"He was here a moment ago." Walt Irvine drew himself away with a jerk from the metaphysics and poetry of the organic miracle of blossom, and surveyed the landscape.
When Walt Irvine went down to inspect the intruder, he was snarled at for his pains, and Madge likewise was snarled at when she went down to present, as a peace-offering, a large pan of bread and milk.
He had a metal plate made, on which was stamped: RETURN TO WALT IRVINE, GLEN ELLEN, SONOMA COUNTY, CALIFORNIA.
Walt's face reddened, and the striking-muscles of his arms and shoulders seemed to stiffen and grow tense.
Walt's striking-muscles relaxed, and his shoulders seemed to droop with hopelessness.
When the latter shook hands with Walt, Wolf repeated his act, resting his weight on Walt and licking both men's hands.
I told Walt
privily that she had favoured Dickon, and Dickon privily that she loved Walt
Angel had come as pupil to this dairy in the idea that his temporary existence here was to be the merest episode in his life, soon passed through and early forgotten; he had come as to a place from which as from a screened alcove he could calmly view the absorbing world without, and, apostrophizing it with Walt
Two things are incompossible when the world of being has scope enough for one of them, but not enough for both -- as Walt
Whitman's poetry and God's mercy to man.
--Excerpt from Walt
Mervin's "Certain Essays in History."
This is what I find the fatal defect of our American Ossian, Walt
Whitman, whose way is where artistic madness lies.
And how inexpressibly sad it was to hear him prattling on of the ideal life, of socialism, of Walt
Whitman and what not,--all the dear old quackeries,--while I was already settling down comfortably to a conservative middle age.