Finding a Home, Part Two

Welcome to Celebrate Poe for episode 396 Finding a Home, Part Two.

This will be the final episode before the Fourth of July - a day when we celebrate the birth of this country and hopefully are especially mindful of democracy and it's foundations.  So out of necessity, this episode will be a few minutes longer to a deal with such areas ranging from at Edgar Allan Poe bohemian lifestyle, as well as another look at Whitman's first book of poetry, and some of his thoughts regarding democracy.

Thank you for experiencing Celebrate Poe.

Transcript

Mr. Poe, Walt Whitman - italics text

George Bartley - plain text

Welcome to Celebrate Poe for episode 396 Finding a Home, Part Two.

This will be the final episode before the Fourth of July - a day when we celebrate the birth of this country and hopefully are especially mindful of democracy and it's foundations.  So out of necessity, this episode will be a few minutes longer to a deal with such areas ranging from at Edgar Allan Poe bohemian lifestyle, as well as another look at Whitman's first book of poetry, and some of his thoughts regarding democracy.

Now in the previous episode, I introduced Pfaff’s - and establishment that some have called the first gay bar in the United States.

But even before Walt Whitman first walked down the steps to the establishment, the bar had established a bohemian reputation - largely through the influence of none other than Edgar Allan Poe. And I have the ghost of Mr. Poe here himself to address that mystique.

Ghost Sound

Well hello Mr. Poe.

Greetings Mr. Bartley.

Mr. Poe, some have said that your life experiences influenced what was later referred to as Bohemian culture.  Would you care to address this?

Ah, Mr. Bartley - the childhood tragedies that I experienced — such as being orphaned at a young age, losing my mother to tuberculosis, being abandoned by my father, and facing social stigma as the son of actors—deeply influenced my image as an outsider. The acting profession was considered immoral at the time, and even as a child in Richmond, I bore the stigma of being the son of "players," which led to social exclusion and feelings of alienation. I was never fully accepted by his peers, and my early experiences of loss, abandonment, and instability fostered a sense of emotional isolation that I later attempted to articulate in my poetry and prose.

Mr. Poe, how do you feel these hardships shape your work.

These hardships not only shaped what many have called the dark, melancholic tone of my literary work but also contributed to the broader view - whether or incorrectly - as the quintessential artistic outsider—someone marked by suffering, estrangement, and a unique, often misunderstood perspective on the world. I reflected on this sense of difference my poem "Alone," where I confessed,

From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were—I have not seen
As others saw—I could not bring
My passions from a common spring—
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow—I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone—
And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone—
Then—in my childhood—in the dawn
Of a most stormy life—was drawn
From ev’ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still—
From the torrent, or the fountain—
From the red cliff of the mountain—
From the sun that ’round me roll’d
In its autumn tint of gold—
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass’d me flying by—
From the thunder, and the storm—
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view—

Ah, the view of me as an outcast resonated with later generations of artists and bohemians, who saw in my life story a model for embracing the outsider’s path and finding creative strength in adversity.

Furthermore, I believe that my childhood hardships make me a symbol of the misunderstood artist because they instilled in me a profound sense of loss, alienation, and emotional trauma that shaped both my life and my art. Orphaned at a young age after the deaths of both parents, I endured poverty, instability, and strained relationships with my foster family, leaving me with deep emotional scars and a pervasive sense of isolation. These early experiences of abandonment and deprivation contributed to my struggles with self-esteem and mental health, reinforcing my outsider status throughout my life.

In other words, Mr. Poe - it seems like you felt a sense of inner turmoil.

Precisely, Mr. Bartley. I believe that my literary works, marked by themes of death, grief, and psychological torment, reflect this inner turmoil and set me apart from my contemporaries. My personal story—of suffering, rejection, and perseverance despite a hostile cultural environment—resonated with later generations, who saw in me the archetype of the artist who is not only misunderstood by society but also channels personal pain into creative expression as the misunderstood, visionary artist.

That is very insightful, Mr. Poe.

Ah, it is easy to be insightful regarding one's nature after the earthly demise of that individual.

Well, Mr. Poe, I'll just have to take your word for it. This is the second episode regarding Pfaffs in New York City - and although you had what some people might refer to as a bohemian lifestyle that is frequently associated with Pfaffs, I don't think you ever visited the establishment.

That is correct, Mr. Bartley. I never personally visited or had any direct involvement with the establishment in New York City. Pfaff's, a famous beer cellar and gathering place for writers, artists, and bohemians, became the center of New York's bohemian literary scene in the 1850s and 1860s—after my earthly demise in 1849.

