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. 32. From Noon to Starry Night. 1. Thou Orb Aloft Full-Dazzling
2. Leaves of Grass. 34. Sands at Seventy. 55. An Evening Lull
3. Leaves of Grass. 34. Sands at Seventy. Fancies at Navesink. 1. The Pilot in the Mist
4. Leaves of Grass. 30. Whispers of Heavenly Death. 5. Yet, Yet, Ye Downcast Hours
5. Leaves of Grass. 35. Good-Bye My Fancy. 2. Lingering Last Drops

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