Unseen Buds by Walt Whitman

Unseen buds, infinite, hidden well,
Under the snow and ice, under the darkness, in every square 
or cubic inch,
Germinal, exquisite, in delicate lace, microscopic, unborn,
Like babes in wombs, latent, folded, compact, sleeping;
Billions of billions, and trillions of trillions of them waiting,
(On earth and in the sea — the universe — the stars there in the heavens,)
Urging slowly, surely forward, forming endless,
And waiting ever more, forever more behind.
 
- Walt Whitman -

Keep your face always toward the sunshine
– and shadows will fall behind you.

- Walt Whitman -

Homage to Walt Whitman

Walt Whitman by Samuel Murray, 1891 

Walt Whitman, 1854 
photographer unknown, probably Gabriel Harrison

This is what you shall do: Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks,
stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and with the mothers of families, read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life, re examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul, and your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body.

- Walt Whitman -
from the Preface to the 1855 edition of Leaves of Grass

May 31, 1819 - March 26, 1892


from Song of Myself by Walt Whitman
read by Tom O'Bedlam

The Walt Whitman Archive

Walt Whitman: Online Resources
© Library of Congress

Samuel Murray » Philadelphia Public Art

images source » The Walt Whitman Archive

The Voice of the Rain

And who art thou? said I to the soft-falling shower,
Which, strange to tell, gave me an answer, as here translated:
I am the Poem of Earth, said the voice of the rain,
Eternal I rise impalpable out of the land and the bottomless sea,
Upward to heaven, whence, vaguely form'd, altogether changed, and yet the same,
I descend to lave the drouths, atomies, dust-layers of the globe,
And all that in them without me were seeds only, latent, unborn;
And forever, by day and night, I give back life to my own origin,
and make pure and beautify it;
(For song, issuing from its birth-place, after fulfilment, wandering,
Reck'd or unreck'd, duly with love returns.)

- Walt Whitman -

I believe a leaf of grass is no less than
the journey-work of the stars.

- Walt Whitman -

Laws for Creations,
For strong artists and leaders--for fresh broods of teachers, and perfect literats for America,
For noble savans, and coming musicians.
All must have reference to the ensemble of the world,
and the compact truth of the world;
There shall be no subject too pronounced--All works shall illustrate the divine law of indirections.

What do you suppose Creation is?
What do you suppose will satisfy the Soul, except to walk free and own no superior?
What do you suppose I would intimate to you in a hundred ways, but that man or woman is as good as God?

And that there is no God any more divine than Yourself?
And that that is what the oldest and newest myths finally mean?
And that you or any one must approach Creations
through such laws?

- Walt Whitman -

Tears

Tears! tears! tears!
In the night, in solitude, tears,
On the white shore dripping, dripping, suck'd in by the sand,
Tears, not a star shining, all dark and desolate,
Moist tears from the eyes of a muffled head;
O who is that ghost? that form in the dark, with tears?
What shapeless lump is that, bent, crouch'd there on the sand?
Streaming tears, sobbing tears, throes, choked with wild cries;
O storm, embodied, rising, careering with swift steps along the beach!
O wild and dismal night storm, with wind--O belching and desperate!
O shade so sedate and decorous by day, with calm countenance and regulated pace,
But away at night as you fly, none looking--O then the unloosen'd ocean,
Of tears! tears! tears!

- Walt Whitman -

What weeping face is that looking from the window?
Why does it stream those sorrowful tears?
Is it for some burial place, vast and dry?
Is it to wet the soil of graves?

- Walt Whitman -

A Clear Midnight

This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless,
Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson
done,
Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the
themes thou lovest best.
Night, sleep, death and the stars.

- Walt Whitman -

The Imprisoned Soul

At the last, tenderly,
From the walls of the powerful, fortress'd house,
From the clasp of the knitted locks-from the keep of the well-closed doors,
Let me be wafted.

Let me glide noiselessly forth;
With the key of softness unlock the locks-with a whisper
Set ope the doors, O soul!

Tenderly! be not impatient!
(Strong is your hold, O mortal flesh!
Strong is your hold, O love!)

- Walt Whitman -