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Leaves of Grass (1891-92)
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TO THE PENDING YEAR.
HAVE I no weapon-word for thee—some message brief and
fierce?
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(Have I fought out and done indeed the battle?) Is there no shot
left,
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| 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. |
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