Daily Whitman


Now Finale to the Shore

  Now finale to the shore,
  Now land and life finale and farewell,
  Now Voyager depart, (much, much for thee is yet in store,)
  Often enough hast thou adventur'd o'er the seas,
  Cautiously cruising, studying the charts,
  Duly again to port and hawser's tie returning;
  But now obey thy cherish'd secret wish,
  Embrace thy friends, leave all in order,
  To port and hawser's tie no more returning,
  Depart upon thy endless cruise old Sailor.


Daily Whitman


These Carols

  These carols sung to cheer my passage through the world I see,
  For completion I dedicate to the Invisible World.

Daily Whitman

Arched doorway opening on garden stairs with sun streaming in


  What are those of the known but to ascend and enter the Unknown?
  And what are those of life but for Death?


Daily Whitman


The Untold Want

  The untold want by life and land ne'er granted,
  Now voyager sail thou forth to seek and find.



Daily Whitman


Joy, Shipmate, Joy!

  Joy, shipmate, Joy!
  (Pleas'd to my soul at death I cry,)
  Our life is closed, our life begins,
  The long, long anchorage we leave,
  The ship is clear at last, she leaps!
  She swiftly courses from the shore,
  Joy, shipmate, joy.


Daily Whitman

hp photosmart 720

As They Draw to a Close

  As they draw to a close,
  Of what underlies the precedent songs—of my aims in them,
  Of the seed I have sought to plant in them,
  Of joy, sweet joy, through many a year, in them,
  (For them, for them have I lived, in them my work is done,)
  Of many an aspiration fond, of many a dream and plan;
  Through Space and Time fused in a chant, and the flowing eternal identity,
  To Nature encompassing these, encompassing God—to the joyous,
      electric all,
  To the sense of Death, and accepting exulting in Death in its turn
      the same as life,
  The entrance of man to sing;
  To compact you, ye parted, diverse lives,
  To put rapport the mountains and rocks and streams,
  And the winds of the north, and the forests of oak and pine,
  With you O soul.


Daily Whitman


The Sobbing of the Bells [Midnight, Sept. 19-20, 1881]

  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.


Daily Whitman

ME-StE's Photos by Michael Williamson NEG#187021 12/28/06: WE TOUR ST. ELIZABETH'S HOSPITAL IN THE WEST CAMPUS AREA--THIS AREA IS SET TO BECOME THE HQ'S FOR THE DEPT. OF HOMELAND SECURITY: There's a little-known old Civil War cemetary on the grounds of St. E's -- but it not expected to be impacted by the move to the campus by Homeland Security. StaffPhoto imported to Merlin on Sat Jun 16 12:44:02 2007

Camps of Green

  Nor alone those camps of white, old comrades of the wars,
  When as order'd forward, after a long march,
  Footsore and weary, soon as the light lessens we halt for the night,
  Some of us so fatigued carrying the gun and knapsack, dropping
      asleep in our tracks,
  Others pitching the little tents, and the fires lit up begin to sparkle,
  Outposts of pickets posted surrounding alert through the dark,
  And a word provided for countersign, careful for safety,
  Till to the call of the drummers at daybreak loudly beating the drums,
  We rise up refresh'd, the night and sleep pass'd over, and resume our
  Or proceed to battle.

  Lo, the camps of the tents of green,
  Which the days of peace keep filling, and the days of war keep filling,
  With a mystic army, (is it too order'd forward? is it too only
      halting awhile,
  Till night and sleep pass over?)

  Now in those camps of green, in their tents dotting the world,
  In the parents, children, husbands, wives, in them, in the old and young,
  Sleeping under the sunlight, sleeping under the moonlight, content
      and silent there at last,
  Behold the mighty bivouac-field and waiting-camp of all,
  Of the corps and generals all, and the President over the corps and
      generals all,
  And of each of us O soldiers, and of each and all in the ranks we fought,
  (There without hatred we all, all meet.)

  For presently O soldiers, we too camp in our place in the
      bivouac-camps of green,
  But we need not provide for outposts, nor word for the countersign,
  Nor drummer to beat the morning drum.



Quote for the Week


All the comics are sigils. “Sigil” as a word is out of date. All this magic stuff needs new terminology because it’s not what people are being told it is at all. It’s not all this wearying symbolic misdirection that’s being dragged up from the Victorian Age, when no-one was allowed to talk plainly and everything was in coy poetic code. The world’s at a crisis point and it’s time to stop bullshitting around with Qabalah and Thelema and Chaos and Information and all the rest of the metaphoric smoke and mirrors designed to make the rubes think magicians are “special” people with special powers. It’s not like that. Everyone does magic all the time in different ways. “Life” plus “significance” = magic.

–Grant Morrison‎, in “Grant Morrison: Master & Commander” by Christopher Butcher, Part 4 : Highway X

Daily Whitman


Pensive on Her Dead Gazing

  Pensive on her dead gazing I heard the Mother of All,
  Desperate on the torn bodies, on the forms covering the battlefields gazing,
  (As the last gun ceased, but the scent of the powder-smoke linger'd,)
  As she call'd to her earth with mournful voice while she stalk'd,
  Absorb them well O my earth, she cried, I charge you lose not my
      sons, lose not an atom,
  And you streams absorb them well, taking their dear blood,
  And you local spots, and you airs that swim above lightly impalpable,
  And all you essences of soil and growth, and you my rivers' depths,
  And you mountain sides, and the woods where my dear children's
      blood trickling redden'd,
  And you trees down in your roots to bequeath to all future trees,
  My dead absorb or South or North—my young men's bodies absorb,
      and their precious precious blood,
  Which holding in trust for me faithfully back again give me many a
      year hence,
  In unseen essence and odor of surface and grass, centuries hence,
  In blowing airs from the fields back again give me my darlings, give
      my immortal heroes,
  Exhale me them centuries hence, breathe me their breath, let not an
      atom be lost,
  O years and graves! O air and soil! O my dead, an aroma sweet!
  Exhale them perennial sweet death, years, centuries hence.



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