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myself in memory of Poe, which I have obeyed; but not the slightest impulse to make a speech, which, my

Even my own objections draw me to him at last; and those very points, with his sad fate, will make him

That figure of my lurid dream might stand for Edgar Poe, his spirit, his fortunes, and his poems—themselves

My impressions were written on the next day, and my memory has been vividly refreshed.

He walked with bared head to my desk and laid one in my hand, saying: Please tell Mr.

The voice caught my ear.

on my desk.

My metre is loose and free.

Whitman in the early 1990s, and it took more than ten years and at least a thousand dollars to complete my

I have sometimes used the while working on scholarly essays when I am away from my home institution.

more audacious artistic uses of Whitman is the Flash animation " Walt Whitman " by performance artist My

One day in 1995 Charles Green and another graduate student, David Donlon, strolled into my office and

Susan Belasco, my colleague at the University of Nebraska, has made significant strides in presenting

My advice to Whitman scholars would be to hang on to your electronic rights.

This idea also appeals to me because of my academic place , the University of Nebraska.

(This broad view of editing is one I endorse and underpins my remarks throughout this essay.)

In my view, specialists are less critical in transcription than in project conceptualization, annotation

after his claim to be "untranslatable": "I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable, / I sound my

overstaid fraction" "the circle of obis" or, as Whitman says near the end of "Song of Myself": "I effuse my

Jeopardizes Degree by Refusing to Perform Whitman," The Chronicle of Higher Education 25 July 2013. 23 My

"My health?

My income is just sufficient to keep my head above water—and what more can a poet ask?

"My opinion of other American poets?

"My religion? I should refuse to be called a materialist.

I recovered what I call my second wind from nature.

Bless the Lord,O my soul!

my special word to thee. Who can be a companion of thy course!

lengthening shadows, prepare my starry nights.

my Captain! our fearful trip is done.

O,the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.

I thank my daughter, Myrth Killingsworth, an ecocritic in her own right, for being my writing companion

On hikes in the Smoky Mountains, one of my regular companions was my friend and major professor F.

Professor Miller directed my dissertation, which ultimately led to my first book, Whitman's Poetry of

just as I was saying good-bye to DeWolfe Miller and my friends in Tennessee and heading west where my

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

driver and met Whitman one stormy night in 1865 when Whitman, looking (as Doyle said) "like an old sea-captain

W. laughed heartily the instant I put my hands on it (I had seen it often before)—Harned mimicked Doyle

, W. retorting: 'Never mind, the expression on my face atones for all that is lacking in his.

Doyle should be a girl'—but W. shook his head, laughing again: 'No—don't be too hard on it: that is my

I do not press my finger across my mouth, I keep as delicate around the bowels as around the head and

Amelioration is my lesson, he says with calm voice, and progress is my lesson and the lesson of all things

I am the teacher of athletes, He that by me spreads a wider breast than my own proves the width of my

own, He most honors my style who learns under it to destroy the teacher.

What is commonest and cheapest and nearest and easiest is Me, Me going in for my chances, spending for

earth, she cried—I charge you, lose not my sons!

’d; And you trees, down in your roots, to bequeath to all future trees, My dead absorb—my young men’s

coffin that slowly passes, I give you my sprig of lilac.

And how shall I deck my song for the large sweet soul that has gone?

And what shall my perfume be, for the grave of him I love?

"Song of my Cid" is an epic poem of the mid-12th century and the earliest surviving work of Spanish literature

Dear son, how I wish you could come in now, even if but for an hour & take off your coat, & sit on my

two or three days—so on: we were quite thick then: thick: when I had money it was as freely Bill's as my

two or three days—so on: we were quite thick then: thick: when I had money it was as freely Bill's as my

.— "Thou seest all things—thou wilt see my grave, Thou wilt renew thy beauty, morn by morn; I, earth

How can my nature longer mix with thine?

Coldly thy rosy shadows bathe me, cold Are all thy lights, and cold my wrinkled feet Upon thy glimmering

My first glimpse of Whitman was under such circumstances that I could not easily forget him.

