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    Leaves of Grass: The Original 1855 Edition
    Leaves of Grass: The Original 1855 Edition
    Leaves of Grass: The Original 1855 Edition
    Ebook225 pages3 hours

    Leaves of Grass: The Original 1855 Edition

    By Walt Whitman

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    In 1855, Walt Whitman published — at his own expense — the first edition of Leaves of Grass, a visionary volume of twelve poems. Showing the influence of a uniquely American form of mysticism known as Transcendentalism, which eschewed the general society and culture of the time, the writing is distinguished by an explosively innovative free verse style and previously unmentionable subject matter. Exalting nature, celebrating the human body, and praising the senses and sexual love, the monumental work was condemned as "immoral." Whitman continued evolving Leaves of Grass despite the controversy, growing his influential work decades after its first appearance by adding new poems with each new printing.
    This edition presents the original twelve poems from Whitman's premier 1855 publication of Leaves of Grass. Included are some of the greatest poems of modern times: "Song of Myself," "I Sing the Body Electric," and "There Was a Child Went Forth" (which in the first editions of Leaves of Grass were still nameless), works that continue to upset conventional notions of beauty and originality even today.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDover Publications
    Release dateMar 1, 2012
    ISBN9780486112091
    Author

    Walt Whitman

    Walt Whitman was born in Long Island on the 31st May 1819 to Walter Whitman, a carpenter and farmer, and Louisa Van Velsor Whitman. Walt was one of eight siblings and was taken out of school at the age of eleven to start work, but he continued to read voraciously and visit museums. He worked first as a printer, then briefly as a teacher before settling on a career in journalism. He self-published the first version of Leaves of Grass, which consisted of only twelve poems, in 1855. By the time he died in 1892, and despite arousing considerable controversy, he enjoyed unprecedented international success and to this day is considered to be one of America’s greatest poets.

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    Reviews for Leaves of Grass

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    • 5/5
      This slim book was assigned to me in college and was my introduction to Walt William. This is the first 1855 edition of only 12 poems, later given titles: "Song of Myself," "A Song For Occupations," "To Think of Time," "The Sleepers," "I Sing the Body Electric," "Faces," "Song of the Answerer," "Europe: The 72d and 73d Years of These States," "A Boston Ballad," "There Was a Child Went Forth," "Who Learns My Lesson Complete?", and "Great Are the Myths." It would go through several editions until his death in 1892 where it reached 400 poems. But this is Whitman at his freshest, and most revolutionary. Especially coming from reading Romantic poets, such as Percy Bysse Shelley and John Keats, it's startling how sensual, personal and earthy these are, how modern they read. Unlike early works of romanticism, there are no elaborate allegories or classical or mythological allusions, this is the poetry of a democratic man, not an aristocrat: “I am large, I contain multitudes.”
    • 4/5
      Ruminative verse in thought... Whitman is always a pleasure to read
    • 5/5
      very nice Penguin reissue of the 1855 edition, with an introduction by Harold Bloom
    • 4/5
      Leaves of grass my ass? More like leaves of ass my grass! What?
    • 4/5
      I read this book after reading Paper towns by John Green. The main character is reading Leaves of grass in Green's novel, and i found his interpretations helpful. I was making my struggling way through Song of myself when the time came for me to leave for Europe. I took the book with me, and I am exceedingly glad that I did. I read it frequently, and the picturesque scenery combined with Whitman's poetry had a large effect on me. It's a good read, and there are many passages i loved deeply. My copy is a bit battered, I'm afraid, but only in the way of a well loved book, with underlinings and marks throughout. I would recomend this book to anyone, especially if they're planning to travel.
    • 4/5
      Hier vertaling van de oorspronkelijke editie van 1855, 12 gedichten, eerste beslaat de helft. Klaroenstoot, vitalisme puur sang, sterk lichamelijk ingekleurd. Diep geloof in het leven, de dood, het zijn.Gevoel van verbondenheid met alles: transcendentalisme. Tegelijk onbelemmerde vrijheid centraal. Gras als symbool van het leven: hardnekkig, wild meebuigend met de wind, overal aanwezig. Vormelijk: taalorgie
    • 4/5
      Hier vertaling van de oorspronkelijke editie van 1855, 12 gedichten, eerste beslaat de helft. Klaroenstoot, vitalisme puur sang, sterk lichamelijk ingekleurd. Diep geloof in het leven, de dood, het zijn.Gevoel van verbondenheid met alles: transcendentalisme. Tegelijk onbelemmerde vrijheid centraal. Gras als symbool van het leven: hardnekkig, wild meebuigend met de wind, overal aanwezig. Vormelijk: taalorgie
    • 5/5
      I love Walt Whitman! He is my favorite poet. He saw things in a simplicity that had to divine in nature. He looked at the world through a childlike love. He wrote with his heart wide open.
    • 5/5
      2011 will go down, for me, as The Year Ben Caught Up On His Classics. Partly due to shame at continually seeing "Top 100" lists (B&N, Modern Library, etc.) of which I had invariably only read about 10, partly due to increased reading time thanks to becoming a train commuter, but mostly due to buying an e-reader and suddenly having easy, free access to public domain material, I've spent a good chunk of this year reading famous old books. Some of them were great; others, mediocre. Some of them have aged beautifully; others now seem quaint, silly, or merely boring.

