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. 34. Sands at Seventy. 56. Old Age's Lambent Peaks
2. Leaves of Grass. 35. Good-Bye My Fancy. 13. Bravo, Paris Exposition!
3. Leaves of Grass. 30. Whispers of Heavenly Death. 7. Assurances
4. Leaves of Grass. 30. Whispers of Heavenly Death. 18. Pensive and Faltering
5. Leaves of Grass. 35. Good-Bye My Fancy. 8. An Ended Day

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