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It is I, you women—I make my way, I am stern, acrid, large, undissuadable—but I love you, I do not hurt
babes I beget upon you are to beget babes in their turn, I shall demand perfect men and women out of my
Part of "Pictures" was published as "My Picture-Gallery" in The American in October 1880 and later incorporated
REALISM is mine, my miracles, Take all of the rest—take freely—I keep but my own—I give only of them,
As to me, I know of nothing else but miracles, Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan, Or dart my sight
any one I love—or sleep in the bed at night with any one I love, Or sit at the table at dinner with my
perfect old man, or the perfect old woman, Or the sick in hospitals, or the dead carried to burial, Or my
myself make the only growth by which I can be appreciated, I reject none, accept all, reproduce all in my
Have you studied out my land, its idioms and men?
What is this you bring my America? Is it uniform with my country?
Will it absorb into me as I absorb food, air, nobility, meanness—to appear again in my strength, gait
Underneath all is nativity, I swear I will stand by my own nativity—pious or impious, so be it!
My children and grand-children—my white hair and beard, My largeness, calmness, majesty, out of the long
stretch of my life.
is my mind!
O the real life of my senses and flesh, transcending my senses and flesh; O my body, done with materials—my
O to have my life henceforth my poem of joys!
Features of my equals, would you trick me with your creased and cadaverous march?
I saw the face of the most smeared 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
she blushingly cries—Come nigh to me, limber-hipp'd man, and give me your finger and thumb, Stand at my
upon you, Fill me with albescent honey, bend down to me, Rub to me with your chafing beard, rub to my
Grier notes that a portion of this notebook (beginning "How spied the captain and sailors") describes
See particularly the following lines (from the 1891–2 edition): "O the old manhood of me, my noblest
/ My children and grand-children, my white hair and beard, / My largeness, calmness, majesty, out of
the long stretch of my life" (145).
His blood My gore presently oozes from trickles down from a score of thinned with the plentiful sweat
salt ooze of my skin , And See how it as trickles down the black skin I slowly fall s on the reddened
Grier notes that a portion of this notebook (beginning "How spied the captain and sailors") describes
Poem for of of adherence to of my adherence the good old cause the "good old cause" is that in all its
See in particular the opening line: "I WANDER all night in my vision," (1855, p. 70).; There is also
I fling out my fancies toward them;" (1855, p. 38).; 2; 3
When painfully athwart my brain Dark thoughts come crowding on, And, sick of worldly hollowness, My heart
out upon the green I walk, Just ere the close of day, And swift I ween the sight I view Clears all my
I am with you in my soul: I shout—I strike the ball with you— With you I race and roll.— Methinks, white‑winged
My thanks also go to my colleagues at the University of Freiburg for sharing their ideas and offering
Finally, my love and gratitude go to my father, Heinz Gerhardt, for sharing his fascination with other
gab and my loitering” (LG 77).
Ah my silvery beauty – ah my woolly white and crimson!” (“Delicate Cluster”).
O I cruise my old cruise again!
1 COME, my tan-faced children, Follow well in order, get your weapons ready; Have you your pistols?
2 For we cannot tarry here, We must march my darlings, we must bear the brunt of danger, We, the youthful
O my breast aches with tender love for all!
12 See, my children, resolute children, By those swarms upon our rear, we must never yield or falter,
18 I too with my soul and body, We, a curious trio, picking, wandering on our way, Through these shores
COME my tan-faced children, Follow well in order, get your weapons ready, Have you your pistols?
For we cannot tarry here, We must march my darlings, we must bear the brunt of danger, We the youthful
O my breast aches with tender love for all!
See my children, resolute children, By those swarms upon our rear we must never yield or falter, Ages
I too with my soul and body, We, a curious trio, picking, wandering on our way, Through these shores
COME my tan-faced children, Follow well in order, get your weapons ready, Have you your pistols?
For we cannot tarry here, We must march my darlings, we must bear the brunt of danger, We the youthful
O my breast aches with tender love for all!
See my children, resolute children, By those swarms upon our rear we must never yield or falter, Ages
I too with my soul and body, We, a curious trio, picking, wandering on our way, Through these shores
1 COME, my tan-faced children, Follow well in order, get your weapons ready; Have you your pistols?
2 For we cannot tarry here, We must march my darlings, we must bear the brunt of danger, We, the youthful
O my breast aches with tender love for all!
12 See, my children, resolute children, By those swarms upon our rear, we must never yield or falter,
18 I too with my soul and body, We, a curious trio, picking, wandering on our way, Through these shores
The first several lines of draft were revised and published as My Picture-Gallery in The American in
—They retard my book . . ."
As late as 1888 he said of phrenology to Horace Traubel: "I guess most of my friends distrust it—but
In "Song of Myself" the poet asserts: "Before I was born out of my mother generations guided me, / My
decade of his life, he collected royalties on sales of his photographs and had a taste of celebrity: "my
I hope that you will not be offended at the imperfect way in which I have tried to express my faith in
This last pleasure has been denied me; but one of the pleasantest memories of my life is the recollection
The poem of yours that I read over with the most satisfaction is your Burial Hymn of Lincoln —But as my
It was included without the note in Good-Bye My Fancy (1891).
the successor of Rees Welsh, including November Boughs and a new printing of Leaves in 1888, Good-Bye My
As there was nothing done yesterday & the day before on account of the funeral, my waiting for your reply
The copy of "Leaves of Grass" is at my office subject to your order.