      In any event, whether I've enjoyed the books or not, when I sit down to review them, I do so knowing that my better-read friends have probably already read them, often decades ago. And thus it is with Leaves of Grass. There's nothing I'm going to be able to say to shed any new light on a work that's been loved, hated, studied and scrutinized for over a century, and has had numerous critical works written about it. So I won't even try. But here are a few personal observations, in lazy man's bullet points, because I write paragraphs for a living and I'm on vacation right now:

      - This is a warm, beautiful collection of writings. Whitman makes constant references to throwing his arm around you, the reader, and the tone of the writing bears that out. Walt is the drunk guy at the party who really loves you, maaaaaannnnn, and keeps giving you hugs.
      - I love how he manages to give structure to his poems. "Free verse" is really a misnomer, I think, because the verse is musical and wonderfully well-crafted. Shorn of the restrictions of meter or rhyme, Whitman makes amazing use of alliteration and psalm-like repetition to impart rhythm. These are lovely poems to read out loud.
      - This stuff must have been scandalously graphic for the time period. There's a lot of throbbing and sliding going on. I can see why Emily Dickinson hated it.
      - It's interesting how Whitman's persona and point of view subtly shift: from omnipotent and omniscient, to solipsistic; from being above all, to being one with everything. One moment he's a silent, ghostly observer, separate from the observed, and the next moment he's just one more microscopic cell in the sweaty body of humanity.

