This post was contributed by Small Special Collections Library Curator George Riser.

Walt Whitman self-published Leaves of Grass in 1855 in a collection of twelve poems. Encouraged by a letter from Ralph Waldo Emerson, Whitman released a second edition a year later in 1856; this edition included thirty-two poems. A third edition followed in 1860, and the book now boasted 156 poems. The poems added to the 1860 edition exist in Whitman’s hand, and these edited manuscript poems (part of MSS 3829) are housed in the Clifton Waller Barrett Library of American Literature at the University of Virginia Special Collections Library.  

In 1956, Fredson Bowers, a University of Virginia English professor, examined the manuscript poems and noted that scattered throughout the “Calamus” section was a set of twelve numbered poems, all written on the same white-wove paper and obviously fair copies (final versions after all corrections and revisions have been made). Placing the poems in numerical order for the first time since the 1860 edition was published, Bowers saw that these twelve poems made a single long poem entitled “Live Oak with Moss,” and that Whitman’s intent in these poems was to express his feeling about “the manly love of comrades.”  

In Bower’s 1956 article in Studies in Bibliography, “Whitman’s Manuscript for the original ‘Calamus Poems,’” Bowers noted that Whitman’s first symbol of “manly love” was the live oak. Bowers described the poems in their original sequence as appearing deeply personal and candid and having been written about love and disappointment in a relationship between two men—an insight that had been much speculated upon, but, as Bower concludes, “here in these manuscripts is the proof.” 

As Whitman had much to fear in his lifetime when making clear his feelings about homosexual love, he made the decision to scatter the twelve sections throughout the “Calamus” cluster to obscure his original intent.

Shown below are images of the original “Live Oak with Moss” manuscript poem in Whitman’s original sequence. 

Full poem, courtesy of the Whitman Archive:

“Live Oak with Moss”

l

Not heat flames up and consumes,
Not sea-waves hurry in and out,
Not the air, delicious and dry, the air of the ripe
     summer, bears lightly along white down-balls of
     myriads of seeds, wafted, sailing gracefully, to drop
     where they may,
Not these—O none of these, more than the flames of
     me, consuming, burning for his love whom I love!
O none, more than I, hurrying in and out;
Does the tide hurry, seeking something, and never give
     up? O I the same;
O nor down-balls, nor perfumes, nor the high rain-
     emitting clouds, are borne through the open air,
Any more than my Soul is borne through the open air,
Wafted in all directions, O love, for friendship, for you.

2

I saw in Louisiana a live-oak growing,
All alone stood it, and the moss hung down from the
     branches,
Without any companion it grew there, uttering joyous
     leaves of dark green,
And its look, rude, unbending, lusty, made me think of
     myself,
But I wondered how it could utter joyous leaves,
     standing alone there, without its friend, its lover
     near—for I knew I could not,
And I broke off a twig with a certain number of leaves
     upon it, and twined around it a little moss,
And brought it away—and I have placed it in sight in
     my room,
It is not needed to remind me as of my own dear
     friends,
(For I believe lately I think of little else than of them,)
Yet it remains to me a curious token—it makes me think
     of manly love;
For all that, and though the live-oak glistens there in
     Louisiana, solitary, in a wide flat space,
Uttering joyous leaves all its life, without a friend, a
     lover, near,
I know very well I could not.

3

When I heard at the close of the day how my name had
     been received with plaudits in the capitol, still it was
     not a happy night for me that followed;
And else, when I caroused, or when my plans were
     accomplished, still I was not happy;
But the day when I rose at dawn from the bed of perfect
     health, refreshed, singing, inhaling the ripe breath of
     autumn,
When I saw the full moon in the west grow pale and
     disappear in the morning light,
When I wandered alone over the beach, and,
     undressing, bathed, laughing with the cool waters,
     and saw the sun rise,
And when I thought how my dear friend, my lover, was
     on his way coming, O then I was happy;
O then each breath tasted sweeter—and all that day my
     food nourished me more—And the beautiful day
     passed well,
And the next came with equal joy—And with the next,
     at evening, came my friend;
And that night, while all was still, I heard the waters roll
     slowly continually up the shores,
I heard the hissing rustle of the liquid and sands, as
     directed to me, whispering, to congratulate me,
For the one I love most lay sleeping by me under the
     same cover in the cool night,
In the stillness, in the autumn moonbeams, his face was
     inclined toward me,
And his arm lay lightly around my breast—And that
     night I was happy.

4

This moment as I sit alone, yearning and thoughtful, it
     seems to me there are other men in other lands,
     yearning and thoughtful;
It seems to me I can look over and behold them, in
     Germany, Italy, France, Spain—Or far, far away, in
     China, or in Russia or India—talking other dialects;
And it seems to me if I could know those men better, I
     should become attached to them, as I do to men in
     my own lands,
It seems to me they are as wise, beautiful, benevolent,
     as any in my own lands;
O I know we should be brethren and lovers,
I know I should be happy with them.

