FEINBERG/WHITMAN LITERARY FILE POETRY FILE "You Lingering Sparse Leaves of Me." (1887) Proof Sheets. Box 30 Folder 41 Includes poems "Going Somewhere," "After the Supper and Talk," and "Not Meagre, Latent Boughs Alone." Also includes A.MS.S. corrections and notations. [*[Ch??]*] November Boughs YOU LINGERING SPARSE LEAVES OF ME. [ *[L???g] #12 Caps*] 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, nor July clover-bloom—no grain of August now;) You pallid banner-staves—you pennants valueless—you over- stay'd of time. Yet my soul-dearest leaves—the faithfulest—hardiest—last. "GOING SOMEWHERE." [*[B???g] #12 Caps*] My science-friend, my noblest woman-friend, (Now buried in an English grave—and this a memory-leaf for her dear sake,) Ended our talk—"The sum, concluding all we know of old or modern learning, intuitions deep, "Of all Geologies—Histories—of all Astronomy—of Evolution, Metaphysics all, "Is, that we all are onward, onward, speeding slowly, surely bettering, "Life, life an endless march, an endless army, (no halt, but it is duly over,) "The world, the race, the soul—in space and time the universes, "All [wisely] bound as is befitting them—all surely going somewhere." AFTER THE SUPPER AND TALK. [*Bg #12 Caps*] (To prelude some added poems at end of a Volume.) After the supper and talk—after the day is done, As a friend from friends his final withdrawal prolonging, Good-bye and Good-bye with emotional lips repeating, (So hard for his hand to release those hands—no more will they meet, No more for communion of sorrow and joy, of old and young, A far-stretching journey awaits him, to return no more,) Shunning, postponing severance—seeking to ward off the last word ever so little, E'en at the exit-door turning—charges superfluous calling back—e'en as he descends the steps, Something to eke out a minute additional—shadows of nightfall deepening, Farewells, messages lessening—dimmer the forth-goer's visage and form, Soon to be lost for aye, in the darkness—loth, O so loth to depart! Garrulous to the very last. NOT MEAGRE LATENT BOUGHS ALONE. [*Bg #12 Caps*] Not meagre, latent boughs alone, O songs! (scaly and bare, like eagles' talons,) But haply for some sunny day, (who knows?) some future spring, some summer—bursting forth, To blossoms, verdant leaves, or sheltering shade—to nourishing fruit, Apples and grapes—[and] the stalwart limbs of trees emerging—the fresh, free, open air, And love and faith, like scented roses blooming. Walt Whitman. 1582 1888 November Boughs: Two Proofs of Four Poems, with Marginalia. A.MS.s.(2p. 35½ x 15½ and 23½ x 15 cm.) Written in ink on two sets of proofs of 'You Lingering Sparse Leaves of Me', '"Going Somewhere"', 'After the Supper and Talk', and 'Not Meagre, Latent Boughs Alone', one with Whitman's name at the end made by pasting together proofs of each poem in the order he wanted them; the other has all four poems printed on one sheet, 4 words on the long sheet, 7 on the small: [(Long sheet:)] November Boughs (at top) 'wisely' deleted as second word in last line of '"Going Somewhere"' 'and' changed to 'the' as the fourth word in line 4 of 'Not Meagre' [(Small sheet:)] From Lippincott's Magazine By Walt Whitman (at top) All changes above are made, plus 'blossoms' deleted a 1583 second word in line 3 of 'Not Meagre', and signature at bottom deleted by two diagonal lines (An earlier proof version of 'You Lingering Sparse Leaves of Me', without corrections, is in the Huntington Library—Exhibited May-June 1945.) NOVEMBER BOUGHS. 