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. 28. Old Salt Kossabone
2. Leaves of Grass. 35. Good-Bye My Fancy. 14. Interpolation Sounds
3. Leaves of Grass. 24. Autumn Rivulets. 23. To a Pupil
4. Leaves of Grass. 35. Good-Bye My Fancy. 18. Sounds of the Winter
5. Leaves of Grass. 20. By the Roadside. 28. Offerings

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