To the Pending Year
Have I no weapon-word for thee—some message brief and fierce? (Have I fought out and done indeed the battle?) Is there no shot left, For all thy affectations, lisps, scorns, manifold silliness? Nor for myself—my own rebellious self in thee? Down, down, proud gorge!—though choking thee; Thy bearded throat and high-borne forehead to the gutter; Crouch low thy neck to eleemosynary gifts.
Posted on 13/02/2017, 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.