Leaves of Grass: First and Death-Bed Editions

by Walt Whitman

  O I saw them tenderly love each other—I often saw them,

  in numbers walking hand in hand,

  I dreamed that was the city of robust friends—Nothing was

  greater there than manly love—it led the rest,

  It was seen every hour in the actions of the men of that city,

  and in all their looks and words—

  31 (p. 298) I see the tracks of the railroads: Whitman fully embraced progress in the name of democracy. In the following five lines, he celebrates two new wonders: the American rail system, which had grown quickly after 1830, and the electric telegraph. When Whitman first published this poem in 1856, Americans were still experimenting with various methods of telegraphing; by 1866 the first permanently successful transatlantic cable had been laid. Whitman’s poem “Passage to India,” published in 1871, applauds this technological advancement.

  32 (p. 305) Song of the Open Road: The title and subject of this poem were particularly influential on the Beat poets of the 1950S Jack Kerouac embraced Whitman’s ideas of the romance and freedom of travel and the joys of the journey (rather than the destination) in his 1957 novel On the Road.

  33 (p. 309) Something there is in the float of the sight of things: Whitman also uses the word “float” in “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry”—in the passage “I too had been struck from the float forever held in solution” (p. 319). The connotation is of a disembodied vision or knowledge, though the poet seems to be purposefully elusive here.

  34 (p. 316) Crossing Brooklyn Ferry: From the mid-1840S to 1862 (when he left New York to help with the Civil War effort), Whitman rode the Brooklyn ferry almost daily. For Whitman and many of his fellow New Yorkers, the ferry was a necessary “frame” to the working day: The eight-minute trip from Brooklyn’s Fulton Street to Manhattan’s Fulton Street, and then back again, was the commute between Brooklyn’s bedroom communities and Manhattan’s workplaces. From the early 1600S until it closed some years after the completion of the Brooklyn Bridge in 1883, the Brooklyn Ferry represented an important “passage” that was, for Whitman and others, also a destination in itself: Even while riders moved toward a destination, they were part of a common, shared experience.

  35 (p. 319) the dark patches fall: This self-revelatory passage underwent significant revision from 1856 through later editions. Also notable are early drafts of this poem, which indicate that Whitman was struggling with identity issues and second thoughts about his literary calling. Consider this passage, found in Whitman’s Notebooks and Unpublished Prose Manuscripts, edited by Edward F. Grier, New York: New York Universiy Press, 1984, vol. 1, p. 230. The verbal stutter—an oral “coming to terms”—is especially moving:

  I too have—

  Have—have—

  I too have—felt the curious questioning come upon me.

  In the day they came

  In the silence of the night came upon me

  36 (p. 322) you dumb, beautiful ministers: Originally this line ended with the additional phrase “you novices,” which strengthens the religious associations of the word “minister.” The people and scenes looking on the ferry as it rides from shore to shore are divine agents of a greater force—yet the ferry riders have achieved the greater spiritual awakening.

  37 (p. 339) Weapon shapely, naked, wan: The first six lines of the poem are a rare instance of rhyme in Whitman’s poetic oeuvre; for another example that was much despised by Whitman himself, see “O Captain! My Captain!” p. 484). This passage appeared in much the same form in its original version in the 1856 edition (with the addition of exclamation marks).

  38 (p. 353) Blazon’d with Shakspere’s purple page, / And dirged by Tennyson’s sweet sad rhyme: William Shakespeare (1564-1616) and Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892) were among a handful of British writers whom Whitman admitted to reading and admiring. His anger at the ongoing popularity of British writers in America and his interest in creating a new American literary culture did not often allow him room to admire British “representative men.”

  39 (p. 356) Away with old romance!: In the following stanza, the poet takes aim at two of his favorite targets: the patriarchal literary traditions of Europe, and the decadence associated with Old World attitudes. “Take no illustrations whatever from the ancients or classics, nor from the mythology, nor Egypt, Greece, or Rome—nor from the royal and aristocratic institutions and forms of Europe. Make no mention or allusion to them whatever,” wrote Whitman in manuscripts dating from the early 1850S (Notebooks and Unpublished Prose Manuscripts, vol. 1, p. 101).

