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Books by Whitman

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THE PILOT IN THE MIST.

Steaming the northern rapids—(an old St. Lawrence reminis-
cence,

A sudden memory-flash comes back, I know not why,

Here waiting for the sunrise, gazing from this hill;)*

Again 'tis just at morning—a heavy haze contends with day-
break,

Again the trembling, laboring vessel veers me—I press through
foam-dash'd rocks that almost touch me,

Again I mark where aft the small thin Indian helmsman

Looms in the mist, with brow elate and governing hand.

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