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Leaves of grass (1872)

Whitman, Walt (1819-1892)

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Leaves of Grass.
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INSCRIPTIONS.
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Starting from Paumanok.
  
THE SHIP STARTING.
  
UNFOLDED OUT OF THE FOLDS.
  
TO YOU.
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WALT WHITMAN.
  
Laws for Creations.
  
VISOR'D.
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CHILDREN OF ADAM.
  
To Him that was Crucified.
  
Perfections.
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CALAMUS.
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SALUT AU MONDE!
  
A Child's Amaze.
  
The Runner.
  
Beautiful Women.
  
Mother and Babe.
  
Thought.
  
American Feuillage.
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Song of the Broad-Axe.
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Song of the Open Road.
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Leaves of Grass.
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Crossing Brooklyn Ferry.
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WITH ANTECEDENTS.
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THE ANSWERER.
  
The City Dead-House.
  
A Farm Picture.
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Carol of Occupations.
  
THOUGHTS.
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THE SLEEPERS.
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CAROL OF WORDS.
  
Ah Poverties, Wincings, and Sulky Retreats.
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Leaves of Grass.
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A Broadway Pageant.
  
SUGGESTIONS.
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Great are the Myths.
  
Thought.
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Leaves of Grass.
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DRUM-TAPS.
  
[Aroused and angry]
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DRUM-TAPS.
  
1861.
  
BEAT! BEAT! DRUMS!
  
From Paumanok Starting I Fly like a Bird.
  
Rise, O Days, from your Fathomless Deeps.
  
City of Ships.
  
The Centenarian's Story.
  
An Army Corps on the March.
  
Cavalry Crossing a Ford.
  
Bivouac on a Mountain Side.
  
By the Bivouac's Fitful Flame.
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Come Up from the Fields, Father.
  
Vigil Strange I Kept on the Field one Night.
  
A March in the Ranks Hard-prest, and the Road Unknown.
  
A Sight in Camp in the Day-break Grey and Dim.
  
Not the Pilot.
  
As Toilsome I Wander'd Virginia's Woods.
  
Year that Trembled and Reel'd Beneath Me.
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The Dresser.
  
Long, too long, O Land.
  
Give Me the Splendid Silent Sun.
  
Dirge for Two Veterans.
  
Over the Carnage Rose Prophetic a Voice.
  
The Artilleryman's Vision.
  
I Saw Old General at Bay.
  
O Tan-Faced Prairie-Boy.
  
LOOK DOWN FAIR MOON.
  
Reconciliation.
  
Spirit whose Work is Done.
  
How Solemn, as One by One.
  
Not Youth Pertains to Me.
  
To the Leaven'd Soil They Trod.
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Leaves of Grass.
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Marches now the War is Over.
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Leaves of Grass.
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Bathed in War's Perfume.
  
A Hand-Mirror.
  
Germs.
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Leaves of Grass.
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Songs of Insurrection.
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Leaves of Grass.
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SONGS OF PARTING.
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PASSAGE TO INDIA.

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5

11

What is it, then, between us?
What is the count of the scores or hundreds of years between us?

12

Whatever it is, it avails not—distance avails not, and place avails not.
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