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Jump to navigationJump to searchfrom Leaves of Grass: BOOK XXXIV. SANDS AT SEVENTY - by Walt Whitman.
This latent mine—these unlaunch’d voices—passionate powers,
Wrath, argument, or praise, or comic leer, or prayer devout,
(Not nonpareil, brevier, bourgeois, long primer merely,)
These ocean waves arousable to fury and to death,
Or sooth’d to ease and sheeny sun and sleep,
Within the pallid slivers slumbering.
| from Leaves of Grass: BOOK XXXIV. SANDS AT SEVENTY by Walt Whitman | |
| The Bravest Soldiers | As I Sit Writing Here 
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