#AmericanWriters #XIXCentury #1855 #LeavesOfGrass
While my wife at my side lies slum… And my head on the pillow rests at… And through the stillness, through… of my infant, There in the room as I wake from…
Who goes there? hankering, gross,… How is it I extract strength from… What is a man anyhow? what am I?… All I mark as my own you shall of… Else it were time lost listening t…
A child said What is the grass? f… How could I answer the child? I d… I guess it must be the flag of my… Or I guess it is the handkerchief… A scented gift and remembrancer de…
America always! Always our own feuillage! Always Florida’s green peninsula!… Louisiana! Always the cotton—fiel… Always California’s golden hills…
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…
The spotted hawk swoops by and acc… I too am not a bit tamed, I too a… I sound my barbaric yawp over the… The last scud of day holds back fo… It flings my likeness after the re…
I celebrate myself, and sing mysel… And what I assume you shall assum… For every atom belonging to me as… I loafe and invite my soul, I lean and loafe at my ease observ…
O magnet-south! O glistening perf… O quick mettle, rich blood, impuls… to me! O dear to me my birth-things—all m… was born—the grains, plants, river…
On the beach at night alone, As the old mother sways her to and… As I watch the bright stars shini… universes and of the future. A vast similitude interlocks all,
Behold this swarthy face—these gra… This beard—the white wool, unclipt… My brown hands, and the silent man… Yet comes one, a Manhattanese, an… on the lips with robust love,
Soon shall the winter’s foil be he… Soon shall these icy ligatures unb… And air, soil, wave, suffused shal… From these dead clods and chills a… Thine eyes, ears—all thy best attr…
I was looking a long while for the… It is not in those paged fables in… It is no more in the legends than… It is in the present—it is this ea… It is in Democracy—in this Americ…
The touch of flame—the illuminatin… O’er city, passion, sea—o’er prair… The airy, different, changing hues… Objects and groups, bearings, face… The calmer sight—the golden settin…
Others may praise what they like; But I, from the banks of the runn… aught else, Till it has well inhaled the atmos… prairie-scent,
NOW, dearest comrade, lift me to… We must separate awhile—Here! tak… Whoever you are, I give it especi… So long!—And I hope we shall meet…
