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thee, And royal feudal Europe sails with thee. 5 Beautiful world of new superber birth that rises to my

(Lo, where arise three peerless stars, To be thy natal stars my country, Ensemble, Evolution, Freedom

my special word to thee. Hear me illustrious!

wood edge, thy touching-distant beams enough, Or man matured, or young or old, as now to thee I launch my

launch thy subtle dazzle and thy strength for these, Prepare the later afternoon of me myself—prepare my

lengthen- ing lengthening shadows, Prepare my starry nights.

This face owes to the sexton his dismalest fee, An unceasing death-bell tolls there. 3 Features of my

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

near the garden pickets, Come here she blushingly cries, Come nigh to me limber-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

refreshing night the walks of Paradise, I scent the grass, the moist air and the roses; Thy song expands my

and for my sensuous eyes, Bring the old pageants, show the feudal world.

the terrible tableaus. 7 O trumpeter, methinks I am myself the instrument thou playest, Thou melt'st my

heart, my brain—thou movest, drawest, chan- gest changest them at will; And now thy sullen notes send

soul, renew its languishing faith and hope, Rouse up my slow belief, give me some vision of the future

THEE for my recitative, Thee in the driving storm even as now, the snow, the winter-day declining, Thee

Roll through my chant with all thy lawless music, thy swinging lamps at night, Thy madly-whistled laughter

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

parrots in the woods, I see the papaw-tree and the blos- soming blossoming titi; Again, sailing in my

I WAS asking for something specific and perfect for my city, Whereupon lo!

there is in a name, a word, liquid, sane, unruly, musical, self-sufficient, I see that the word of my

my city!

Which vocalist never sung, nor orator nor actor ever utter'd, Invoking here and now I challenge for my

poverties, wincings, and sulky retreats, Ah you foes that in conflict have overcome me, (For what is my

You toil of painful and choked articulations, you meannesses, You shallow tongue-talks at tables, (my

Ah think not you finally triumph, my real self has yet to come forth, It shall yet march forth o'ermastering

Weave In, My Hardy Life. WEAVE IN, MY HARDY LIFE.

WEAVE in, weave in, my hardy life, Weave yet a soldier strong and full for great campaigns to come, Weave

have communed together, Mine too such wild arrays, for reasons of their own; Was't charged against my

Then my realities; What else is so real as mine?

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

soldiers South or North, As I muse retrospective murmuring a chant in thought, The war resumes, again to my

Now sound no note O trumpeters, Not at the head of my cavalry parading on spirited horses, With sabres

drawn and glistening, and carbines by their thighs, (ah my brave horsemen!

My handsome tan-faced horsemen! what life, what joy and pride, With all the perils were yours.)

Perfume therefore my chant, O love, immortal love, Give me to bathe the memories of all dead soldiers

, are, Of this Union welded in blood, of the solemn price paid, of the unnamed lost ever present in my

SPLENDOR of ended day floating and filling me, Hour prophetic, hour resuming the past, Inflating my throat

Open mouth of my soul uttering gladness, Eyes of my soul seeing perfection, Natural life of me faithfully

To prepare for sleep, for bed, to look on my rose-color'd flesh!

To be conscious of my body, so satisfied, so large! To be this incredible God I am!

How my thoughts play subtly at the spectacles around! How the clouds pass silently overhead!

AS at thy portals also death, Entering thy sovereign, dim, illimitable grounds, To memories of my mother

My Legacy. MY LEGACY.

But I, my life surveying, closing, With nothing to show to devise from its idle years, Nor houses nor

lands, nor tokens of gems or gold for my friends, Yet certain remembrances of the war for you, and after

you, And little souvenirs of camps and soldiers, with my love, I bind together and bequeath in this

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.

AS they draw to a close, Of what underlies the precedent songs—of my aims in them, Of the seed I have

in them, Of joy, sweet joy, through many a year, in them, (For them, for them have I lived, in them my

(Pleas'd to my soul at death I cry,) Our life is closed, our life begins, The long, long anchorage we

THESE carols sung to cheer my passage through the world I see, For completion I dedicate to the Invisible

I remember I said before my leaves sprang at all, I would raise my voice jocund and strong with reference

I have press'd through in my own right, I have sung the body and the soul, war and peace have I sung,

I have offer'd my style to every one, I have journey'd with confi- dent confident step; While my pleasure

My songs cease, I abandon them, From behind the screen where I hid I advance personally solely to you

Remember my words, I may again return, I love you, I depart from materials, I am as one disembodied,

suppose you know all about it & have had the same—I still keep well & in good trim, thank the Lord—eat my

—Mrs G appears to be about well again— It is now 12½ Sunday—it is moderated, & the sun has come out—my

sassier this winter so far than for some years, am very comfortable here, plain & quiet though—eat my

any book particular you want, you tell me, & I will try to get it—Lots of sleighs out, good sleighing—my

had dinner, hot soup, cold roast beef, apple pie—all good—the sun is out real warm, & I shall go at my

should just like to have a ten mile ride behind his nag with the sleigh bells—Dear boy, I send you my

for $12.50 on Jan: 22—I write to-day that I have not seen or heard of any such order, but consider it my

