By Broad Potomacâ€™s Shore. by Walt Whitman
BY broad Potomacâ€™s shoreâ€”again, old tongue!
(Still utteringâ€”still ejaculatingâ€”canst never cease this babble?)
Again, old heart so gayâ€”again to you, your sense, the full flush spring returning;
Again the freshness and the odorsâ€”again Virginiaâ€™s summer sky, pellucid blue and
Again the forenoon purple of the hills,
Again the deathless grass, so noiseless, soft and green,
Again the blood-red roses blooming.
Perfume this book of mine, O blood-red roses!
Lave subtly with your waters every line, Potomac!
Give me of you, O spring, before I close, to put between its pages!
O forenoon purple of the hills, before I close, of you!
O smiling earthâ€”O summer sun, give me of you!
O deathless grass, of you!