We are a commune of inquiring, skeptical, politically centrist, capitalist, anglophile, traditionalist New England Yankee humans, humanoids, and animals with many interests beyond and above politics. Each of us has had a high-school education (or GED), but all had ADD so didn't pay attention very well, especially the dogs. Each one of us does "try my best to be just like I am," and none of us enjoys working for others, including for Maggie, from whom we receive neither a nickel nor a dime. Freedom from nags, cranks, government, do-gooders, control-freaks and idiots is all that we ask for.
He wrote lots of poetry. This is a piece he wrote about the travails of painting the Sistine chapel ceiling:
I’ve already grown a goiter from this torture, hunched up here like a cat in Lombardy (or anywhere else where the stagnant water’s poison). My stomach’s squashed under my chin, my beard’s pointing at heaven, my brain’s crushed in a casket, my breast twists like a harpy’s. My brush, above me all the time, dribbles paint so my face makes a fine floor for droppings!
So shalt thou rest- and what if thou withdraw Unheeded by the living- and no friend Take note of thy departure? All that breathe Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one as before will chase His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come And make their bed with thee. As the long train Of ages glide away, the sons of men, The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes In the full strength of years, matron and maid, The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man- Shall one by one be gathered to thy side, By those, who in their turn shall follow them. - So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan, which moves To that mysterious realm, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, 'Thou go not like the quarry-slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
Read entire master work by the Massachusetts Berkshire poet below the fold.
Bryant is the man for whom NYC's Bryant Park was named, a lawyer-journalist-poet who turned the New York (Evening) Post into a Republican, abolitionist, pro-Lincoln and highly influential newspaper.
You know how this is: if I look at the crystal moon, at the red branch of the slow autumn at my window, if I touch near the fire the impalpable ash or the wrinkled body of the log, everything carries me to you, as if everything that exists, aromas, light, metals, were little boats that sail toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
Well, now, if little by little you stop loving me I shall stop loving you little by little.
If suddenly you forget me do not look for me, for I shall already have forgotten you.
If you think it long and mad, the wind of banners that passes through my life, and you decide to leave me at the shore of the heart where I have roots, remember that on that day, at that hour, I shall lift my arms and my roots will set off to seek another land.
But if each day, each hour, you feel that you are destined for me with implacable sweetness, if each day a flower climbs up to your lips to seek me, ah my love, ah my own, in me all that fire is repeated, in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten, my love feeds on your love, beloved, and as long as you live it will be in your arms without leaving mine
It is impossible to make English sing like Italian, but people try:
Reading together one day for delight Of Lancelot, caught up in love’s sweet snare, We were alone, with no thought of what might Occur to us, although we stopped to stare Sometimes at what we read, and even paled. But then the moment came we turned a page And all our powers of resistance failed: When we read of that great knight in a rage To kiss the smile he so desired, Paolo, This one so quiet now, made my mouth still— Which, loosened by those words, had trembled so— With his mouth. And right then we lost the will— For love can will will’s loss, as well you know— To read on. But let that man take a bow Who wrote the book we called our Galahad, The reason nothing can divide us now.
What is sexier than studying with a gal in your dorm room? That's pretty much what they were doing.
It's not because I knew you well or thought you faithful, Gellius, or thought you could keep your mind from vile sin, that I expected you to be true to me in this hopeless ruinous love of mine: but because I was aware that she, for whom a vast desire consumes me, was no mother or sister of yours. And though I was closely linked to you by friendship, I didn't think that was enough excuse for you. You considered it enough: there's so much pleasure in every game to you, in which there's any sin.
Did you ever have a longin’ to get out and buck the trail, And to face the crashin’ lightnin’ and the thunder and the gale? Not for no partic’lar reason but to give the world the laugh, And to show the roarin’ elyments you still can stand the gaff.
Don’t you ever feel a yearnin’ just to try your luck again Down the rippin’ plungin’ rapids with a bunch of reg’lar men? Don’t you ever sorta hanker for a rough and risky trip, Just to prove you’re still a livin’ and you haven’t lost your grip?
Can’t you hear the woods a-callin’ for to have another try Sleepin’ out beneath the spruces with a roof of moonlit sky, With the wind a sorta singin’ through the branches overhead And your fire a gaily crackin’ and your pipe a-glowin’ red?
Don’t you often get to feelin’ sorta cramped and useless there, Makin’ figgers and a-shinin’ your pants upon a chair? Don’t you yearn to get acquainted once again with Life and God? If you don’t, then Heaven help you, for you’re a dyin’ in yer pod.
In a dream I returned to the river of bees Five orange trees by the bridge and Beside two mills my house Into whose courtyard a blindman followed The goats and stood singing Of what was older
Soon it will be fifteen years
He was old he will have fallen into his eyes
I took my eyes A long way to the calendars Room after room asking how shall I live
One of the ends is made of streets One man processions carry through it Empty bottles their Image of hope It was offered to me by name
Once once and once In the same city I was born Asking what shall I say
He will have fallen into his mouth Men think they are better than grass
I return to his voice rising like a forkful of hay
He was old he is not real nothing is real Nor the noise of death drawing water
We are the echo of the future
On the door it says what to do to survive But we were not born to survive Only to live
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date: Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm'd; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd; But thy eternal summer shall not fade Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou growest: So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this and this gives life to thee.
The Curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds.
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower, The moping owl does to the moon complain, Of such as wand'ring near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, and the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care, No children run to lisp their Sire's return, Nor climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
I'll be an otter, and I'll let you swim A mate beside me; we will venture down A deep, dark river, when the sky above Is shut of the sun; spoilers are we, Thick-coated; no dog's tooth can bite at our veins With eyes and ears of poachers; deep-earthed ones Turned hunters; let him slip past The little vole; my teeth are on an edge For the King-fish of the River! I hold him up The glittering salmon that smells of the sea; I hold him high and whistle! Now we go Back to our earths; we will tear and eat Sea-smelling salmon; you will tell the cubs I am the Booty-bringer, I am the Lord Of the River; the deep, dark, full and flowing River.
You can read about Irish writer Colum (aka Patrick Collumb) here.
Under a spreading chestnut tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a might man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long, His face is like the tan; His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns what'er he can, And looks the whole word in the face, For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear the bellows blow; You can hear him swing his might sledge, With measure beat and slow, Like a sexton ringing the village bell, When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school Look in the open door; They love to see the flaming forge, And hear the bellows roar. And catch the flaming sparks that fly Like chaff from a threshing floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church, And sits among his boys; He hears the parson pray and preach, He hears his daughter's voice, Singing in the choir, And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like his mother's voice, Singing in Paradise! He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies; And with his hard, rough hands he wipes A tear out of his eyes.
Toiing, -- rejoicing, -- sorrowing, Onward in life he goes; Each morning sees some task begin, Each evening sees it close; Something attempted, something done, Has earned his night's repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, For the lesson thou has taught! Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought.
There was never a sound beside the wood but one, And that was my long scythe whispering to the ground. What was it it whispered? I knew not well myself; Perhaps it was something about the heat of the sun, Something, perhaps, about the lack of sound-- And that was why it whispered and did not speak. It was no dream of the gift of idle hours, Or easy gold at the hand of fay or elf: Anything more than the truth would have seemed too weak To the earnest love that laid the swale in rows, Not without feeble-pointed spikes of flowers (Pale orchises), and scared a bright green snake. The fact is the sweetest dream that labour knows. My long scythe whispered and left the hay to make.
AS I PASS through my incarnations in every age and race, I make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market Place. Peering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall, And the Gods of the Copybook Headings, I notice, outlast them all.
We were living in trees when they met us. They showed us each in turn That Water would certainly wet us, as Fire would certainly burn: But we found them lacking in Uplift, Vision and Breadth of Mind, So we left them to teach the Gorillas while we followed the March of Mankind.
We moved as the Spirit listed. They never altered their pace, Being neither cloud nor wind-borne like the Gods of the Market Place, But they always caught up with our progress, and presently word would come That a tribe had been wiped off its icefield, or the lights had gone out in Rome.
With the Hopes that our World is built on they were utterly out of touch, They denied that the Moon was Stilton; they denied she was even Dutch; They denied that Wishes were Horses; they denied that a Pig had Wings; So we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised these beautiful things.
When the Cambrian measures were forming, They promised perpetual peace. They swore, if we gave them our weapons, that the wars of the tribes would cease. But when we disarmed They sold us and delivered us bound to our foe, And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "Stick to the Devil you know."
On the first Feminian Sandstones we were promised the Fuller Life (Which started by loving our neighbour and ended by loving his wife) Till our women had no more children and the men lost reason and faith, And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "The Wages of Sin is Death."
In the Carboniferous Epoch we were promised abundance for all, By robbing selected Peter to pay for collective Paul; But, though we had plenty of money, there was nothing our money could buy, And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "If you don't work you die."
Then the Gods of the Market tumbled, and their smooth-tongued wizards withdrew And the hearts of the meanest were humbled and began to believe it was true That All is not Gold that Glitters, and Two and Two make Four And the Gods of the Copybook Headings limped up to explain it once more.
As it will be in the future, it was at the birth of Man There are only four things certain since Social Progress began. That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire, And the burnt Fool's bandaged finger goes wobbling back to the Fire;
And that after this is accomplished, and the brave new world begins When all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for his sins, As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will burn, The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return!
A Refusal to Mourn the Death, by Fire, of a Child in London
Never until the mankind making Bird beast and flower Fathering and all humbling darkness Tells with silence the last light breaking And the still hour Is come of the sea tumbling in harness
And I must enter again the round Zion of the water bead And the synagogue of the ear of corn Shall I let pray the shadow of a sound Or sow my salt seed In the least valley of sackcloth to mourn
The majesty and burning of the child's death. I shall not murder The mankind of her going with a grave truth Nor blaspheme down the stations of the breath With any further Elegy of innocence and youth.
