Poem by Walt Whitman

Leaves of Grass. 35. Good-Bye My Fancy. 10. 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.

1. Leaves of Grass. 20. By the Roadside. 6. Thoughts
2. Leaves of Grass. 34. Sands at Seventy. 55. An Evening Lull
3. Leaves of Grass. 34. Sands at Seventy. Fancies at Navesink. 6. Proudly the Flood Comes In
4. Leaves of Grass. 24. Autumn Rivulets. 12. Outlines for a Tomb [G. P., Buried 1870]
5. Leaves of Grass. 35. Good-Bye My Fancy. 6. Apparitions

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