431 Stevens Street Camden New Jersey Jan: January 8 My dear Miss G Yours of yesterday rec'd received

431 Stevens Street Camden New Jersey Jan: 15 '81 My dear friend As I have not rec'd received the proof

In the Feb: February N A North American Review there is a piece of mine about Poetry (a good many of my

send to Mr Rice, the editor, or Mr Metcalf the business manager, & I think get the sheets—you can use my

name— Walt Whitman Should you notice, send to me In my last I addressed you at 757 Broadway—is either

invitation to write an article on Longfellow for the World —but I shall have to decline—I cannot get my

forthcoming number of the N A North American Review for February, in which I have ventilated some of my

431 Stevens Street Camden Sunday afternoon Jan: 16 My dear friends You havn't haven't sent for the two

I was out once or twice sleighing—my brother took me—his mare Nelly is in fine condition—pretty lively—makes

things fly sometimes I have been in all day reading & writing—I have put up two sets of my books, to

farmer—well if he is satisfied, it is about as good as anything, I don't know but better— There comes my

call to dinner, & I shall go for it without delay & finish my helter-skelter letter afterwards.

I am not accustomed thus to present my claim to acquaintanceship with writers.

I will believe this also, adding it to my "creed" the "I believes", of my religion which years ago I

I was certain my dear brother would not ask me to read a bad book.

That was my hour of triumph for my poet. For I had heard Mr.

If I were younger I would strive with all my to do something worthy of my worship of your genius, worthy

It tickles my diaphragm to see you run huge subsoil prairie plough so deep down under the feet of the

My heart, at least, swells with gladness & pride on account of honors this winter.

I can't for my poor self at any rate.

Jan 21 1881 Walt Whitman My dear Sir Permit me to thank you on behalf of the readers of the Review for

be able to afford to the readers of the Review frequent opportunity of being instructed by you I am my

Jany January 22 188 1 Walt Whitman Esq My Dear Sir: I take great pleasure acknowledging the receipt of

431 Stevens Street Camden Jan: 26 '81 My dear friend I am sorry to have to send you word that I am not

unable to meet you & the other friends at dinner—I send you herewith a couple of pictures (I call it my

Quaker picture) —one is for your father —also the books herewith—also my love to you— Walt Whitman Walt

431 Stevens Street, Camden, Jan: 26 '81 My dear friend I am sorry to have to send you word that I am

unable to meet you & the other friends at dinner— I send you herewith a couple of pictures (I call it my

Quaker picture)—one is for your father—also the books herewith —also my love to you— Walt Whitman Walt

silent thoughts of God, & death—& not at all in what he says , nor in Sunday or prayer meeting gas —My

Dear Friend and Master You see I am now back in my own country.

I am staying, with my wife (I have been married about 18 months) at my father's house.

You did not say anything about my translation of Epictetus which I sent you.

I want it as a present for a friend, so don't write my name in the beginning.

Indeed the friend is my wife—so on second thoughts I would be glad, & so would she, if you would write

Camden Sunday afternoon Jan: 30— My dear friend, I rec'd received your good letter some days since, &

write you—it is now ½ past 2, after dinner, & I have been writing & fixing up a composition alone in my

25 Chesham Street S.W 31 January 1881 My good friend, It was a kind thought of yours sending me your

I will not trouble you with more of my views of this subject!

have not stirred out—the roads and rivers here all block'd blocked with snow and ice—the last week my

Rice, to me about a week after the piece appeared, one of the most eulogistic, solid acceptances of my

get out of the house—but with Spring & good weather shall no doubt be all right again—I truly hope, my

I see that Jan: 6 I sent you my circular in answer to previous letter from you—that is the only correspondence—I

But as in all such cases, I consider it my obligation & loss.

I send the Two Volumes, to you, same mail with this—The Two embody all my works—the little Vol's being

for $12.50 on Jan: 22—I write to-day that I have not seen or heard of any such order, but consider it my

had a strange chill, rattled me for two hours lively—one or two since but milder—the doctor thinks my

431 Stevens Street Camden New Jersey Feb: 6 '81 My dear J L G I send you the Carlyle piece as requested

forget to mention before (& perhaps is not strictly needed any how) I reserve the right to print any of my

& fixing the ground , more & more & more—& now that the seed is dropt dropped in it sprouts quickly—my

own feeling ab't about my book is that it makes (tries to make) every fellow see himself , & see that

real, & are mostly within reach of all—you chew on this— Hank, I am still feeling under the weather—My

Feb 16/81 My dearest friend, At last I am beginning to feel myself again after a four months spell of

I feel as if my usual good health has made me obtuse & unsympathetic towards the ailing.

It was very hard for us to be sundered during my illness—but was the right thing to do, she was so much

My letter seems all about myself but then I want you to know why I have been so long silent.

I send you a photo of my little grandson. Anne Gilchrist to Walt Whitman, 16 February 1881

431 Stevens Street Camden New Jersey Feb: 20 '81 My dear Mr Longfellow A friend in Canada—to whom I am

Before the window where I do my morning work, there is an old lilac tree, dating from my grandmother's

Forgive my assurance, and, if possible give me that pleasure of that great recompense for being so unknown

431 Stevens Street Camden New Jersey Feb: 22 '81 My dear Eustace Conway I am sorry I was out when you