Deep with the first dead lies London's daughter, Robed in the long friends, The grains beyond age, the dark veins of her mother, Secret by the unmourning water Of the riding Thames. After the first death, there is no other.
I thank all who have loved me in their hearts, With thanks and love from mine. Deep thanks to all Who paused a little near the prison-wall To hear my music in its louder parts Ere they went onward, each one to the mart’s Or temple’s occupation, beyond call. But thou, who, in my voice’s sink and fall When the sob took it, thy divinest Art’s Own instrument didst drop down at thy foot To harken what I said between my tears, . . . Instruct me how to thank thee! Oh, to shoot My soul’s full meaning into future years, That they should lend it utterance, and salute Love that endures, from life that disappears!
The Lightning is a yellow Fork From Tables in the sky By inadvertent fingers dropt The awful Cutlery Of mansions never quite disclosed And never quite concealed The Apparatus of the Dark To ignorance revealed.
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame, With conquering limbs astride from land to land; Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”
I Among twenty snowy mountains, The only moving thing Was the eye of the blackbird.
II I was of three minds, Like a tree In which there are three blackbirds.
III The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds. It was a small part of the pantomime.
IV A man and a woman Are one. A man and a woman and a blackbird Are one.
V I do not know which to prefer, The beauty of inflections Or the beauty of innuendoes, The blackbird whistling Or just after.
VI Icicles filled the long window With barbaric glass. The shadow of the blackbird Crossed it, to and fro. The mood Traced in the shadow An indecipherable cause.
VII O thin men of Haddam, Why do you imagine golden birds? Do you not see how the blackbird Walks around the feet Of the women about you?
VIII I know noble accents And lucid, inescapable rhythms; But I know, too, That the blackbird is involved In what I know.
IX When the blackbird flew out of sight, It marked the edge Of one of many circles.
X At the sight of blackbirds Flying in a green light, Even the bawds of euphony Would cry out sharply.
XI He rode over Connecticut In a glass coach. Once, a fear pierced him, In that he mistook The shadow of his equipage For blackbirds.
XII The river is moving. The blackbird must be flying.
XIII It was evening all afternoon. It was snowing And it was going to snow. The blackbird sat In the cedar-limbs.
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste: Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe, And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight: Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, Which I new pay as if not paid before. But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restor'd and sorrows end.
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 ask not good-fortune—I myself am good fortune; Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing, 5 Strong and content, I travel the open road.
The earth—that is sufficient; I do not want the constellations any nearer; I know they are very well where they are; I know they suffice for those who belong to them. 10
(Still here I carry my old delicious burdens; I carry them, men and women—I carry them with me wherever I go; I swear it is impossible for me to get rid of them; I am fill’d with them, and I will fill them in return.)
2
You road I enter upon and look around! I believe you are not all that is here; 15 I believe that much unseen is also here.
Here the profound lesson of reception, neither preference or denial; The black with his woolly head, the felon, the diseas’d, the illiterate person, are not denied; The birth, the hasting after the physician, the beggar’s tramp, the drunkard’s stagger, the laughing party of mechanics, The escaped youth, the rich person’s carriage, the fop, the eloping couple, 20 The early market-man, the hearse, the moving of furniture into the town, the return back from the town, They pass—I also pass—anything passes—none can be interdicted; None but are accepted—none but are dear to me.
3
You air that serves me with breath to speak! You objects that call from diffusion my meanings, and give them shape! 25 You light that wraps me and all things in delicate equable showers! You paths worn in the irregular hollows by the roadsides! I think you are latent with unseen existences—you are so dear to me.
You flagg’d walks of the cities! you strong curbs at the edges! You ferries! you planks and posts of wharves! you timber-lined sides! you distant ships! 30 You rows of houses! you window-pierc’d façades! you roofs! You porches and entrances! you copings and iron guards! You windows whose transparent shells might expose so much! You doors and ascending steps! you arches! You gray stones of interminable pavements! you trodden crossings! 35 From all that has been near you, I believe you have imparted to yourselves, and now would impart the same secretly to me; From the living and the dead I think you have peopled your impassive surfaces, and the spirits thereof would be evident and amicable with me.
The rest of "Song of the Open Road" is below the fold -
Whitman worked on his collection of poems, Leaves of Grass, for almost 50 years, until his death. There were continual revisions and additions to the various editions of the remarkable and somewhat scandalous book. Whitman, like the "I" in the poems, was a self-invented American Everyman, and he fully believed that it was his destiny to write the Great American Epic Poem. It's not one story, but I think he did write an epic in spirit. It's fun to look at, and to read about, this collection of Whitman photos.
Excerpted from Thanatopsis:
In a dream I returned to the river of bees 
Sonnet 18 (end of summer pic via Theo)
Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard
The Gods of the Copybook Headings (1919)
Never until the mankind making
The Lightning is a Yellow Fork
Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird
The Spider's Web (aka "Natural History")
As I Walked out one Morning
AFOOT and light-hearted, I take to the open road,