      Leaves of Grass is so intense that it actually started to burn a bit by the end, an overstimulated, almost snowblind feeling. I suppose that's to be expected when you read in a few dozen hours what took a lifetime to write. I feel as though this is a book I will come back to for small doses, re-savoring favorite passages when the occasion and mood call for it. Wise, kind, funny, sexy, generous, and passionate. I'm sorry I waited 38 years to let Walt sound his barbarian yawp across the screen of my Kindle.
    • 3/5
      I'm not a huge fan of poetry normally but I do like history, so thought I'd give Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman a try. I downloaded my copy from Project Gutenberg after doing a bit of research. I decided to read the "Deathbed Version" of the original 12 poems, which were untitled when originally published in 1855. Whitman continuously revised his work for the remainder of his life with nearly 400 poems making up the 1892 Deathbed version. I found it difficult to sit and read more than a couple of poems in one sitting. Whitman's stunning volume of words wore me down. I would say I somewhat enjoyed the poems I read and that my 3 star rating reflects this. I acknowledge Whitman's innovation, creativity and place in history. I'd like to think I'd come back to read other selected poems in Leaves of Grass, such as the ones dealing with Lincoln and the patriotic ones pre-Civil War. What I really need is a proper guide and analysis plus a comparison of the poems during their evolution over the years. But that all begins to sound like a lot of study and effort that I'm not keen to undertake. The poems I read were:Song of MyselfA Song for OccupationsTo Think of TimeThe Sleepers I Sing the Body ElectricFacesSong of the AnswererEurope: The 72d and 73d Years of These StatesA Boston BalladThere Was a Child Went ForthWho Learns My Lesson Complete?Great Are the Myths
    • 5/5
      Whitman is today regarded as America's Homer or Dante, and his work the touchstone for literary originality in the New World. In Leaves of Grass, he abandoned the rules of traditional poetry - breaking the standard metered line, discarding the obligatory rhyming scheme, and using the vernacular. I read this most recently as part of a weekend retreat sponsored by the University of Chicago's Basic Program of Liberal Education. The music of his poetry was present as it is in the many authors who Whitman influenced.Emily Dickinson condemned his sexual and physiological allusions as `disgraceful', but Emerson saw the book as the `most extraordinary piece of wit and wisdom that America has yet contributed'. A century later it is his judgement of this autobiographical vision of the vigour of the American nation that has proved the more enduring.
    • 5/5
      Probably my favorite poet of all time or at least right up there. This collection was basically the one work Whitman did throughout his life and with each edition new poems or changes to previous poems would happen. I cannot say that I am much of an authority on poetry but I thoroughly enjoy Whitman's works and believe they should be read by all!
    • 2/5
      I actually did have to read this entire collection of poems. I actually did hate that fact. I happened to enjoy some of it, and much of it made me what to stab my eyes out with knitting needles. Professors, please do not make your students read this entire collection in 1 week in a mandatory survey course for English majors--you are killing Whitman again, and again, and again. Perhaps, if this were an elective course and I had been given the time to enjoy it, I wouldn't shudder when my eyes pass over the spine of this book on my shelf.

      My memory of this experience boils down to this: "The red marauder." Wouldn't Whitman want to be remembered for more?
    • 5/5
      a Classic The greatness of the USA and those She welcomes from other countries
    • 3/5
      A lot of the poems didn't speak to me. Particularly the war and patriotism ones. But in amongst those are some absolute gems on the topic of love and looks, work and life. And compost! How can I not approve of a man who writes a poem about compost?
    • 4/5
      Read this book as a requirement for an Major American Writers class and found it to incredible. I rarely like the books that are assigned in class, but this one is one of the few exceptions.
    • 4/5
      Song of Myself

      1
      I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
      And what I assume you shall assume,
      For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
      I loafe and invite my soul,
      I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.
      My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air,
      Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same,
      I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
      Hoping to cease not till death.
      Creeds and schools in abeyance,
      Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,
      I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
      Nature without check with original energy.