As I sat listening to the arguments of Andrew and Sewall in my behalf, and of Woodbury against them,

—of the poet that is to me more attractive than his writings, and my earliest recollections of poetry

I never saw my grey haired friend in such royal spirits.

short collar, open and fine beard, frosted poll, but not with age, till I could compare him only to my

benefactor, and have felt much like and New striking my tasks, visiting York to pay you my respects.

charity has no death— my wisdom diesnot,neither earlynor late, And my sweet love bequeathed here and

For my own part, I may confess that itshone upon me when lifewas when I was my broken, weak, sickly,

should be of my body.

my poems.

There is a lawless saying, fit only for the wise, but full of meaning for poets and great captains,—

I am having it printed on my own account. None of the publishers will take my writings.

I was telling a friend the other day that I was beginning to grow proud of always having my writings

My only way is to print the things myself or have them printed in the newspapers.

You know my motto: "Better than to stand to sit, better than to sit to lie, Better than to dream to sleep

"Yes," he said, "this is my first visit, properly speaking, to Canada, although I was at Niagara Falls

comradeship—friendship is the good old word—the love of my fellow-men.

As to the form of my poetry, I have rejected the rhymed and blank verse.

everything of the kind from my books."

I said, 'Perhaps not, my dear, in the way you mean, and yet maybe it is the same thing.'"

Oh my captain! called Whitman."

This is why I send you My leaping verses, my bounding verses, my spasmodic verses, My hysteria-attack

Hydraulic pump tearing out my guts and my feeling it!

My soul! .. . My ties and ballasts leave me ...

My Captain!," "Come up from the Fields, Father," and "The Singer in Prison."

I can't think of the author's name—my memory plays me such shabby tricks these days—(though I should

The overall need for a work such as this became clear to me in 1996 when I was asked by my friend and

To my surprise, I found no definitive published scholarship on which to draw except for studies that

My task has been to interest both groups while filling in, to the best of my ability, gaps that may exist

face is ash-color'd, my sinews gnarl . . . away from me people retreat.

dur- ing my absence.

I have lost my wits . . . .

I loafe and invite my soul, I lean and loafe at my ease . . . . observing a spear of summer grass.

roof, my doors, my hearth and home How sweet again to see the light and thee!

gab and my loitering.”

I know perfectly well my own egotism. . . .

I will put in my poems, that with you is heroism, upon land and sea. . . .

On my way a moment I pause, Here for you! And here for America!

of my own, And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women my sisters and lovers,

Earth of the limpid gray of clouds, brighter and clear- er clearer for my sake!

I rubbed my eyes a little to see if this sunbeam were no illusion; but the solid sense of the book is

I wish to see my benefactor, and have felt much like striking my tasks and visiting New York to pay you

my respects.

Phantoms welcome, divine and tender, Invisible to the rest, henceforth become my companions; Follow me

Perfume therefore my chant, O Love! immortal Love!

For that we live, my brethren—that is the mission of Poets.

the sisters Death and Might, incessantly softly wash again, and ever again, this soil'd world. … For my

where he lies, white-faced and still in the coffin—I draw near; I bend down and touch lightly with my

All I mark as my own, you shall offset it with your own, Else it were time lost listening to me.

I know I am august; I do not trouble my spirit to vindicate itself, or be understood; I see that the

My foothold is tenon'd and mortis'd in granite; I laugh at what you call dissolution; And I know the

My feet strike an apex of the apices of the stairs; On every step bunches of ages, and larger bunches

Before I was born out of my mother, generations guided me; My embryo has never been torpid—nothing could

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

He even dates from the United States era; in 1856, he writes: In the Year 80 of the States, My tongue

place, with my own day, here.

List close, my scholars dear!

I approached him, gave my name and reason for searching him out, and asked him if he did not find the

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

"My days I sing, and the land's:" this is the key-note.

I cannot tell how my ankles bend, nor whence the cause of my faintest wish, Nor the cause of the friendship

That I walk up my stoop!

The little light fades the immense and diaphanous shadows; The air tastes good to my palate.

'My foothold is tenon'd and mortis'd in granite; I laugh at what you call dissolution; And I know the

, my Captain,' 'When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloomed.'

What I experience or portray shall go from my composition without a shred of my composition.

You shall stand by my side and look in the mirror with me.'

place with my own day here.'

captain!

Leave you not the little spot Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.