5

Long I thought that knowledge alone would suffice
     me—O if I could but obtain knowledge!
Then my lands engrossed me—Lands of the prairies,
     Ohio’s land, the southern savannas, engrossed me—
     For them I would live—I would be their orator;
Then I met the examples of old and new heroes—I
     heard of warriors, sailors, and all dauntless persons—
     And it seemed to me that I too had it in me to be as
     dauntless as any—and would be so;
And then, to enclose all, it came to me to strike up the
     songs of the New World—And then I believed my life
     must be spent in singing;
But now take notice, land of the prairies, land of the
     south savannas, Ohio’s land,
Take notice, you Kanuck woods—and you Lake
     Huron—and all that with you roll toward Niagara—
     and you Niagara also,
And you, Californian mountains—That you each and all
     find somebody else to be your singer of songs,
For I can be your singer of songs no longer—One who
     loves me is jealous of me, and withdraws me from all
     but love,
With the rest I dispense—I sever from what I thought
     would suffice me, for it does not—it is now empty
     and tasteless to me,
I heed knowledge, and the grandeur of The States, and
     the example of heroes, no more,
I am indifferent to my own songs—I will go with him I
     love,
It is to be enough for us that we are together—We never
     separate again.

6

What think you I take my pen in hand to record?
The battle-ship, perfect-model’d, majestic, that I saw
     pass the offing to-day under full sail?
The splendors of the past day? Or the splendor of the
     night that envelops me?
Or the vaunted glory and growth of the great city
     spread around me?—No;
But I record of two simple men I saw to-day, on the pier,
     in the midst of the crowd, parting the parting of dear
     friends,
The one to remain hung on the other’s neck, and
     passionately kissed him,
While the one to depart, tightly prest the one to remain
     in his arms.

7

You bards of ages hence! when you refer to me, mind
     not so much my poems,
Nor speak of me that I prophesied of The States, and led
     them the way of their glories;
But come, I will take you down underneath this
     impassive exterior—I will tell you what to say of me:
Publish my name and hang up my picture as that of the
     tenderest lover
The friend, the lover’s portrait, of whom his friend, his
     lover, was fondest,
Who was not proud of his songs, but of the measureless
     ocean of love within him—and freely poured it forth,
Who often walked lonesome walks, thinking of his dear
     friends, his lovers,
Who pensive, away from one he loved, often lay
     sleepless and dissatisfied at night,
Who knew too well the sick, sick dread lest the one he
     loved might secretly be indifferent to him,
Whose happiest days were far away, through fields, in
     woods, on hills, he and another, wandering hand in
     hand, they twain, apart from other men,
Who oft as he sauntered the streets, curved with his
     arm the shoulder of his friend—while the arm of his
     friend rested upon him also.

8

Hours continuing long, sore and heavy-hearted,
Hours of the dusk, when I withdraw to a lonesome and
     unfrequented spot, seating myself, leaning my face in
     my hands;
Hours sleepless, deep in the night, when I go forth,
     speeding swiftly the country roads, or through the
     city streets, or pacing miles and miles, stifling
     plaintive cries;
Hours discouraged, distracted—for the one I cannot
     content myself without, soon I saw him content
     himself without me;
Hours when I am forgotten, (O weeks and months are
     passing, but I believe I am never to forget!)
Sullen and suffering hours! (I am ashamed—but it is
     useless—I am what I am;)
Hours of my torment—I wonder if other men ever have
     the like, out of the like feelings?
Is there even one other like me—distracted—his friend,
     his lover, lost to him?
Is he too as I am now? Does he still rise in the morning,
     dejected, thinking who is lost to him? and at night,
     awaking, think who is lost?
Does he too harbor his friendship silent and endless?
     harbor his anguish and passion?
Does some stray reminder, or the casual mention of a
     name, bring the fit back upon him, taciturn and
     deprest?
Does he see himself reflected in me? In these hours,
     does he see the face of his hours reflected?

9

I dreamed in a dream, I saw a city invincible to the
     attacks of the whole of the rest of the earth,
I dreamed that was the new City of Friends,
Nothing was greater there than the quality of robust
     love—it led the rest,
It was seen every hour in the actions of the men of that
     city,
And in all their looks and words.

10

O you whom I often and silently come where you are,
     that I may be with you,
As I walk by your side, or sit near, or remain in the
     same room with you,
Little you know the subtle electric fire that for your sake
     is playing within me.

11

Earth! my likeness!
Though you look so impassive, ample and spheric
     there,
I now suspect that is not all;
I now suspect there is something fierce in you, eligible
     to burst forth;
For an athlete is enamoured of me—and I of him,
But toward him there is something fierce and terrible in
     me, eligible to burst forth,
I dare not tell it in words—not even in these songs.

12

To the young man, many things to absorb, to engraft, to
     develop, I teach, to help him become élève of mine,
But if blood like mine circle not in his veins,
If he be not silently selected by lovers, and do not
     silently select lovers,
Of what use is it that he seek to become élève of mine?