Published Works

Books by Whitman

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THESE I, singing in spring, collect for lovers,

(For who but I should understand lovers, and all their
sorrow and joy?

And who but I should be the poet of comrades?)

Collecting, I traverse the garden, the world—but
soon I pass the gates,

Now along the pond-side—now wading in a little,
fearing not the wet,

Now by the post-and-rail fences, where the old stones
thrown there, picked from the fields, have accu-
mulated,

Wild-flowers and vines and weeds come up through
the stones, and partly cover them—Beyond these
I pass,

Far, far in the forest, before I think where I get,

Solitary, smelling the earthy smell, stopping now and
then in the silence,

Alone I had thought—yet soon a silent troop gathers
around me,

Some walk by my side, and some behind, and some
embrace my arms or neck,

They, the spirits of friends, dead or alive—thicker
they come, a great crowd, and I in the middle,

Collecting, dispensing, singing in spring, there I wan-
der with them,

Plucking something for tokens—something for these,
till I hit upon a name—tossing toward whoever
is near me,

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - [begin page 348] - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Here! lilac, with a branch of pine,

Here, out of my pocket, some moss which I pulled off
a live-oak in Florida, as it hung trailing down,

Here, some pinks and laurel leaves, and a handful of
sage,

And here what I now draw from the water, wading in
the pond-side,

(O here I last saw him that tenderly loves me—and
returns again, never to separate from me,

And this, O this shall henceforth be the token of
comrades—this calamus-root shall,

Interchange it, youths, with each other! Let none
render it back!)

And twigs of maple, and a bunch of wild orange, and
chestnut,

And stems of currants, and plum-blows, and the
aromatic cedar;

These I, compassed around by a thick cloud of
spirits,

Wandering, point to, or touch as I pass, or throw them
loosely from me,

Indicating to each one what he shall have—giving
something to each,

But what I drew from the water by the pond-side, that
I reserve,

I will give of it—but only to them that love, as I
myself am capable of loving.

Distributed under a Creative Commons License. Matt Cohen, Ed Folsom, & Kenneth M. Price, editors.