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Nature poems

 / page 152 of 287 /

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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;

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,

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 determin’d to make illustrious, even if I stand sole among men;
From my own voice resonant—singing the phallus,

Warble for Lilac-Time.

© Walt Whitman

WARBLE me now, for joy of Lilac-time,
Sort me, O tongue and lips, for Nature’s sake, and sweet life’s sake—and
death’s the same as life’s,
Souvenirs of earliest summer—birds’ eggs, and the first berries;

A Carol of Harvest, for 1867

© Walt Whitman

1
A SONG of the good green grass!
A song no more of the city streets;
A song of farms—a song of the soil of fields.

Song of the Universal.

© Walt Whitman

1
COME, said the Muse,
Sing me a song no poet yet has chanted,
Sing me the Universal.

To Oratists.

© Walt Whitman

TO oratists—to male or female,
Vocalism, measure, concentration, determination, and the divine power to use words.
Are you full-lung’d and limber-lipp’d from long trial? from vigorous practice?
from

Behavior.

© Walt Whitman

BEHAVIOR—fresh, native, copious, each one for himself or herself,
Nature and the Soul expressed—America and freedom expressed—In it the finest
art,
In it pride, cleanliness, sympathy, to have their chance,

Native Moments.

© Walt Whitman

NATIVE moments! when you come upon me—Ah you are here now!
Give me now libidinous joys only!
Give me the drench of my passions! Give me life coarse and rank!
To-day, I go consort with nature’s darlings—to-night too;

Give me the Splendid, Silent Sun.

© Walt Whitman

1
GIVE me the splendid silent sun, with all his beams full-dazzling;
Give me juicy autumnal fruit, ripe and red from the orchard;
Give me a field where the unmow’d grass grows;

Think of the Soul.

© Walt Whitman

THINK of the Soul;
I swear to you that body of yours gives proportions to your Soul somehow to live in other
spheres;
I do not know how, but I know it is so.

We Two—How Long We were Fool’d.

© Walt Whitman

WE two—how long we were fool’d!
Now transmuted, we swiftly escape, as Nature escapes;
We are Nature—long have we been absent, but now we return;
We become plants, leaves, foliage, roots, bark;

To a President.

© Walt Whitman

ALL you are doing and saying is to America dangled mirages,
You have not learn’d of Nature—of the politics of Nature, you have not
learn’d
the

One Hour to Madness and Joy.

© Walt Whitman

ONE hour to madness and joy!
O furious! O confine me not!
(What is this that frees me so in storms?
What do my shouts amid lightnings and raging winds mean?)

Proud Music of The Storm.

© Walt Whitman

1
PROUD music of the storm!
Blast that careers so free, whistling across the prairies!
Strong hum of forest tree-tops! Wind of the mountains!

Spontaneous Me.

© Walt Whitman

SPONTANEOUS me, Nature,
The loving day, the mounting sun, the friend I am happy with,
The arm of my friend hanging idly over my shoulder,
The hill-side whiten’d with blossoms of the mountain ash,

Myself and Mine.

© Walt Whitman

MYSELF and mine gymnastic ever,
To stand the cold or heat—to take good aim with a gun—to sail a boat—to
manage
horses—to beget superb children,

To a Common Prostitute.

© Walt Whitman

BE composed—be at ease with me—I am Walt Whitman, liberal and lusty as Nature;
Not till the sun excludes you, do I exclude you;
Not till the waters refuse to glisten for you, and the leaves to rustle for you, do my
words

Passage to India.

© Walt Whitman

1
SINGING my days,
Singing the great achievements of the present,
Singing the strong, light works of engineers,

As I Sat Alone by Blue Ontario’s Shores.

© Walt Whitman

1
AS I sat alone, by blue Ontario’s shore,
As I mused of these mighty days, and of peace return’d, and the dead that return no
more,

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