Forth from the war emerging,a book I have made, the words of my book nothing, the drift of it everything, a book separate, not link'd with the rest n… - Walt Whitman

The words of my book are nothing, the drift of it everything.

The words of my book nothing, the drift of it everything.

Forth from the war emerging, a book I have made, The words of my book nothing, the drift of it every thing,

You Lingering Sparse Leaves of Me”

You lingering sparse leaves of me on winter-nearing boughs,
And I some well-shorn tree of field or orchard-row;
You tokens diminute and lorn — (not now the flush of May,
or July clover-bloom — no grain of August now;)
You pallid banner-staves — you pennants valueless — you overstay’d of
time,
Yet my soul-dearest leaves confirming all the rest,
The faithfulest — hardiest — last.

Loafe with me on the grass.... loose the stop from
your throat,
Not words, not music or rhyme I want.... not custom
or lecture,
not even the best,
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.
I mind how we lay in June, such a transparent summer
morning;
You settled your head athwart my hips and gently
turned over
upon me,
And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and
plunged your
tongue to my barestript heart,
And reached till you felt my beard, and reached till
you held my
feet.

Come I should like to hear you tell me what there is in yourself that is not just as wonderful,
And I should like to hear the name of anything between Sunday morning and Saturday night that is not just as wonderful.