#1855 #AmericanWriters #LeavesOfGrass
Tears! tears! tears! In the night, in solitude, tears; On the white shore dripping, dripp… Tears—not a star shining—all dark… Moist tears from the eyes of a muf…
Out from behind this bending rough… These lights and shades, this dram… This common curtain of the face co… you, in each for each, (Tragedies, sorrows, laughter, tea…
THE business man, the acquirer va… After assiduous years, surveying r… Devises houses and lands to his ch… funds for a school or hospital, Leaves money to certain companions…
On my northwest coast in the midst… fishermen’s group stands watching; Out on the lake, expanding before… spearing salmon; The canoe, a dim and shadowy thing…
Not the pilot has charged himself… beaten back and many times baffled… Not the pathfinder penetrating inl… By deserts parch’d, snows chill’d,… destination,
Over and through the burial chant, Organ and solemn service, sermon,… To me come interpolation sounds no… crowding up the aisle and from the… Of sudden battle’s hurry and harsh…
Scented herbage of my breast, Leaves from you I yield, I write,… Tomb-leaves, body-leaves, growing… Perennial roots, tall leaves—O th… delicate leaves,
O hymen! O hymenee! why do you ta… O why sting me for a swift moment… Why can you not continue? O why d… Is it because if you continued bey… soon certainly kill me?
The soothing sanity and blitheness… The pomp and hurried contest-glare… Now triumph! transformation! jubil…
1 THE indications, and tally of… Perfect sanity shows the master am… Time, always without flaw, indicat… What always indicates the poet, is… pleasant company of singers, and t…
If I should need to name, O West… and show, ’Twould not be you, Niagara—nor y… huge rifts of canyons, Colorado, Nor you, Yosemite—nor Yellowstone…
A song, a poem of itself—the word… Amid the wilds, the rocks, the sto… To me such misty, strange tableaux… Yonnondio— I see, far in the west or north, a…
The prairie-grass dividing—its spe… I demand of it the spiritual corre… Demand the most copious and close… Demand the blades to rise of words… Those of the open atmosphere, coar…
Why, who makes much of a miracle? As to me I know of nothing else b… Whether I walk the streets of Man… Or dart my sight over the roofs of… Or wade with naked feet along the…
Pensive and faltering, The words the Dead I write, For living are the Dead, (Haply the only living, only real, And I the apparition, I the spect…