Walt Whitman—"Good gray poet," as we say, But once the friend of anarchists and those Whose protest, most belligerent, arose— Was thought of none too kindly in his day. On Mickle street he lived in humble way "A paralytic hobo," I suppose, Conversant with the toll of human woes; And Camden only suffered him to stay. But now (another Homer) cities vie To claim him as their best beloved son, Whose name was once the butt of half their fun, And now is held a name that can not die— The first to leave the old, the first to be Exponent of a newer artistry. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: EPILOGUE by EDGAR LEE MASTERS LINCOLN, THE MAN OF THE PEOPLE by EDWIN MARKHAM MONNA INNOMINATA, A SONNET OF SONNETS: 13 by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI SAINT BRANDAN by MATTHEW ARNOLD DENNER'S OLD WOMAN by VINCENT BOURNE |