Love poems
/ page 633 of 1285 /
France, the 18th year of These States.
© Walt Whitman
1
A GREAT year and place;
A harsh, discordant, natal scream out-sounding, to touch the mothers heart closer
than
Rise, O Days.
© Walt Whitman
1
RISE, O days, from your fathomless deeps, till you loftier, fiercer sweep!
Long for my soul, hungering gymnastic, I devourd what the earth gave me;
Long I roamd the woods of the northlong I watchd Niagara pouring;
To the East and to the West.
© Walt Whitman
TO the East and to the West;
To the man of the Seaside State, and of Pennsylvania,
To the Kanadian of the Northto the Southerner I love;
These, with perfect trust, to depict you as myselfthe germs are in all men;
These, I, Singing in Spring.
© Walt Whitman
THESE, I, singing in spring, collect for lovers,
(For who but I should understand lovers, and all their sorrow and joy?
And who but I should be the poet of comrades?)
Collecting, I traverse the garden, the worldbut soon I pass the gates,
Mystic Trumpeter, The.
© Walt Whitman
1
HARK! some wild trumpetersome strange musician,
Hovering unseen in air, vibrates capricious tunes to-night.
Vigil Strange I Kept on the Field.
© Walt Whitman
VIGIL strange I kept on the field one night:
When you, my son and my comrade, dropt at my side that day,
One look I but gave, which your dear eyes returnd, with a look I shall never forget;
Among the Multitude.
© Walt Whitman
AMONG the men and women, the multitude,
I perceive one picking me out by secret and divine signs,
Acknowledging none elsenot parent, wife, husband, brother, child, any nearer than I
am;
City Dead-House, The.
© Walt Whitman
BY the City Dead-House, by the gate,
As idly sauntering, wending my way from the clangor,
I curious pausefor lo! an outcast form, a poor dead prostitute brought;
Her corpse they deposit unclaimdit lies on the damp brick pavement;
Dresser, The.
© Walt Whitman
1
AN old man bending, I come, among new faces,
Years looking backward, resuming, in answer to children,
Come tell us, old man, as from young men and maidens that love me;
A Broadway Pageant.
© Walt Whitman
1
OVER the western sea, hither from Niphon come,
Courteous, the swart-cheekd two-sworded envoys,
Leaning back in their open barouches, bare-headed, impassive,
Italian Music in Dakota.
© Walt Whitman
THROUGH the soft evening air enwrinding all,
Rocks, woods, fort, cannon, pacing sentries, endless wilds,
In dulcet streams, in flutes and cornets notes,
Electric, pensive, turbulent artificial,
Respondez!
© Walt Whitman
RESPONDEZ! Respondez!
(The war is completedthe price is paidthe title is settled beyond recall;)
Let every one answer! let those who sleep be waked! let none evade!
Must we still go on with our affectations and sneaking?
Salut au Monde.
© Walt Whitman
1
O TAKE my hand, Walt Whitman!
Such gliding wonders! such sights and sounds!
Such joind unended links, each hookd to the next!
Carol of Words.
© Walt Whitman
1
EARTH, round, rolling, compactsuns, moons, animalsall these are words to be
said;
Watery, vegetable, sauroid advancesbeings, premonitions, lispings of the future,
States!
© Walt Whitman
STATES!
Were you looking to be held together by the lawyers?
By an agreement on a paper? Or by arms?
From Pent-up Aching Rivers.
© Walt Whitman
FROM pent-up, aching rivers;
From that of myself, without which I were nothing;
From what I am determind to make illustrious, even if I stand sole among men;
From my own voice resonantsinging the phallus,
Warble for Lilac-Time.
© Walt Whitman
WARBLE me now, for joy of Lilac-time,
Sort me, O tongue and lips, for Natures sake, and sweet lifes sakeand
deaths the same as lifes,
Souvenirs of earliest summerbirds eggs, and the first berries;
Excelsior.
© Walt Whitman
WHO has gone farthest? For lo! have not I gone farther?
And who has been just? For I would be the most just person of the earth;
And who most cautious? For I would be more cautious;
And who has been happiest? O I think it is I! I think no one was ever happier than I;
Who is now Reading This?
© Walt Whitman
WHO is now reading this?
May-be one is now reading this who knows some wrong-doing of my past life,
Or may-be a stranger is reading this who has secretly loved me,
Or may-be one who meets all my grand assumptions and egotisms with derision,
Of the Terrible Doubt of Appearances.
© Walt Whitman
OF the terrible doubt of appearances,
Of the uncertainty after allthat we may be deluded,
That may-be reliance and hope are but speculations after all,
That may-be identity beyond the grave is a beautiful fable only,