O captain, my captain, rise up and hear the bells; Rise up, for you the flag is flung, for you the bugle

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm—he has no pulse

But I, with silent tread Walk the spot my captain lies We have quoted enough, we think, even in these

Cycles ferried my cradle, rowing and rowing like cheerful boatmen, For room to me stars kept aside in

All forces have been steadily employed to complete and delight me: Now I stand on this spot with my Soul

Whitman says "no one will get at my verses who insists upon viewing them as a literary performance, or

After celebrating and singing himself, he continues: "I loafe, and invite my soul."

Was't charged against my chants they had forgotten art? . . .

son and my comrade, dropt at my side that day, One look I but gave, which your dear eyes return'd with

do I not see my love fluttering out among the breakers?

Loud I call to you, my love! High and clear I shoot my voice over the waves.

Hither, my love! Here I am! here!

I spend my evenings altogether at the hospitals— my days often.

He is of my own party; and my politicshave been from my youth essentiallythe same ashis own.

Who 1,arns my Lesson complete.

My hands, my limbs grow nerveless.

The lecture closed with the recitation by the author of his grandly pathetic ' lament, O Captain, my

I look forward to my visit abroad with great expectation. "My health?

My income is just sufficient to keep my head above water—and what more can a poet ask?

of my life.

Sometimes I think my Western experiences a force behind my life work. "Also the battlefield?

"My idea of a book? A book must have a living vertebra to hold it together. "My religion?

It is as follows:— "O captain! my captain!

Leave you not the little spot, Where on the deck my captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. "O captain!

my captain!

"My captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still; My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse

But I with silent tread, Walk the spot my captain lies, Fallen cold and dead."

one day in Boston that Joaquin Miller, whose acquaintance I had gained through a poetical trifle of my

Whitman— I have tried all my life to write for the masses.

A few days later I called upon Whitman, my pockets stuffed with verses.

At its conclusion he smiled forgivingly and asked me to tell him about my grandfather on my mother's

Such a boy, to my mind, is positively nauseating.

My first meeting with Walt Whitman occurred when I was a boy and had occasion to ask for a certain residence

I did not know who or what he was, but on his answering my question I was so struck with the quality

My first visit to him occurred some years later, in the little house on Mickle Street which has been

matter of punctuation, and it was a source of annoyance to find the title of his latest book, "Good Bye My

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

and gently turn'd over upon me, And parted my shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue to my

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 can- non cannon touch'd; My captain lash'd fast with his own

Now I laugh content, for I hear the voice of my little captain, We have not struck, he composedly cries

Only three guns are in use; One is directed by the captain himself against the ene- my's enemy's main-mast

, My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing of blood and air through my lungs

my bare-stript heart, And reached till you felt my beard, and reached till you held my feet.

my Soul!

We closed with him—the yards entangled—the cannon touched, My captain lashed fast with his own hands.

I laughed content when I heard the voice of my little captain, We have not struck, he composedly cried

Herald Office New York Feb 2 1891 My Dear Sir May we venture to hope that you will feel moved to say

Merchantville, in "the leafy month of June," I took occasion, one bright Sunday morning, to call and pay my

visiting Philadelphia, two or three times taken the same liberty and enjoyed the same pleasure; once with my

On my last visit to you, I was glad to see you so, apparently, much better in health than I had anticipated

you an epigram which on a certain occurrence in 1882—a proceeding disgraceful to one of These States—my

I remain, my dear S ir, very truly, your friend, (if you allow me to call you so,) L. Shoemaker.

I was speaking to you in regard. to my appointment for Sailmaker in U.S. Navy.

looking after it for me. and see what you can do towards getting it for me For it has been the height of my

Will put me out of misery. and my mind content any further information Any of the clerks in the Sec of

Excuse my thus troubling Respectfully W.J. W. J. Forbes to Walt Whitman, [1880]

New York, Oct 18th 188 6 Walt Whitman Esq Dear Sir On my return to New York agreeable to promise I beg

Dear Sir Trusting that the intelligence conveyed will plead for my presumption, I venture to enclose

since I first bought the "Leaves of Grass" and before that time I had most earnestly proclaimed to all my

Gilchrist has and to write my name also in my copy. I make this request because Mrs.

I learn from her that your health is better and she showed me a card from you which to my great delight