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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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Not the Pilot.

Not the pilot has charged himself to bring his ship into port, though beaten back, and many times baffled;
Not the path-finder, penetrating inland, weary and long,
By deserts parch'd, snows-chill'd, rivers wet, perseveres till he reaches his destination,
More than I have charged myself, heeded or unheeded, to compose a free march for These States,
To be exhilarating music to them—a battle-call, rousing to arms, if need be—years, centuries hence.
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