I Sit and Look Out
I sit and look out upon all the sorrows of the world, and upon all / oppression and shame,
Walt Whitman
51 poems
I am the of Earth, said the voice of the rain,
Eternal I rise impalpable out of the land and the bottomless sea, / Upward to heaven, whence, vaguely form'd, altogether changed, and
Life and Death
The two old, simple problems ever intertwined, / Close home, elusive, present, baffled, grappled.
Long, Too Long America
Long, too long America, / Traveling roads all even and peaceful you learn'd from joys and
Miracles
Why, who makes much of a miracle? / As to me I know of nothing else but miracles,
No Labor-Saving Machine
No labor-saving machine, / Nor discovery have I made,
Not Heat Flames Up and Consumes
Not heat flames up and consumes, / Not sea-waves hurry in and out,
Now Finale to the Shore
Now finale to the shore, / Now land and life finale and farewell,
O Me O Life
O me! O life! of the questions of these recurring, / Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill'd with the foolish,
Old War-Dreams
In midnight sleep of many a face of anguish, / Of the look at first of the mortally wounded, (of that indescribable look,)
On the Beach at Night Alone
On the beach at night alone, / As the old mother sways her to and fro singing her husky song,
One's-Self I Sing
One's-self I sing, a simple separate person, / Yet utter the word Democratic, the word En-Masse.
Out of May's Shows Selected
Apple orchards, the trees all cover'd with blossoms; / Wheat fields carpeted far and near in vital emerald green;
Pensive on Her Dead Gazing
Pensive on her dead gazing I heard the Mother of All, / Desperate on the torn bodies, on the forms covering the battlefields gazing,
Queries to My Seventieth Year
Approaching, nearing, curious, / Thou dim, uncertain spectre--bringest thou life or death?
Sail out for Good, Eidolon Yacht!
Heave the anchor short! / Raise main-sail and jib--steer forth,
Soon Shall the Winter's Foil Be Here
Soon shall the winter's foil be here; / Soon shall these icy ligatures unbind and melt--A little while,
Sounds of the Winter
Sounds of the winter too, / Sunshine upon the mountains--many a distant strain
The Pallid Wreath
Somehow I cannot let it go yet, funeral though it is, / Let it remain back there on its nail suspended,
The Ship Starting
Lo, the unbounded sea, / On its breast a ship starting, spreading all sails, carrying even