    • 5/5
      This delightful Illustrated Leaves of Grass, with introduction by William Carlos Williams (also a poet) and edited by Howard Chapnick, provides clarity and adds dimension to 14 complete poems and 6 excerpts of his longer works. The photos, lay side-by-side with the text, made Whitman’s words pop and dance. His message is so clear, strong, and timeless when presented in this format. Considering Leaves of Grass was written between 1855 to 1892 and these photos are from 1960 to 1970, it certainly has withstood the test of time. I can even visualize what a version with current events may look.In the introduction by Williams, he wrote, “Whitman came from a rhetorical and long-winded age.” I laughed and didn’t feel so bad that I had said Whitman word-puked in my recent Leaves of Grass review. He also wrote, “Never to my knowledge had the subjects of Whitman’s Leaves of Grass been so presented! The poem came alive for me as if for the first time.” Well said. I uploaded a few pictures in my gallery to share.More Quotes:On Equality from “Song of Myself”:“I am the poet of the womanthe same as the man;And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man;And I say there is nothinggreater than the motherof men.”On Celebration of the Body and the Relationship between Men and Women, from “I Sing the Body Electric”:“I sing the Body electric;The armies of those I love engirth me,and I engirth them;They will not let me off till I go with them,respond to them,And discorrupt them, and charge them fullwith the charge of the Soul.Was it doubted that those who corrupt their own bodies conceal themselves?And if those who defile the livingare as bad as they who defile the dead?And if the body does not do as muchas the Soul?And if the body were not the Soul,what is the Soul?The love of the Body of man or womanbalks account – the body itself balks account;That of the male is perfect, and thatof the female is perfect.”On Aging, from “To Old Age”:“I see in you the estuary thatenlarges and spreads itself grandlyas it pours in the great Sea.” ----- I love this lineOn Adventure and the Journey of Life, from “Song of the Open Road”: “Afoot and light-hearted, I take to the open road,Healthy, free, the world before me,The long brown path before me, leading wherever I choose.Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothingHenceforth I ask not good-fortune – I myself am good-fortune;Strong and content, I travel the open road.”And“Now I re-examine philosophies and religions,They may prove well in lecture-rooms, yet not prove at all under the spaciousclouds, and along the landscape and flowing currents.”And“Mon enfant! I give you my hand!I give you my love, more precious than money,I give you myself, before preaching or law;Will you give me yourself? will you come travel with me?Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?”On President Lincoln’s Assassination – one of his most moving pieces:"O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won;The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills; 10For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths--for you the shores a-crowding;For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;Here Captain! dear father! This arm beneath your head; It is some dream that on the deck, You've fallen cold and dead.My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won; 20Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells! But I, with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead."On Whitman’s Acceptance of Death:“I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,If you want me again look for me under your boot soles.You will hardly know who I am or what I am,But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,And filter and fibre your blood.Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,Missing me one place search another,I stop somewhere waiting for you.”
    • 5/5
      It is easy, and periodically fashionable to take Whitman for granted. Yes he is shamelessly self-involved and often goofy. He is also -- and here's the point, brothers and sisters -- continually amazing, and very good company. As with Bruckner Symphonies and the poems of Homer, there will always be the vexing question of which text is best. This particular edition is that, but its occasional inadequacies are more than covered by the wonderful illustrations by Lewis C. Daniel, an artist who dserved better than the obscurity into whic he has fallen.
    • 2/5
      While I appreciate the beautiful language used by Walt Whitman and free verse poetry in general, I am not really a fan. I much prefer the rhyming verse of Tennyson, Longfellow, Browning, etc. In fact, the one poem by Whitman that I really enjoy is O Captain! My Captain!, with conventional meter and rhyme. I am glad that I read this book and familiarized myself with Whitman's style, but it's not really for me.
    • 5/5
      Honestly my favorite collection of poems. The open road is my favorite. Walt Whitman discusses the connectedness of nature, democracy, and subtler, prettier things.
    • 4/5
      Walt Whitman is a genius of a poet. He takes what seems like existential ramblings, and turns them into beautiful and self-reflective pieces of art. This is not just poetry, it’s literally a thesis on life, a philosophical treasure, a song that celebrates being alive, a picture depicting the cycles of life, an ode to the SOUL – simple thoughts, taken to extraordinary levels by an extraordinary man.Although to some, the poems may be too open-ended, long, tedious or verbose to appear enjoyable - but, when you lay bare the meaning behind Whitman's words, you cannot help but feel empowered, aware, introspective, a believer in life, the lover of a human body, and a worshiper of the human soul. What more can you ask from a poet, and his poetry? Read it, live it, and love it!
    • 5/5
      The book that started it all. I would never have gone back to college if I hadn't read this--carried it with me everywhere for months! Walt Whitman is my "great uncle."
    • 5/5
      If there was a single book I could have on a deserted island it would be "Leaves of Grass". It is beautiful, inspired writing. It's been analyzed by many so I'll spare you any grand statements or a lot of detail, but for a taste of the themes Whitman puts across:- All men are brothers. The book celebrates the common man, and embraces the man that society has cast out or looked down upon.- Delight and oneness with nature. Delight in the small things in nature.- Spirituality achieved not by subjugating the senses or pleasures but by embracing them, and living life to the fullest.- The belief in the innate power, spirituality, and goodness of man. All of this is done in a very natural, unpretentious way ... I believe Whitman was truly inspired when he initially wrote this book, and was not regurgitating someone else's philosophy or metaphysics. There are so many wonderful passages and quotes, maybe someday I'll include some here but for now I'll just say I highly, highly recommend this book. Read it outside, under a tree.
    • 4/5
      My favorite Whitman piece is "To You, Whoever You Are". This poem is not included in the 1855 edition of Leaves Of Grass. This is the only reason I am not giving it 5 stars. And it's no fault of Walt's. Not even my own, I just felt I needed to own this edition. Surely I will procure the deathbed edition in due time and while some more hours away in the sunshine reading his genius.I love Walt Whitman, period.
    • 5/5
      a literary find. read with different understanding each decade of my life so far. still have my original copy - a gift at age 16 of a 1921 edition... can't even see the title on the cover anymore. all my reading has been measured against this volume. everyone should read it - at least once.
    • 4/5
      For some reason, Walt Whitman and Brahms are tied up in my mind as the same person...kinda like God and Santa Claus were when I was a kid. Regardless, Whitman (like Brahms) is obviously a genius!

