#1855 #AmericanWriters #LeavesOfGrass
I think I could turn and live wit… I stand and look at them long and… They do not sweat and whine about… They do not lie awake in the dark… They do not make me sick discussin…
I see the sleeping babe, nestling… mother; The sleeping mother and babe—hush’… long and long.
By the bivouac’s fitful flame, A procession winding around me, so… first I note, The tents of the sleeping army, th… The darkness lit by spots of kindl…
O tan-faced prairie-boy, Before you came to camp came many… Praises and presents came and nour… You came, taciturn, with nothing t… When lo! more than all the gifts o…
You who celebrate bygones, Who have explored the outward, the… has exhibited itself, Who have treated of man as the cre… and priests,
When the full-grown poet came, Out spake pleased Nature (the rou… of day and night,) saying, He is m… But out spake too the Soul of man… Nay he is mine alone;
I doubt it not—then more, far more… In each old song bequeath’d—in eve… (Different—something unreck’d befo… In every object, mountain, tree, a… As part of each—evolv’d from each—…
A vague mist hanging ‘round half t… (Sometimes how strange and clear t… That all these solid things are in…
Approaching, nearing, curious, Thou dim, uncertain spectre—bringe… Strength, weakness, blindness, mor… Or placid skies and sun? Wilt sti… Or haply cut me short for good? O…
America always! Always our own feuillage! Always Florida’s green peninsula!… Louisiana! Always the cotton—fiel… Always California’s golden hills…
And whence and why come you? We know not whence, (was the answe… We only know that we drift here wi… That we linger’d and lagg’d—but we… To make the passing shower’s concl…
I believe in you my soul, the othe… And you must not be abased to the… Loafe with me on the grass, loose… Not words, not music or rhyme I w… Only the lull I like, the hum of…
Beat! beat! drums!—blow! bugles! b… Through the windows—through doors—… Into the solemn church, and scatte… Into the school where the scholar… Leave not the bridegroom quiet—no…
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,
These I singing in spring collect… (For who but I should understand… And who but I should be the poet… Collecting I traverse the garden… Now along the pond-side, now wadin…