But Mr. Bartley, some might say that I influenced the establishment through my reputation and lifestyle. And while was not alive during the era of Pfaff's, my legacy and literary persona had a significant influence on the bohemians who frequented the establishment. Many members of the Pfaff's circle regarded me as a "spiritual guide" or "patron saint" of American bohemia. Henry Clapp, Jr., the so-called "King of Bohemia" at Pfaff's, admired me for my rebellious lifestyle, dramatic death, and my open disdain for the Boston literary establishment.  My writing and persona deeply inspired the ethos and conversation of the Pfaff's regulars, and I was frequently invoked as a model for artistic and personal nonconformity.

But, as I understand it, you DID live in new York City during portions of your life.

Oh yes Mr. Bartley. I did live and work in New York City at various times during my life, notably in the 1830s and 1840s, and I was active in the city's literary circles. I worked for publications like the New-York Mirror and the Broadway Journal, and I had connections to several individuals who would later be associated with the bohemian movement.

Thank you Mr. Poe, I just wanted to get that out of the way.  

Mr. Bartley, if you excuse me I think I will take my leave.

Farewell Mr. Poe   

Now let's continue the conversation with Mr. Whitman.

Ghost sound

Did you ask to speak with me, Mr. Bartley?

Yes, Mr. Whitman - I was speaking with the ghost of Mr. Poe regarding Pfaffs, and would be most curious to know about the importance of the establishment in your life.

Mr. Bartley, permit me to give you a complete account. Pfaff’s was a sanctuary for me during a pivotal time in my life. When I began frequenting the cellar beneath 647 Broadway, I was nearing forty, unemployed, and living with my mother in Brooklyn. I had not published a poem in two years, and the mainstream literary world had largely rejected me. At Pfaff’s, I found what I desperately needed: fellowship, stimulation, and a community of kindred spirits. The place was alive with artists, writers, actors, and all manner of bohemians—people who, like myself, were drawn to unconventional ways of living and thinking.

How would you describe the atmosphere?

The crowd at Pfaff’s, led by Henry Clapp Jr., was the very heart of New York’s bohemian scene. We gathered around long communal tables, sharing wit, laughter, and ideas late into the night. The atmosphere was wild and welcoming, a true cultural underground. For me, the intellectual exchange and camaraderie at Clapp’s table were invaluable. It was here that I could test my ideas, debate, and be challenged by sharp minds—an experience that fueled my creativity and helped shape my poetry.

But Pfaff’s was more than just a literary salon. It was a place where the boundaries of society were blurred. The saloon welcomed all sorts—artists, rebels, and outliers, including a circle of men with whom I felt a special kinship. In the main room, I found acceptance and affection among those I called “my darlings and gossips,” my “beautiful boys.” In an era when such connections were rarely spoken of openly, Pfaff’s offered me a rare freedom to explore and express this side of myself.

How would you describe the time you spent at the establishment from a productive standpoint - how does it affect your literary output?

The years I spent at Pfaff’s were among my most productive. The creative energy I drew from that place was immense. Some even explored themes of love and desire between men, inspired by the bonds I formed there.

In short, Pfaff’s was not just a bar—it was my refuge, my workshop, and my community. It validated my predilections, encouraged my boldest work, and gave me the fellowship I needed to persevere as both a poet and as a man searching for belonging in a world that often misunderstood me.

Pfaff’s was a sanctuary for me during a pivotal time in my life. When I began frequenting the cellar beneath 647 Broadway, I was nearing forty, unemployed, and living with my mother in Brooklyn. I had not published a poem in two years, and the mainstream literary world had largely rejected me. At Pfaff’s, I found what I desperately needed: fellowship, stimulation, and a community of kindred spirits. The place was alive with artists, writers, actors, and all manner of bohemians—people who, like myself, were drawn to unconventional ways of living and thinking.

For me, the intellectual exchange and camaraderie at Clapp’s table were invaluable. It was here that I could test my ideas, debate, and be challenged by sharp minds—an experience that fueled my creativity and helped shape my poetry.

It sounds like Pfaffs was more than just a literary saloon.

I quite concur - Pfaff’s was more than just a literary salon. It was a place where the boundaries of society were blurred. The saloon welcomed all sorts—artists, rebels, and outliers, including a circle of men with whom I felt a special kinship. In the main room, I found acceptance and affection among those I called “my darlings and gossips,” my “beautiful boys.” In an era when such connections were rarely spoken of openly, Pfaff’s offered me a rare freedom to explore and express this side of myself. Some of my poems even explored themes of love and desire between men, inspired by the bonds I formed there.

In short, Pfaff’s was not just a bar—it was my refuge, my workshop, and my community. It validated my predilections, encouraged my boldest work, and gave me the fellowship I needed to persevere as both a poet and as a man searching for belonging in a  isunderstood me.

Mr. Whitman, what role did Pfaff’s play in your development as a public figure and artist?

The environment at Pfaff’s was more than a mere gathering place; it was a crucible for artistic experimentation. Surrounded by sharp minds and lively conversation, I found myself challenged and inspired. The debates, wit, and camaraderie at Clapp’s long table pushed me to refine my ideas and my craft. The bohemian circle’s fascination with the bleak and the morbid, perhaps influenced by the memory of Edgar Allan Poe, left its mark on my poetry, lending it new depth and complexity.