    Book preview

    Leaves of Grass - Walt Whitman

    e9780486112091_cover.jpge9780486112091_i0001.jpge9780486112091_i0002.jpge9780486112091_i0003.jpg

    At Dover Publications we’re committed to producing books in an earth-friendly manner and to helping our customers make greener choices.

    Manufacturing books in the United States ensures compliance with strict environmental laws and eliminates the need for international freight shipping, a major contributor to global air pollution.

    And printing on recycled paper helps minimize our consumption of trees, water and fossil fuels. The text of Leaves of Grass: The Original 1855 Edition was printed on paper made with 30% post-consumer waste, and the cover was printed on paper made with 10% post-consumer waste. According to Environmental Defense’s Paper Calculator, by using this innovative paper instead of conventional papers, we achieved the following environmental benefits:

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    DOVER THRIFT EDITIONS

    GENERAL EDITOR: MARY CAROLYN WALDREP

    EDITOR OF THIS VOLUME: JOSLYN T. PINE

    Copyright

    Copyright © 2007 by Dover Publications, Inc.

    All rights reserved.

    Bibliographical Note

    This Dover edition, first published in 2007, is an unabridged republication of the first edition of the work originally published in 1855 by the author, Brooklyn, New York. The Introductory Note is excerpted from Chapter VIII, Poe and Whitman, from The American Spirit in Literature: A Chronicle of Great Interpreters by Bliss Perry; it was originally published in 1918 by Yale University Press, New Haven, CT.

    Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

    Whitman, Walt, 1819-1892.

    Leaves of grass / Walt Whitman.

    p. cm.—Dover thrift edition

    The original 1855 edition.

    9780486112091

    ISBN-10: 0-486-45676-5 (pbk.)

    PS3201 2007

    811/.3 22

    2006048829

    Manufactured in the United States by Courier Corporation

    45676504

    www.doverpublications.com

    Table of Contents

    Title Page

    Copyright Page

    INTRODUCTORY NOTE - Walt Whitman

    INTRODUCTORY NOTE

    ¹

    Walt Whitman

    by Bliss Perry

    Walt Whitman had a passion for his native soil; he was hypnotized by the word America; he spent much of his mature life in brooding over the question, What, after all, is an American, and what should an American poet be in our age of science and democracy? His personality is unique. In many respects he still baffles our curiosity. Whatever our literary students may feel, and whatever foreign critics may assert, it must be acknowledged that to the vast majority of American men and women good old Walt is still an outsider.