  40 (p. 357) the Brooklyn bridge: One of Whitman’s few references to a bridge often closely associated with his poetry. Construction of the bridge began in 1870 and was completed in 1883, long after Whitman had left New York and settled in Camden, New Jersey. In 1876, the year that “Song of the Exposition” appeared in Two Rivulets, the completion of the Brooklyn and New York bridge towers inspired a Festival of Connection.

  41 (p. 361) Song of the Redwood-Tree: This poem is exceptional in that it earned Whitman a tidy sum: He received $100 when it appeared in Harper’s Magazine of February 1874. He later included it in Two Rivulets (1876) and in the 1881 edition of Leaves of Grass.

  42 (p. 375) Of the interminable sisters: The poet seems to be speaking of celestial bodies, including the “beautiful sister we know” (earth). His use of numbers (such as the twenty-four who appear daily, and the three hundred and sixty-five moving around the sun) recalls his use of the number twenty-eight in the “swimmers” passage of “Song of Myself”: Each number relates to cyclical movements of the planets charted by calendars.

  43 (p. 389) France, The 18th Year of These States: Whitman is alluding to 1794, the year of the culmination of the Reign of Terror. After the execution of Robespierre on July 28, 1794, a reconstituted Committee of Public Safety was established, and many former terrorists were executed.

  44 (p. 392) Year of Meteors (1859-60): Whitman probably had witnessed at least two meteor showers before writing this poem (one in 1833, another in 1858), but the “meteors” here refer to stellar individuals rather than heavenly bodies.

  45 (p. 395) A Broadway Pageant: The poem was originally written to commemorate the arrival of the envoys of the new Japanese Embassy in New York, where treaties between Japan and America were negotiated that year.

  46 (p. 400) Sea-Drift: This group of eleven poems first appeared in the 1881 edition of Leaves of Grass. As the title suggests, each of the poems is set in or on the sea, or at the seashore—a favorite childhood haunt of the poet‘s, and a place for reflection and inspiration throughout his life.

  47 (p. 400) Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking: One of Whitman’s major statements, this was the last poem written during his most important decade as an artist (1850-1860). The references to childhood on Long Island (the Native American name is Paumanok) have led many to read this poem as Whitman’s personal statement regarding his development as a poet; it also anticipates the themes of love and loss in the “Calamus” poems that Whitman probably was also composing at this time. Remembering too the strong antebellum tensions of 1859 (a frequent point of discussion at Pfaff’s), one might also read the poem as an elegy for the United States on the eve of the Civil War: The happy pair of Alabama birds is eventually separated, and the remaining bird is trapped in an alien and violent landscape.

  Despite all the possibilities of meaning now seen in “Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking,” the first critical reaction to the poem was that it was “meaningless.” This attack on the poem, which appeared in the Cincinnati Daily Commercial on December 28, 1859, was quickly refuted by Whitman in an article entitled “All About a Mocking Bird” (Saturday Press, January 7, 1860).

  “Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking” has been set to music more than any of Whitman’s other poems, and it demonstrates his interest in opera. In Walt Whitman and Opera (pp. 86-89), Robert Faner suggests that the alternation of italicized and non-italicized passages reflects the relationship in opera of arias (sung par
ts) and recitatives (story lines). In New York City the 1840S and 1850S were great times for the performance of Italian opera, of which Whitman was particularly fond. The Astor Place Opera House opened in 1847 and was America’s largest theater until the Academy of Music started hosting performances in 1854; throughout these years, such artists as Marietta Alboni, Pasquale Brignoli, and Jenny Lind sang at New York venues. Whitman frequently attended operatic performances.

  48 (p. 400) From the word: The poet refers to “Death,” the word repeated by the sea near the end of the poem. Death, in other words, is present in the beginnings of life too—and is one of the poet’s points of departure.

  49 (p. 401) Shine! shine! shine!: The first of the arias alluded to by the poet on page 404. Here, one of the two mockingbirds “sings” words that the gifted boy-listener can understand.

