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Books by Whitman

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I WAS asking for something specific and perfect for my city,

Whereupon lo! upsprang the aboriginal name.

Now I see what there is in a name, a word, liquid, sane, unruly,
musical, self-sufficient,

I see that the word of my city is that word from of old,

Because I see that word nested in nests of water-bays, superb,

Rich, hemm'd thick all around with sailships and steamships, an
island sixteen miles long, solid-founded,

Numberless crowded streets, high growths of iron, slender, strong,
light, splendidly uprising toward clear skies,

Tides swift and ample, well-loved by me, toward sundown,

The flowing sea-currents, the little islands, larger adjoining islands,
the heights, the villas,

The countless masts, the white shore-steamers, the lighters, the
ferry-boats, the black sea-steamers well-model'd,

The down-town streets, the jobbers' houses of business, the houses
of business of the ship-merchants and money-brokers, the
river-streets,

Immigrants arriving, fifteen or twenty thousand in a week,

The carts hauling goods, the manly race of drivers of horses, the
brown-faced sailors,

The summer air, the bright sun shining, and the sailing clouds
aloft,

The winter snows, the sleigh-bells, the broken ice in the river,
passing along up or down with the flood-tide or ebb-tide,

The mechanics of the city, the masters, well-form'd, beautiful-
faced, looking you straight in the eyes,

Trottoirs throng'd, vehicles, Broadway, the women, the shops and
shows,

A million people—manners free and superb—open voices—
hospitality—the most courageous and friendly young men,

City of hurried and sparkling waters! city of spires and masts!

City nested in bays! my city!

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