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, nor 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—the faithfullest—hardiest—last. "GOING SOMEWHERE." My science-friend, my noblest woman-friend, (Now buried in an English grave—and this a memory-leaf for her dear sake,) Ended our talk—"The sum, concluding all we know of old or modern learning, intuitions deep, "Of all Geologies—Histories—of all Astronomy—of Evolution, Metaphysics all, "Is, that we all are onward, onward, speeding slowly, surely bettering, "Life, life an endless march, an endless army, (no halt, but it is duly over,) "The world, the race, the soul—in space and time the universes, "All bound as is befitting each—all surely going somewhere." AFTER THE SUPPER AND TALK. After the supper and talk—after the day is done, As a friend from friends his final withdrawal prolonging, Good-bye and Good-bye with emotional lips repeating, (So hard for his hand to release those hands—no more will they meet, No more communion of sorrow and joy, of old and young, A far-stretching journey awaits him, to return no more,) Shunning, postponing severance—seeking to ward off the last word ever so little, E'en at the exit-door turning—charges superfluous calling back—e'en as he descends the steps, Something to eke out a minute additional—shadows of nightfall deepening, Farewells, messages lessening—dimmer the forth-goer's visage and form, Soon to be lost for aye in the darkness—loth, O so loth to depart! Garrulous to the very last. NOT MEAGRE, LATENT BOUGHS ALONE. Not meagre, latent boughs alone, O songs! (scaly and bare, like eagles' talons,) But haply for some sunny day, (who knows?) some future spring, some summer—bursting forth, To blossoms, verdant leaves, or sheltering shade—to nourishing fruit, Apples and grapes—the stalwart limbs of trees emerging—the fresh, free, open air. And love and faith, like scented roses blooming Walt Whitman. From Lippincott's Magazine NOVEMBER BOUGHS. By Walt Whitman 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, nor 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—the faithfullest—hardiest—last. "GOING SOMEWHERE." My science-friend, my noblest woman-friend, (Now buried in an English grave—and this a memory-leaf for her dear sake,) Ended our talk—"The sum, concluding all we know of old or modern learning, intuitions deep, "Of all Geologies—Histories—of all Astronomy—of Evolution, Metaphysics all, "Is, that we all are onward, onward, speeding slowly, surely bettering, "Life, life an endless march, an endless army, (no halt, but it is duly over,) "The world, the race, the soul—in space and time the universes, "All bound as is befitting each—all surely going somewhere." AFTER THE SUPPER AND TALK. After the supper and talk—after the day is done, As a friend from friends his final withdrawal prolonging, Good-bye and Good-bye with emotional lips repeating, (So hard for his hand to release those hands—no more will they meet, No more communion of sorrow and joy, of old and young, A far-stretching journey awaits him, to return no more,) Shunning, postponing severance—seeking to ward off the last word ever so little, E'en at the exit-door turning—charges superfluous calling back—e'en as he descends the steps, Something to eke out a minute additional—shadows of nightfall deepening, Farewells, messages lessening—dimmer the forth-goer's visage and form, Soon to be lost for aye in the darkness—loth, O so loth to depart! Garrulous to the very last. NOT MEAGRE, LATENT BOUGHS ALONE. Not meagre, latent boughs alone, O songs ! (scaly and bare, like eagles' talons,) But haply for some sunny day, (who knows?) some future spring, some summer—bursting forth, To [blossoms,] verdant leaves, or sheltering shade—to nourishing fruit, Apples and grapes—the stalwart limbs of trees emerging—the fresh, free, open air, And love and faith, like scented roses blooming. [Walt Whitman.] 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, nor 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—the faithfulest—hardiest—last. WALT WHITMAN. [*E 2" R*] YOU LINGERING SPARSE LEAVES OF ME. You lingering sparse leaves of me on bare December boughs, And I some well-shorn tree of field or orchard-row ; You tokens diminute and lorn—(not now the flush of May, nor July clover bloom—no fruits of August now ;) You pallid little banners, remnants valueless—you overstay'd of time, Yet my soul-dearest leaves—hardiest and the last. Transcribed and reviewed by contributors participating in the By The People project at crowd.loc.gov.