#AmericanWriters #XIXCentury #1855 #LeavesOfGrass
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…
Whoever you are, I fear you are w… I fear these supposed realities ar… Even now your features, joys, spee… Your true soul and body appear bef… They stand forth out of affairs, o…
All you are doing and saying is to… You have not learn’d of Nature—of… learn’d the great amplitude, recti… You have not seen that only such a… And that what is less than they mu…
STATES! Were you looking to be held togeth… By an agreement on a paper? Or by… Away! I arrive, bringing these, beyond a…
The little one sleeps in its cradl… I lift the gauze and look a long t… The youngster and the red-faced gi… I peeringly view them from the top… The suicide sprawls on the bloody…
1 An old man bending, I come, am… Years looking backward, resuming,… dren, Come tell us old man, as from youn… that love me;
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…
ONE song, America, before I go, I’d sing, o’er all the rest, with… For thee—the Future. I’d sow a seed for thee of endless… I’d fashion thy Ensemble, includi…
Night on the prairies, The supper is over, the fire on th… The wearied emigrants sleep, wrapt… I walk by myself—I stand and look… realized before.
There is that in me’I do not kn… Wrench’d and sweaty’calm and coo… I sleep’I sleep long. I do not know it’it is without n… It is not in any dictionary, utter…
Trickle drops! my blue veins leavi… O drops of me! trickle, slow drops… Candid from me falling, drip, blee… From wounds made to free you whenc… From my face, from my forehead and…
Race of veterans—race of victors! Race of the soil, ready for confli… (No more credulity’s race, abiding… Race henceforth owning no law but… Race of passion and the storm.
Full of life, now, compact, visibl… I, forty years old the Eighty-thi… To one a century hence, or any num… To you, yet unborn, these, seeking… When you read these, I, that was…
(“The Seventeenth—the finest Regi… Through the soft evening air enwin… Rocks, woods, fort, cannon, pacing… In dulcet streams, in flutes’ and… Electric, pensive, turbulent, arti…
(Volunteer of 1861-2, at Washingt… Centenarian.) Give me your hand old Revolutiona… The hill-top is nigh, but a few st… Up the path you have follow’d me w…
