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105
Walt Whitman.
MARCH 26TH, 1892.
Dead is the “tan-faced” poet of the west,
Blunt-mouthed, bluff-headed, he who dared to say
That for new freedom's democratic day
Thought should be free. By no rhyme-fetters prest,
He bade his rude unmetred verse attest
That drum-tap music suited well the way
Of those who marched, head up, for labour's fray,
And rugged truth in nakedness was best.
Blunt-mouthed, bluff-headed, he who dared to say
That for new freedom's democratic day
Thought should be free. By no rhyme-fetters prest,
He bade his rude unmetred verse attest
That drum-tap music suited well the way
Of those who marched, head up, for labour's fray,
And rugged truth in nakedness was best.
Dead, but not dead the hope for which he toiled,
Hope for the time when heart will speak to heart
With its own rhythmic utterance, making men
Singers indeed; and hands by labour soiled
May feel each day they hold the poet's pen—
And the shy seer shall no more dwell apart.
Hope for the time when heart will speak to heart
With its own rhythmic utterance, making men
Singers indeed; and hands by labour soiled
May feel each day they hold the poet's pen—
And the shy seer shall no more dwell apart.
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