Leaves of Grass First and Death-Bed Editions (112 page)

“Paumanok” is the Algonquian name for Long Island, where Whitman indeed got
his start: He was born in Huntington, Suffolk County, and his birthplace is now a
state historic site.

Quaker designation for May. Whitman was proud of his family’s Quaker ties; he wrote essays on Quakers Elias Hicks and George Fox for his prose miscellany No
vember Boughs
(1888).

Musical terms, from the Italian, for “sweet” and “sentimental, affected person.”

That is, one who waits.

Siberian seaport; more commonly spelled Okhotsk.

Slave caravan.

In the previous four lines, the poet tours mountain ranges in China, Siberia,
India, Austria, Italy, and Iceland.

The poet “sees” Druids at the groves of Mona, an ancient sacred site in Anglesey, an island off the coast of northwestern Wales; the plants mistletoe and vervain are associated with practices of the Druids.

Depending upon the time of year, the poet is looking on a late-afternoon or an
early-evening sky—in other words, he is returning home to Brooklyn after a day’s
labor in Manhattan. The poem’s original title was “Sun-down Poem,” and Whitman
sets this scene by placing the sun “there”—that is, in the west—“half an hour high.”

The poet sees his reflection illuminated by the sun behind him, causing the “halo effect” described here.

The French word for “foliage”—yet another reference to “leaves.”

Ancient name for Egypt.

Minor Roman officials who cleared the way for chief magistrates.

The structural supports (keelsons) of this ship are built from one of Whitman’s
most significant plant types, the live oak (see endnote 23 to the “Calamus” cluster).
The supports that bear strain (the knees) are made from the tamarack or American
larch tree.

New York City’s Crystal Palace, a wonder itself and an exhibition area for the latest discoveries and inventions; it opened in 1853 and was destroyed by fire in 1858.

The nine Muses, ancient sister goddesses who were guiding spirits for an array of
arts and sciences.

Dryads and hamadryads are wood nymphs—in this case, the voices of the redwood trees of the title.

A rubber-like gum.

Give birth! (French).

“Whitman’s misused French, meaning ”emerge.“

The mother, or “ma femme” (French for “my wife”) of the last lines, is Democracy personified; the newborn infant is liberated France.

Abraham Lincoln ran against Stephen Douglas and became the sixteenth presi-
dent of the United States; Whitman refers here to the nineteenth term of the pres-
idency.

Abolitionist John Brown was hung for treason in Charles Town, Virginia (now
West Virginia), on December 2, 1859.

Edward, prince of Wales, visited New York City on October 11, 1860.
^†
The British steamship
The Great Eastern
made her first transatlantic crossing to
New York in 1860.

Opposites.

Smooth, lyrical, flowing, song-like piece; the word is more commonly used as an
adjective.

As in “Year of Meteors,” Whitman refers to the visit of Edward, prince of Wales, to New York in 1860.

Quaker designation for September, but perhaps also an allusion to the culmina
tion of a pregnancy.

Native American term for Long Island, the fish-shaped island where Whitman
was born. The poet later designates Paumanok as his male progenitor, and the sea
around it as his “mother.”

Brittle; easily crumbled; fragile.

Barnegat is the name of a bay on the coast of New Jersey, east of Whitman’s last
home in Camden.

The “16th, 17th, or 18th Presidentiad” refers to the terms of Millard Fillmore, Franklin Pierce, and James Buchanan (see endnote 3 to the First Edition).

The poem’s title was originally set in numerals (“1861”). Whitman often recalled
hearing about the attack at Fort Sumter after attending a performance at New
York’s Academy of Music on April 13, 1861.

A “bivouac” is a temporary encampment, often in the open.

Clarify (French).

The mossbonker (also spelled mossbunker), or menhaden, is fish indigenous to the Long Island waters Whitman describes.

Slang expression used by the likes of sailors and prostitutes, “so long” signifies not only “good-bye,” but “‘til we meet again.”

Navesink—a sea-side mountain, lower entrance of New York Bay [Whitman’s
note].

The two songs on this page are eked out during an afternoon, June,
₁
888, in my
seventieth year, at a critical spell of illness. Of course no reader and probably no
human being at any time will ever have such phases of emotional and solemn ac
tion as these involve to me. I feel in them an end and close of all [Whitman’s note].

Behind a Good-bye there lurks much of the salutation of another beginning—to me,
Development, Continuity, Immortality, Transformation, are the chiefest life-
meanings of Nature and Humanity, and are the
sine qua non
of all facts, and each fact.

Why do folks dwell so fondly on the last words, advice, appearance, of the de
parting? Those last words are not samples of the best, which involve vitality at its
full, and balance, and perfect control and scope. But they are valuable beyond
measure to confirm and endorse the varied train, facts, theories and faith of the
whole preceding life [Whitman’s note].

‘NOTE.—Summer country life.—Several years.—In my rambles and explorations I found a woody place near the creek, where for some reason the birds in happy mood seem’d to resort in unusual numbers. Especially at the beginning of the day, and again at the ending, I was sure to get there the most copious bird-concerts. I repair’ d there frequently at sunrise—and also at sunset, or just before ... Once the question arose in me: Which is the best singing, the first or the lattermost? The first always exhilarated, and perhaps seem’d more joyous and stronger; but I always felt the sunset or late afternoon sounds more penetrating and sweeter—seem’d to touch the soul—often the evening thrushes, two or three of them, responding and perhaps blending. Though I miss’d some of the mornings, I found myself getting to be quite strictly punctual at the evening utterances.

ANOTHER NOTE.—“He went out with the tide and the sunset,” was a phrase I heard from a surgeon describing an old sailor’s death under peculiarly gentle conditions.

During the Secession War, 1863 and ‘4, visiting the Army Hospitals around Washington, I form’d the habit, and continued it to the end, whenever the ebb or flood tide began the latter part of day, of punctually visiting those at that time populous wards of suffering men. Somehow (or I thought so) the effect of the hour was palpable. The badly wounded would get some ease, and would like to talk a little, or be talk’d to. Intellectual and emotional natures would be at their best: Deaths were always easier; medicines seem’d to have better effect when given then, and a lulling atmosphere would pervade the wards.

Similar influences, similar circumstances and hours, day-close, after great battles, even with all their horrors. I had more than once the same experience on the fields cover’d with fallen or dead [Whitman’s notes].

NOTE.-CAMDEN, N. J., August 7, 1888.-Walt Whitman asks the
New York
Herald
“to add his tribute to Sheridan:”

“In the grand constellation of five or six names, under Lincoln’s Presidency, that
history will bear for ages in her firmament as marking the last life-throbs of seces
sion, and beaming on its dying gasps, Sheridan’s will be bright. One consideration
rising out of the now dead soldier’s example as it passes my mind, is worth taking
notice of. If the war had continued any long time these States, in my opinion,
would have shown and proved the most conclusive military talents ever evinced by
any nation on earth. That they possess’d a rank and file ahead of all other known
in points of quality and limitlessness of number are easily admitted. But we have,
too, the eligibility of organizing, handling and officering equal to the other. These
two, with modern arms, transportation, and inventive American genius, would
make the United States, with earnestness, not only able to stand the whole world,
but conquer that world united against us” [Whitman’s note].