Hart got on my car last night on my last trip.
others You may not be interested with his affairs so i will come to close excuse this short letter as my
car is going [to] start & i want [to] put this in the mail good bye My Dear friend Pete i will write
If you see him, tell him I have not forgot him, but send him my love, & will be back in Washington again
Noyes is in town he was on my car yesterday (sunday) & he looks first rate i told him i sent you the
In his letter to Doyle on October 2, 1868, Whitman begins: "You say it is a pleasure to get my letters—well
. & if there is any chances of getting into the Fire Department also to give my respects to all inquiring
about ten minutes ago cant Explain explain the Pleasure pleasure experience from your letters Farewell my
consist of Washington Georgetown & Alexandria it is supposed that Mr Colfax will address the meeting In my
other letter i wrote you that my mother was sick i am happy to state that she has got entirely well.
If the Spirit moves me, I will give you my opinion of the book when I have read it carefully that is
if you should care to know my opinion.
i received your Papers last monday i have been Very anxious to write to you but the Death of one of my
Was Pete the muse for Whitman's most popular Lincoln tribute, the poem, "O Captain! My Captain!"?
While "O Captain!"
Like as not I would go to sleep—lay my head on my hands on the table.
I wish it given to him with my love."
Give my love to dear Mrs. and Mr.
"My 'Leaves of Grass,'" said the old gentleman, "I will publish as I wrote it, minor revisions excepted
"As for poetry, my boy, listen to this."
Now, however, I put my faith in humanity.
He said simply but without petulance, and as if he rather pitied my intelligence: "Of course my poetry
And, after all, in "O Captain! my Captain!"
At the time of my acquaintance I could not lay my finger on any more definite example of this than his
table, a knock at the door of our room—which served both as dining and sitting room—was answered by my
O'Connor offered to go out on the search with him; but before they started my husband asked me, aside
Walt had left his "carpet bag" with my husband, on his way down, wishing to be burdened with as little
When I expressed my doubts about his coming to us on his return from camp,— my husband's answer was,
My own first impression after reading the quarto edition of Leaves of Grass, recommended by Emerson to
"My words itch at your ears till you understand them," he had said.
My heart was palpitating, my nerves tingling, and every sense was alert as we entered the little house
I paused—my nervousness quite gone—feasting my eyes, warming my heart,—when lo!
I have dismissed whatever insulted my own soul or defiled my body.
"My rendezvous is appointed," I murmured, as I kissed him.
treated me kindly, and the young people made a great deal of me, but, perhaps, that was on account of my
printing-house, and superintended everything, even the type in which the book was printed, and they made my
"I spent considerable time in New York," he adds, "and a number of weeks on Long Island, my native place
S o many of my good friends are here that I must call it my home."
"Finally my children, to envelop each word, each part of the rest, Allah is all, all, all—is immanent
Those fellows have one virtue—they always use good paper: and on that I manage to do a good deal of my
London Aug 5. 87 My dear Friend Walt Whitman I write you from the Reading Room of the British Museum.
I have just laid it down and taken up my pen to tell you of the fresh and vigorous fruit your rattling
My address is No 48 Rue d'Orsel Paris. Very affectionately yours Percy Ives.
Oct 21-1886. 48 Rue d'Orsel Montmartre My dear Walt Whitman.
earth, she cried—I charge you, lose not my sons!
local spots, and you airs that swim above lightly, And all you essences of soil and growth—and you, O my
; And you trees, down in your roots, to bequeath to all future trees, My dead absorb—my young men's beautiful
darlings—give my immortal heroes; Exhale me them centuries hence—breathe me their breath—let not an
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.
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.
Paumanok, and My Life on it as Child and Young Man
PASSAGE TO INDIA. 1 SINGING my days, Singing the great achievements of the present, Singing the strong
Struggles of many a captain, tales of many a sailor dead, Over my mood stealing and spreading they come
of you strong mountains of my land! Of you O prairies! of you gray rocks! O morning red! O clouds!
the blood burns in my veins! Away O soul! hoist instantly the anchor!
O my brave soul! O farther farther sail! O daring joy, but safe! are they not all the seas of God?
PASSAGE TO INDIA. 1 SINGING my days, Singing the great achievements of the present, Singing the strong
Struggles of many a captain, tales of many a sailor dead, Over my mood stealing and spreading they come
of you strong mountains of my land! Of you O prairies! of you gray rocks! O morning red! O clouds!
the blood burns in my veins! Away O soul! hoist instantly the anchor!
O my brave soul! O farther farther sail! O daring joy, but safe! are they not all the seas of God?
Of my own life and writings I estimate the giving thanks part, with what it infers, as essentially the
The Pallid Wreath, which was published in the Critic 18 (10 January 1891) and reprinted in Good-Bye My