All Poems

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Thick-Sprinkled Bunting.

© Walt Whitman

THICK-SPRINKLED bunting! Flag of stars!
Long yet your road, fateful flag!—long yet your road, and lined with bloody death!
For the prize I see at issue, at last is the world!
All its ships and shores I see, interwoven with your threads, greedy banner!

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Sing of the Banner at Day-Break.

© Walt Whitman

POET.
O A NEW song, a free song,
Flapping, flapping, flapping, flapping, by sounds, by voices clearer,
By the wind’s voice and that of the drum,

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Base of all Metaphysics, The.

© Walt Whitman

AND now, gentlemen,
A word I give to remain in your memories and minds,
As base, and finale too, for all metaphysics.

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Now List to my Morning’s Romanza.

© Walt Whitman

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NOW list to my morning’s romanza—I tell the signs of the Answerer;
To the cities and farms I sing, as they spread in the sunshine before me.

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Inscription.

© Walt Whitman

SMALL is the theme of the following Chant, yet the greatest—namely,
One’s-Self—that wondrous thing a simple, separate person. That, for the use of
the
New World, I sing.

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Sobbing of The Bells, The.

© Walt Whitman

THE sobbing of the bells, the sudden death-news everywhere,
The slumberers rouse, the rapport of the People,
(Full well they know that message in the darkness,
Full well return, respond within their breasts, their brains, the sad reverberations,)
The passionate toll and clang—city to city, joining, sounding, passing,
Those heart-beats of a Nation in the night.

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Apostroph.

© Walt Whitman

O MATER! O fils!
O brood continental!
O flowers of the prairies!
O space boundless! O hum of mighty products!

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A Paumanok Picture.

© Walt Whitman

TWO boats with nets lying off the sea-beach, quite still,
Ten fishermen waiting—they discover a thick school of mossbonkers—they drop the
join’d seine-ends in the water,
The boats separate and row off, each on its rounding course to the beach, enclosing the

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Yet, Yet, Ye Downcast Hours.

© Walt Whitman

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YET, yet, ye downcast hours, I know ye also;
Weights of lead, how ye clog and cling at my ankles!
Earth to a chamber of mourning turns—I hear the o’erweening, mocking voice,

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As a Strong Bird on Pinions Free.

© Walt Whitman

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AS a strong bird on pinions free,
Joyous, the amplest spaces heavenward cleaving,
Such be the thought I’d think to-day of thee, America,

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Hours Continuing Long.

© Walt Whitman

HOURS continuing long, sore and heavy-hearted,
Hours of the dusk, when I withdraw to a lonesome and unfrequented spot, seating myself,
leaning
my face in my hands;

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Delicate Cluster.

© Walt Whitman

DELICATE cluster! flag of teeming life!
Covering all my lands! all my sea-shores lining!
Flag of death! (how I watch’d you through the smoke of battle pressing!
How I heard you flap and rustle, cloth defiant!)

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Debris.

© Walt Whitman

HE is wisest who has the most caution,
He only wins who goes far enough.

Any thing is as good as established, when that is established that will produce it and
continue
it.

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Spain 1873–’74.

© Walt Whitman

OUT of the murk of heaviest clouds,
Out of the feudal wrecks, and heap’d-up skeletons of kings,
Out of that old entire European debris—the shatter’d mummeries,
Ruin’d cathedrals, crumble of palaces, tombs of priests,

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Long, too Long, O Land!

© Walt Whitman

LONG, too long, O land,
Traveling roads all even and peaceful, you learn’d from joys and prosperity only;
But now, ah now, to learn from crises of anguish—advancing, grappling with direst
fate,

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Me Imperturbe.

© Walt Whitman

ME imperturbe, standing at ease in Nature,
Master of all, or mistress of all—aplomb in the midst of irrational things,
Imbued as they—passive, receptive, silent as they,
Finding my occupation, poverty, notoriety, foibles, crimes, less important than I thought;

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France, the 18th year of These States.

© Walt Whitman

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A GREAT year and place;
A harsh, discordant, natal scream out-sounding, to touch the mother’s heart closer
than

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Rise, O Days.

© Walt Whitman

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RISE, O days, from your fathomless deeps, till you loftier, fiercer sweep!
Long for my soul, hungering gymnastic, I devour’d what the earth gave me;
Long I roam’d the woods of the north—long I watch’d Niagara pouring;

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To the East and to the West.

© Walt Whitman

TO the East and to the West;
To the man of the Seaside State, and of Pennsylvania,
To the Kanadian of the North—to the Southerner I love;
These, with perfect trust, to depict you as myself—the germs are in all men;

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Mediums.

© Walt Whitman

THEY shall arise in the States,
They shall report Nature, laws, physiology, and happiness;
They shall illustrate Democracy and the kosmos;
They shall be alimentive, amative, perceptive;