A GLIMPSE, through an interstice caught,
Of a crowd of workmen and drivers in a bar-room, around the stove,
late of a winter night--And I unremark'd seated in a corner;
o dear
look; please look at me
the dust of dusk is greetings the darkness
the light of lantern is in the hand of caravan
everything is visible on your sight
but I am; an opaque love
please look at me.....
Ah, this is the right joke - all those people sitting in corners. In pubs. They had nothing on Whitman. He would have sat there all night he would. Plenty of inspiration. And then this other figure...proving he really knows how pubs were in those days. To sit out alone, like that.
Anastasia Walt Whitman is dead. He has been for over hundred years, I personally did not like Walt Whitmans writings except for a few. Like Captain my Captain, and When Lilacs last in the dooryard bloomed. His poetry to me was too conceited and at the time we studied it in the 60s he just did not measure up to the greats.
Only if America was caught up in the beauty of his graphic portrayal of human affection instead of blindly addicted to sending boys (and now girls) to die in war. Men giving young men their hands in compassion instead of rifles and uniforms and human targets. Too bad his dream isn't the American Dream, too bad.
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