Book XXXIV. Sands At Seventy: Not Meagre, Latent Boughs Alone
Not meagre, latent boughs alone, O songs! (scaly and bare, like eagles’
talons,)
But haply for some sunny day (who knows?) some future spring, some
summer—bursting forth,
To verdant leaves, or sheltering shade—to nourishing fruit,
Apples and grapes—the stalwart limbs of trees emerging—the fresh,
free, open air,
And love and faith, like scented roses blooming.
Autres oeuvres par Walt Whitman...
