WALT WHITMAN.
Strong poet of the sleepless gods that dwell As far above tho stars as we beneath, Whoso melody, disdaining tbe soft sheath Of dainty modern music, snaps the spell, And careless of aliform or fetb'riugplau,
Clothes itself slovouly in rough, free words, And strikes with no soft touch the iuuer chords That vibrato with the strong and healthy man. What if the ages that are yet to be, Emerging from the bloodless wars of thought, Seize hollow custom, and at one keen blow Smite off its seven heads, and having smote, Turn round, and with their larger veins aglow With new found vigour mould themselves to thee.
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https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers/OW18790201.2.102.9
Bibliographic details
Otago Witness, Issue 1419, 1 February 1879, Page 31
Word Count
109WALT WHITMAN. Otago Witness, Issue 1419, 1 February 1879, Page 31
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