By Broad Potomac’s Shore
By broad Potomac's shore, again old tongue, (Still uttering, still ejaculating, canst never cease this babble?) Again old heart so gay, again to you, your sense, the full flush spring returning, Again the freshness and the odors, again Virginia's summer sky, pellucid blue and silver, Again the forenoon purple of the hills, Again the deathless grass, so noiseless soft and green, Again the blood-red roses blooming. Perfume this book of mine O blood-red roses! Lave subtly with your waters every line Potomac! Give me of you O spring, before I close, to put between its pages! O forenoon purple of the hills, before I close, of you! O deathless grass, of you!
Posted on 08/08/2015, in literature, poetry and tagged 19th Century Poetry, American literature, American poets, Daily Whitman, free verse, Leaves of Grass, literature, poems, poetry, Transcendentalists, Walt Whitman. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.