Of their languages, governments, marriage, literature, products, games, wars, manners, crimes, prisons
book-words! what are you?
these hours supreme, No poem proud, I, chanting, bring to thee—nor mastery's rapturous verse; But a book
loud alarm, and frequent advance and retreat, The infidel triumphs—or supposes he triumphs, Then the prison
or how long; Perhaps soon, some day or night while I am singing, my voice will suddenly cease. 2 O book
This is no book; Who touches this, touches a man; (Is it night? Are we here alone?)
I answer'd, I too, haughty Shade, also sing war—and a longer and greater one than any, Waged in my book
boundless vista, and the horizon far and dim, are all here, And this is Ocean's poem. 3 Then falter not, O book
for you I fold it here, in every leaf;) Speed on, my 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
yet unknown results to come, for thrice a thou- sand 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
things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books
— the sign-painter is lettering with red and gold; The canal-boy trots on the tow-path—the book-keeper
of every rank and reli- gion religion ; A farmer, mechanic, artist, gentleman, sailor, quaker; A prisoner
to consider if it really be; A morning-glory at my window satisfies me more than the metaphysics of books
I embody all presences outlaw'd or suffering; See myself in prison shaped like another man, And feel
WHEN I READ THE BOOK.
The blind sleep, and the deaf and dumb sleep, The prisoner sleeps well in the prison—the run-away son
17 All the hapless silent lovers, All the prisoners in the prisons, all the righteous and the wicked,
let the prison- keepers prison-keepers be put in prison!
book-words! what are you?
I answer'd, I too, haughty Shade, also sing war—and a longer and greater one than any, Waged in my book
for you I fold it here, in every leaf;) Speed on, my 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
Merged in its spirit I and mine—as the contest hinged on thee, As a wheel on its axis turns, this Book
I see the menials of the earth, laboring, I see the prisoners in the prisons, I see the defective human
not what is printed, preached, 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
curious way we write what we think, yet very faintly, The directory, the detector, the ledger, the books
in ranks on the book-shelves, the clock at- tached attached to the wall, The ring on your finger, the
descends and goes instead of the carver that carved the supporting-desk, When I can touch the body of books
What are your theology, tuition, society, traditions, statute-books now?
The shape of the prisoner's place in the court- room court-room , and of him or her seated in the place
Great are marriage, commerce, newspapers, books, free-trade, rail-roads, steamers, interna- tional international
drawn by its breath as if I were no more than a helpless vapor—all falls aside but myself and it, Books
Which is the theory or book that is not diseased? Piety and conformity to them that like!
Who are you, that wanted only a book to join you in your nonsense?
Let the paper remain on the desk unwritten, and the book on the shelf unopened!
Books, friendships, philosophers, priests, action, pleasure, pride, beat up and down, seeking to give
or man that has been in prison, or is likely to be in prison?
a loud alarm and frequent advance and retreat, The infidel triumphs—or supposes he triumphs, The prison
The blind sleep, and the deaf and dumb sleep, The prisoner sleeps well in the prison, the run- away runaway
slave is one with the master's call, and the master salutes the slave, The felon steps forth from the prison
Let the prison-keepers be put in prison! Let those that were prisoners take the keys! (Say!
Let books take the place of trees, animals, rivers, clouds!
library, Nor reminiscence of any deed of courage, for America, Nor literary success, nor intellect—nor book
for the book-shelf; Only a few carols, vibrating through the air, I leave, For comrades and lovers.
I see the menials of the earth, laboring; I see the prisoners in the prisons; I see the defective human
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
Let the paper remain on the desk unwritten, and the book on the shelf unopen'd!