    Let us try to see first the type of mind with which we are dealing. It is fundamentally religious, perceiving the unity and kinship and glory of all created things. It is this passion of worship which inspired St. Francis of Assisi’s Canticle to the Sun. It cries, Benedicite, Omnia opera Domini: All ye Green Things upon the Earth, bless ye the Lord! That is the real motto for Whitman’s Leaves of Grass. Like St. Francis, and like his own immediate master, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Whitman is a mystic. He cannot argue the ultimate questions; he asserts them. Instead of marshaling and sifting the proofs for immortality, he chants I know I am deathless. Like Emerson again, Whitman shares that peculiarly American type of mysticism known as Transcendentalism, but he came at the end of this movement instead of at the beginning of it. In his Romanticism, likewise, he is an end of an era figure. His affiliations with Victor Hugo are significant; and a volume of Scott’s poems which he owned at the age of sixteen became his inexhaustible mine and treasury for more than sixty years. Finally, and quite as uncompromisingly as Emerson, Thoreau, and Poe, Whitman is an individualist. He represents the assertive, Jacksonian period of our national existence. In a thousand similes he makes a declaration of independence for the separate person, the single man of Emerson’s Phi Beta Kappa address. I wear my hat as I please, indoors and out. Sometimes this is mere swagger. Sometimes it is superb.

    So much for the type. Let us turn next to the story of Whitman’s life. It must here be told in the briefest fashion, for Whitman’s own prose and poetry relate the essentials of his biography. He was born on Long Island, of New England and Dutch ancestry, in 1819. Whitman’s father was a carpenter, who leaned to the Quakers. There were many children. When little Walt—as he was called, to distinguish him from his father, Walter—was four, the family moved to Brooklyn. The boy had scanty schooling, and by the time he was twenty had tried typesetting, teaching, and editing a country newspaper on Long Island. He was a big, dark-haired fellow, sensitive, emotional, extraordinarily impressible.

    The next sixteen years were full of happy vagrancy. At twenty-two he was editing a paper in New York, and furnishing short stories to the Democratic Review, a literary journal which numbered Bryant, Longfellow, Whittier, Poe, Hawthorne, and Thoreau among its contributors. He wrote a novel on temperance, mostly in the reading-room of Tammany Hall, and tried here and there an experiment in free verse. He was in love with the pavements of New York and the Brooklyn ferryboats, in love with Italian opera and with long tramps over Long Island. He left his position on The Brooklyn Eagle and wandered south to New Orleans. By and by he drifted back to New York, tried lecturing, worked at the carpenter’s trade with his father, and brooded over a book—a book of new things.

    This was the famous Leaves of Grass. He set the type himself, in a Brooklyn printing-office, and printed about eight hundred copies. The book had a portrait of the author—a meditative, gray-bearded poet in workman’s clothes—and a confused preface on America as a field for the true poet. Then followed the new gospel, I celebrate myself, chanted in long lines of free verse, whose patterns perplexed contemporary readers. For the most part it was passionate speech rather than song, a rhapsodical declamation in hybrid rhythms. Very few people bought the book or pretended to understand what it was all about. Some were startled by the frank sexuality of certain poems. But Emerson wrote to Whitman from Concord: I find it the most extraordinary piece of wit and wisdom that America has yet contributed.

    Until the Civil War was half over, Whitman remained in Brooklyn, patiently composing new poems for successive printings of his book. Then he went to the front to care for a wounded brother, and finally settled down in a Washington garret to spend his strength as an army hospital nurse. He wrote Drum Taps and other magnificent poems about the War, culminating in his threnody on Lincoln’s death, When Lilacs last in the Dooryard Bloomed. Swinburne called this the most sonorous nocturn ever chanted in the church of the world. After the war had ended, Whitman stayed on in Washington as a government clerk, and saw much of John Burroughs² and W. D. O’Connor.³ John Hay⁴ was a staunch friend. Some of the best known poets and critics of England and the Continent now began to recognize his genius. But his health had been permanently shattered by his heroic service as a nurse, and in 1873 he suffered a paralytic stroke which forced him to resign his position in Washington and remove to his brother’s home in Camden, New Jersey.

    He was only fifty-four, but his best work was already done, and his remaining years, until his death in 1892, were those of patient and serene invalidism. He wrote some fascinating prose in this final period, and his cluttered chamber in Camden became the shrine of many a literary pilgrim, among them some of the foremost men of letters of this country and of Europe. He was cared for by loyal friends. Occasionally he appeared in public, a magnificent gray figure of a man. And then, at seventy-three, the Dark mother always gliding near enfolded him.