  50 (p. 406) Death, death, death, death, death: This onomatopoeic sound uttered by the crashing and retreating waves echoes the five-time repetition of “loved” (p. 404). Facing loss and life’s dreaded mysteries, the boy becomes an artist.

  51 (p. 406) As I Ebb’d with the Ocean of Life: Like other poems written at this particular moment of Whitman’s career, “As I Ebb’d with the Ocean of Life” has a confessional feel: Whitman apparently was disappointed with the mild reception of the first two editions of Leaves of Grass and was also channeling the unrest and discontent of antebellum America.

  52 (p. 410) To the Man-of-War-Bird: The poem was twice published in periodicals—the London Athenaeum of April 1, 1876, and the Philadelphia Progress of November 16,1878. In the latter publication, Whitman acknowledged that his poem nearly paraphrased an English translation of Jules Michelet’s French poem “The Bird.” Such acknowledgments were absent from further publications, which speaks to Whitman’s lifelong “anxiety of influence” and reticence regarding his sources and readings. It is strange, however, that the poet did not seek to alter the rather un-Whitmanesque use of “thou.”

  53 (p. 413) and of the future: Some nineteen lines that followed this stanza in 1856 were removed for subsequent editions. It was typical of the mature poet to omit many of his most personal sentiments in revisions. Consider, for example, three of the lines left out of all but the poem’s first edition:

  I am not uneasy but I am to be beloved by young and old men,

  and to love them the same,

  I suppose the pink nipples of the breasts of women with whom

  I shall sleep will taste the same to my lips,

  But this is the nipple of a breast of my mother, always near

  and always divine to me, her true child and son.

  54 (p. 417) A Boston Ballad: See note 44 to the First Edition. A comparison of the 1855 version of this poem with this final one indicates some of the changes in Whitman’s style throughout his career: He replaced ellipses with dashes, controlled and regularized line length, and toned down the heightened drama of exclamations.

  55 (p. 419) Europe, The 72d and 73d Years of These States: See the note 43 to the First Edition (p. 133). Revisions made on this poem between 1855 and 1860 indicate Whitman’s growing appreciation for more even-toned meter and clarified (if less dramatic) statements. Compare, for example, the second stanza of 1860 (set in a more traditional four-line format that evokes blues rhythms) with the breathless two-line stanza of the 1855 edition.

  56 (p. 421) A Hand-Mirror: If the first two poems of “By the Roadside” represent Whitman’s awakening as a political poet, “A Hand-Mirror” indicates his increasing interest and involvement in the bohemian subcultures of New York throughout the late 1850S. Although there is no evidence that Whitman himself overindulged in alcohol or drugs, he socialized with heavy drinkers at Pfaff’s Cellar and regularly walked through the Five Points area, where many an “unwholesome [opium] eater’s face” was seen on the streets.

  57 (p. 421) Gods: This poem’s regular refrain, almost hymn-like, places it in a small group of more traditionally patterned poems, along with “O Captain ! My Captain!” (p. 484) and “Song of the Broad-Axe” (p. 339).

  58 (p. 425) The Dalliance of the Eagles: When Whitman was courting Boston publisher James R. Osgood for the publication of Leaves of Grass in 1882, Osgood asked Whitman to remove several poems and passages on the grounds that they violated the “Public Statutes concerning obscene literature.” Surprisingly, “The Dalliance of the Eagles” was one of the “banned” poems—along with the much racier “A Woman Waits for Me” and “Spontaneous Me.”

  59 (p. 426) Roaming in Thought: Late in his career, Whitman became an avid reader of the German philosopher Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel (1770-1831).

  60 (p. 430) Drum-Taps: Published in a thin, black-covered book, this collection of poems was designed to be a separate effort from Leaves of Grass: Whitman saw Drum-Taps as reflecting his time and place more specifically than his other collections. He had left New York for Virginia in December 1862, to search for his wounded brother; from that time until the end of the Civil War, Whitman spent most of his time in Washington as a hospital nurse and governmental office worker. What he saw and experienced went into Drum-Taps, the most patriotic and accessible poetry he had yet written.

