#AmericanWriters #XIXCentury #1855 #LeavesOfGrass
To the garden, the world, anew asc… Potent mates, daughters, sons, pre… The love, the life of their bodies… Curious, here behold my resurrecti… The revolving cycles, in their wid…
I believe a leaf of grass is no le… And the pismire is equally perfect… And the tree-toad is a chef-d’oeuv… And the running blackberry would a… And the narrowest hinge in my hand…
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…
WHAT General has a good army in… He happy in himself, or she happy…
As I walk these broad majestic da… (For the war, the struggle of bloo… Against vast odds erewhile having… Now thou stridest on, yet perhaps… Perhaps to engage in time in still…
You lingering sparse leaves of me… And I some well-shorn tree of fie… You tokens diminute and lorn—(not… clover-bloom—no grain of August no… You pallid banner-staves—you penna…
From Paumanok starting I fly like… Around and around to soar to sing… To the north betaking myself to si… To Kanada till I absorb Kanada i… To Wisconsin, Iowa, Minnesota, t…
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…
Grand is the seen, the light, to m… Grand is the earth, and grand are… And grand their laws, so multiform… But grander far the unseen soul of… (What were all those, indeed, with…
As I sit with others at a great f… To my mind, (whence it comes I kn… at sea, Of certain ships, how they sail fr… wafted kisses, and that is the las…
Come, I will make the continent i… I will make the most splendid race… I will make divine magnetic lands, With the love of comrades, With the life—long love of comrade…
With all thy gifts America, Standing secure, rapidly tending,… Power, wealth, extent, vouchsafed… vouchsafed to thee, What if one gift thou lackest? (th…
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…
Spontaneous me, Nature, The loving day, the mounting sun,… The arm of my friend hanging idly… The hill-side whiten’d with blosso… The same, late in autumn—the hues…
A batter’d, wreck’d old man, Thrown on this savage shore, far,… Pent by the sea and dark rebelliou… Sore, stiff with many toils, sicke… I take my way along the island’s e…