    There are puzzling things in the physical and moral constitution of Walt Whitman, and the obstinate questions involved in his theory of poetry and in his actual poetical performance are still far from solution. But a few points concerning him are by this time fairly clear. They must be swiftly summarized.

    The first obstacle to the popular acceptance of Walt Whitman is the formlessness or alleged formlessness of Leaves of Grass. This is a highly technical question, involving a more accurate notation than has thus far been made of the patterns and tunes of free verse and of emotional prose. Whitman’s new and national declamatory expression, as he termed it, cannot receive a final technical valuation until we have made more scientific progress in the analysis of rhythms. As regards the contents of his verse, it is plain that he included much material unfused and untransformed by emotion. These elements foreign to the nature of poetry clog many of his lines. The enumerated objects in his catalogue or inventory poems often remain inert objects only. Like many mystics, he was hypnotized by external phenomena, and he often fails to communicate to his reader the trancelike emotion which he himself experienced. This imperfect transfusion of his material is a far more significant defect in Whitman’s poetry than the relatively few passages of unashamed sexuality which shocked the American public in 1855.

    The gospel or burden of Leaves of Grass is no more difficult of comprehension than the general drift of Emerson’s essays, which helped to inspire it. The starting point of the book is a mystical illumination regarding the unity and blessedness of the universe, an insight passing understanding, but based upon the revelatory experience of love. In the light of this experience, all created things are recognized as divine. The starting-point and center of the Whitman world is the individual man, the strong person, imperturbable in mind, athletic in body, unconquerable, and immortal. Such individuals meet in comradeship, and pass together along the open roads of the world. No one is excluded because of his poverty or his sins; there is room in the ideal America for everybody except the doubter and sceptic. Whitman does not linger over the smaller groups of human society, like the family. He is not a fireside poet. He passes directly from his strong persons, meeting freely on the open road, to his conception of these States. One of his typical visions of the breadth and depth and height of America will be found in By Blue Ontario’s Shore. In this and in many similar rhapsodies Whitman holds obstinately to what may be termed the three points of his national creed. The first is the newness of America, and its expression is in his well-known chant of Pioneers, O Pioneers. Yet this new America is subtly related to the past; and in Whitman’s later poems, such as Passage to India, the spiritual kinship of orient and occident is emphasized. The second article of the creed is the unity of America. Here he voices the conceptions of Hamilton, Clay, Webster, and Lincoln. In spite of all diversity in external aspects the republic is one and indivisible. This unity, in Whitman’s view, was cemented forever by the issue of the Civil War. Lincoln, the Captain, dies indeed on the deck of the victor ship, but the ship comes into the harbor with object won. Third and finally, Whitman insists upon the solidarity of America with all countries of the globe. Particularly in his yearning and thoughtful old age, the poet perceived that humanity has but one heart and that it should have but one will. No American poet has ever prophesied so directly and powerfully concerning the final issue involved in that World War which he did not live to see.

    Whitman had defects of character and defects of art. His life and work raise many problems which will long continue to fascinate and to baffle the critics. But after all of them have had their say, it will remain true that he was a seer and a prophet, far in advance of his own time, like Lincoln, and like Lincoln, an inspired interpreter of the soul of this republic.

    AMERICA does not repel the past or what it has produced under its forms or amid other politics or the idea of castes or the old religions . . . accepts the lesson with calmness . . . is not so impatient as has been supposed that the slough still sticks to opinions and manners and literature while the life which served its requirements has passed into the new life of the new forms . . . perceives that the corpse is slowly borne from the eating and sleeping rooms of the house . . . perceives that it waits a little while in the door . . . that it was fittest for its days . . . that its action has descended to the stalwart and wellshaped heir who approaches . . . and that he shall be fittest for his days.

    The Americans of all nations at any time upon the earth have probably the fullest poetical nature. The United States themselves are essentially the greatest poem. In the history of the earth hitherto the largest and most stirring appear tame and orderly to their ampler largeness and stir. Here at last

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