Walt Whitman

I listened to Walt Whitman’s tale tonight
He lived a life of poetry for all
Poetically his words were always right
The words I heard tonight could rise and fall

They rise in strong crescendos like the dawn
They fall in festoons from his lovely lips
And still they rise and fall though he is gone
He lingers like the touch of fingertips

The Leaves of Grass are where the poets walk
They signal life that springs to life with words
The words are written, but to me they talk
And then they fly away like little birds

And though they fly away from those who spurn
The words of Walt seem always to return.

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