  61 (P. 435) Song of the Banner at Daybreak: The “call and response” format is not typical of Whitman’s style. English poet William Wordsworth (1770-1850) used it in such popular poems such as “Expostulation and Reply” and “We Are Seven.”

  62 (p. 444) City of Ships: Lines 8 and 9 of this poem form part of the balustrade at the World Financial Center in New York City.

  63 (p. 445) The Centenarian’s Story: A man old enough to remember the battle of Long Island (August 1776) recalls his story to a Civil War soldier. Whitman thus places two fights for freedom in a comparison.

  64 (p. 457) The Wound-Dresser: This poem catalogues Whitman’s experiences as a Civil War hospital nurse. For the classic commentary on Whitman’s engagement in the war, see Walt Whitman and the Civil War, edited by Charles Glicksberg, Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1933.

  65 (p. 462) Dirge for Two Veterans: Note the unusual regular stanzaic form of this poem; as in “O Captain! My Captain!” (p. 484), the closed form seems to bring solemnity to the poem’s subject.

  66 (p. 465) The Artilleryman’s Vision: This poem is an interesting nineteenth-century explanation of “shell shock.”

  67 (p. 470) Delicate Cluster: In this poem Whitman uses language (“cluster,” “orbs”) he had earlier employed in the “Calamus” and “Children of Adam” poems to connote male sexuality; he now applies those words to a feminized American flag.

  68 (p. 471) Lo, Victress on the Peaks: It was typical of Whitman’s “late style” (after 1871) to remove more dramatic lines and phrasing. This poem exhibits another of the poet’s later tendencies: to feminize neutral imagery, in this case Libertad (“Freedom”). See also note 67, above.

  69 (p. 473) To the Leaven’d Soil They Trod: Whitman often carefully selected the opening and closing poems of his collections (see, for example, the Publication Information note for “So Long!”), and “To the Leaven’d Soil They Trod” is no exception: It gives the sense of America as a “clean slate” and “equal ground” after the Civil War.

  70 (p. 475) When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d: In 1865-1866, lines 9—13 of what is now section 16 read as follows:

  Must I leave thee, lilac with heart-shaped leaves?

  Must I leave thee there in the door-yard, blooming, returning

  with spring?

  Must I pass from my song for thee;

  From my gaze on thee in the west, fronting the west,

  communing with thee,

  O comrade lustrous, with silver face in the night?

  These dramatic questions reflect Whitman’s immediate and utter despondency over the loss of his “redeemer president.” Whitman had first seen Lincoln on February 19, 1861—Lincoln’s second visit to New York City. From the top of an omnibus gridlocked in traffic, Whitman had a “capital view” of
Lincoln despite the crowd of about 40,000 gathered to see him. And so began Whitman’s fascination with Lincoln, a representation of the poet’s supreme values for humanity, both political and personal (some critics have suggested that the poet may have even had a “crush” on the president). When he was working in Washington, Whitman allegedly waited by the White House gates just to catch a glimpse of Lincoln when he stepped out. In a lecture entitled “Death of Abraham Lincoln” delivered several times between 1879 and 1881 (and recorded in Collect, the literary miscellany included in Specimen Days and Collect of 1882), Whitman concluded : “Dear to the Muse—thrice dear to Nationality—to the whole human race—precious to the Union—precious to Democracy—unspeakably and forever precious—their first great Martyr Chief ”

  As for the strong symbols of the lilac sprig (Whitman’s love for the president) and the star (Lincoln himself) used throughout, Whitman was struck by two particular visions in the month before the assassination: the lilacs that bloomed early due to an unusually warm spring, and the beauty of Venus sinking into the west. The thrush resembles the “solitary singer” of “Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking,” a fig uration of Whitman as “chanter of songs.”

  71 (p. 476) Night and day journeys a coffin: In sections 5 and 6, the poet describes the procession of Lincoln’s funeral train from Washington to Springfield, Illinois. Nine railroad cars draped in black traveled the 1,662 miles to Lincoln’s hometown, and 7 million Americans gathered alongside the tracks to watch it pass.