#AmericanWriters #XIXCentury #1855 #LeavesOfGrass
I heard you solemn-sweet pipes of… pass’d the church, Winds of autumn, as I walk’d the… stretch’d sighs up above so mournf… I heard the perfect Italian tenor…
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…
I am the teacher of athletes, He that by me spreads a wider brea… He most honors my style who learns… The boy I love, the same becomes… Wicked rather than virtuous out of…
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,
That music always round me, unceas… I did not hear, But now the chorus I hear and am… A tenor, strong, ascending with po… daybreak I hear,
While not the past forgetting, To-day, at least, contention sunk… For sign reciprocal our Northern,… Lay on the graves of all dead sold… (Nor for the past alone—for meanin…
The two old, simple problems ever… Close home, elusive, present, baff… By each successive age insoluble,… To ours to-day—and we pass on the…
1 To think of it! To think of time—of all that retro… To think of to—day and the ages co… forward! 2 Have you guess’d you yourself w…
Quicksand years that whirl me I k… Your schemes, politics, fail, line… Only the theme I sing, the great… One’s-self must never give way—tha… all is sure,
On a flat road runs the well-train… He is lean and sinewy with muscula… He is thinly clothed, he leans for… With lightly closed fists and arms…
The negro holds firmly the reins o… The negro that drives the long dra… His blue shirt exposes his ample n… His glance is calm and commanding,… The sun falls on his crispy hair a…
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;
Did we count great, O soul, to pe… Absorbing deep and full from thoug… But now from thee to me, caged bir… Filling the air, the lonesome room… Is it not just as great, O soul?
I believe in you my soul, the othe… And you must not be abased to the… Loafe with me on the grass, loose… Not words, not music or rhyme I w… Only the lull I like, the hum of…
As at thy portals also death, Entering thy sovereign, dim, illim… To memories of my mother, to the d… To her, buried and gone, yet burie… (I see again the calm benignant fa…