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" Through the ample open door of the peaceful country barn," Leaves of Grass (Book XX. By the Roadside) 1865 A Font of Type " This latent mine—these unlaunch’d voices—passionate powers," Leaves of Grass (Book XXXIV. Sands at Seventy) A Glimpse " A glimpse through an interstice caught," Leaves of Grass (Book V. Calamus) 1860 A Hand-Mirror
Emmenanthe penduliflora, known by the common name whispering bells, is a species of flowering plant in the family Boraginaceae. [1] This grassland wildflower is native to California, though it can also be found in other locations within western North America.
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Leaves of Grass is a poetry collection by American poet Walt Whitman. Though it was first published in 1855, Whitman spent most of his professional life writing, rewriting, and expanding Leaves of Grass [1] until his death in 1892. Six or nine individual editions of Leaves of Grass were produced, depending on how they are distinguished. [2]
Whitman continues through this one of the central images of Leaves of Grass – Calamus is treated as a specific example of the grass that he writes of elsewhere. Some scholars have pointed out, as reasons for Whitman's choice, the phallic shape of what Whitman calls the "pink-tinged roots" of Calamus, its mythological association with male ...
She was dissatisfied with the book, in part because of her lack of control over the content. She complained "The usual portrayal of myself has been that of a sweet, gentle Indian maiden—whispering to the leaves—swaying with the breeze, tra la—. No, no, I’m a rebel really." [16]
And carried aloft on the wings of the breeze; For above and around me the wild wind is roaring, Arousing to rapture the earth and the seas. The long withered grass in the sunshine is glancing, The bare trees are tossing their branches on high; The dead leaves beneath them are merrily dancing, The white clouds are scudding across the blue sky
In the breezes' embrace, It is, around the grey branches, The choir of tiny voices. O the delicate, fresh murmuring! The warbling and whispering, It is like the soft cry The ruffled grass gives out… You might take it for the muffled sound Of pebbles in the swirling stream. This soul which grieves In this subdued lament, It is ours, is it not?