Still, Though The One I Sing
STILL, though the one I sing,
(One, yet of contradictions made,) I dedicate to Nationality,
I leave in him Revolt, (O latent right of insurrection! O quenchless,
indispensable fire!)
poem by Walt Whitman
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Visor'd
A MASK--a perpetual natural disguiser of herself,
Concealing her face, concealing her form,
Changes and transformations every hour, every moment,
Falling upon her even when she sleeps.
poem by Walt Whitman
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Solid, Ironical, Rolling Orb
SOLID, ironical, rolling orb!
Master of all, and matter of fact!--at last I accept your terms;
Bringing to practical, vulgar tests, of all my ideal dreams,
And of me, as lover and hero.
poem by Walt Whitman
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Thought
OF obedience, faith, adhesiveness;
As I stand aloof and look, there is to me something profoundly
affecting in large masses of men, following the lead of those
who do not believe in men.
poem by Walt Whitman
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This Dust Was Once The Man
THIS dust was once the Man,
Gentle, plain, just and resolute--under whose cautious hand,
Against the foulest crime in history known in any land or age,
Was saved the Union of These States.
poem by Walt Whitman
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To The Reader At Parting
NOW, dearest comrade, lift me to your face,
We must separate awhile--Here! take from my lips this kiss.
Whoever you are, I give it especially to you;
So long!--And I hope we shall meet again.
poem by Walt Whitman
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The Runner
ON a flat road runs the well-train'd runner;
He is lean and sinewy, with muscular legs;
He is thinly clothed--he leans forward as he runs,
With lightly closed fists, and arms partially rais'd.
poem by Walt Whitman
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To Foreign Lands
I HEARD that you ask'd for something to prove this puzzle, the New
World,
And to define America, her athletic Democracy;
Therefore I send you my poems, that you behold in them what you
wanted.
poem by Walt Whitman
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Hast Never Come To Thee An Hour
HAST never come to thee an hour,
A sudden gleam divine, precipitating, bursting all these bubbles,
fashions, wealth?
These eager business aims--books, politics, art, amours,
To utter nothingness?
poem by Walt Whitman
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Roaming In Thought
ROAMING in thought over the Universe, I saw the little that is Good
steadily hastening towards immortality,
And the vast all that is call'd Evil I saw hastening to merge itself
and become lost and dead.
poem by Walt Whitman
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