An Expurgated Whitman poem

[lucretius]

9.

HOURS continuing long, sore and heavy-hearted,

Hours of the dusk, when I withdraw to a lonesome

and unfrequented spot, seating myself, leaning

my face in my hands;

Hours sleepless, deep in the night, when I go forth,

speeding swiftly the country roads, or through

the city streets, or pacing miles and

Comments

[a_zoetrope]

Wow, thanks for posting this! I've never read it and it's fascinating.

provides access

[anonymous]

best one yet. I was rolling!!! hahaha