#1855 #AmericanWriters #LeavesOfGrass
COME closer to me; Push close, my lovers, and take th… Yield closer and closer, and give… This is unfinish’d business with m… (I was chill’d with the cold types…
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…
What are those of the known, but t… And what are those of life, but fo…
HE is wisest who has the most cau… He only wins who goes far enough. ANY thing is as good as establish… lished that will produce it and co…
Scented herbage of my breast, Leaves from you I yield, I write,… Tomb-leaves, body-leaves, growing… Perennial roots, tall leaves—O th… delicate leaves,
This dust was once the Man, Gentle, plain, just and resolute—u… Against the foulest crime in histo… Was saved the Union of These Sta…
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…
Rise O days from your fathomless… Long for my soul hungering gymnast… Long I roam’d amid the woods of t… I travel’d the prairies over and s… Nevadas, I cross’d the plateaus,
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…
Who are you dusky woman, so ancien… With your woolly-white and turban’… Why rising by the roadside here, d… (’Tis while our army lines Caroli… Forth from thy hovel door thou Et…
Yet, yet, ye downcast hours, I kn… Weights of lead, how ye clog and c… Earth to a chamber of mourning tur… voice, Matter is conqueror—matter, triump…
Now I will do nothing but listen, To accrue what I hear into this s… I hear bravuras of birds, bustle o… I hear the sound I love, the soun… I hear all sounds running together…
A newer garden of creation, no pri… Dense, joyous, modern, populous mi… With iron interlaced, composite, t… By all the world contributed—freed… The crown and teeming paradise, so…
Manhattan’s streets I saunter’d p… On Time, Space, Reality—on such… Prudence. The last explanation always remain… immortality.
A SONG of the good green grass! A song no more of the city streets… A song of farms—a song of the soil… A song with the smell of sun-dried… handle the pitch-fork;