Did the atmosphere allow you to explore aspects of your identity that you might not have been able to exhibit in your daily life?

In essence, Pfaff’s was both my refuge and my workshop. The creative energy and acceptance I found there not only revitalized my poetry but also helped shape the bold, democratic voice that would come to define my later editions of Leaves of Grass. The influence of those nights—of laughter, debate, longing, and fellowship—echoes through my verse, making Pfaff’s an indelible part of my artistic journey.

Mr. Whitman, this leads me to ask in what ways did the bohemian culture at Pfaff’s shape your artistic voice?

Mr. Bartley, the bohemian culture at Pfaff’s shaped my artistic voice in several profound ways. Immersed in that lively, unconventional environment, I found a community that encouraged both experimentation and authenticity. The camaraderie and wit at Clapp’s long table, as well as the affectionate bonds I formed with the young men in the main room, allowed me to reveal and integrate different sides of myself—both as a poet and as a man who loved men.

Certainly the establishment was more than what we might call today a hook up place,.

Pfaff’s was more than a gathering place - it had far greater dimensions.  It was a laboratory for my emotions and ideas. There, I could process my sense of longing, failed romances, and the raw ingredients of life—transforming them into art. The bohemian circle’s fascination with the bleak and the morbid also influenced my poetry, leading me to explore darker and more daring themes than I had before. The intellectual debates and playful banter sharpened my language and deepened my sense of comradeship, both of which became hallmarks of my verse.

Mr. Whitman - I apologize if this comes across as excessively personal, but how did the establishment affect your ability to be honest about writing honestly regarding same sex affection.

There is no need to apologize. In fact, the acceptance I found among the bohemians emboldened me to write openly about affection and desire between men, infusing my poetry with a new honesty and intimacy. The support and recognition from this community—especially at a time when I felt overlooked by the broader literary establishment—gave me the confidence to develop my unique, democratic voice and to persist in my artistic vision.

The bohemian culture at Pfaff’s nurtured my creativity, challenged my intellect, and validated my identity, all of which were essential in shaping the bold, inclusive voice that defines my poetry.

For example, how did the culture affect your literary style?

Spending time with fellow artists at Pfaff’s had a marked influence on my style. The atmosphere there was electric with creativity and exchange—writers, artists, and journalists gathered daily, forming a vibrant coterie that reminded some of the Parisian bohemians. I was not the most frequent of the regulars, but my presence was felt, and I often engaged in lively conversation and debate with the group.

What other perspectives might your interaction with the customers  have caused?

This constant interaction exposed me to a range of perspectives and artistic approaches. Listening to others discuss their work and witnessing their willingness to break with convention encouraged me to be bolder in my own writing. The unconventional attire, personalities, and attitudes at Pfaff’s reinforced my own inclination toward individuality and experimentation. The group’s openness to new forms and ideas emboldened me to further develop my free verse style and to write more candidly about subjects that mattered to me, including the human body, love, and comradeship.

Mr. Whitman - or should I say - Walt - it sounds like the creative energy of Pfaff’s was contagious.

Yes, the creative energy of Pfaff’s was VERY contagious. It was a place where I could observe, absorb, and then translate the spirit of the times into my poetry. The intellectual stimulation and camaraderie there sharpened my language, deepened my themes, and gave me the confidence to persist in my unique poetic voice.

Walt, how did those emotional connections at Pfaff’s inspire new themes in your work?  Or did they?

Yes, Mr. Bartley. The emotional connections I formed at Pfaff’s deeply inspired new themes in my work. Surrounded by a circle of friends, lovers, and fellow artists, I found myself moved by feelings of camaraderie, longing, and affection—emotions that had often been suppressed or unspoken in other parts of my life. These bonds gave me the courage to write more openly about love between men, desire, and the beauty of male companionship, subjects rarely addressed so candidly in poetry at the time.

Mr. Whitman, could you speak to us a little bit more about Pfaffs - and your your connection to leaves of grass?

"Ah, dear listener, you might wonder what it was to haunt the vaulted cellars of Pfaff’s, that subterranean refuge beneath Broadway’s ceaseless feet. There, amid the laughter and clinking glasses, I found not only camaraderie but a space to explore the deep affections I felt for other men—what we then called ‘adhesiveness.’

When I first entered Pfaff’s, my heart was tethered to Fred Vaughan, a young man nearly two decades my junior. We lived together in Brooklyn and often sat side by side at the long table in Pfaff’s larger room, exchanging glances and confidences that the world above would scarcely understand.

Pfaff’s was no ordinary tavern. It was a haven for those of us who lived outside the boundaries of convention—a place where I could call young men ‘my darlings and gossips,’ where affection between men was not only possible but celebrated in quiet ways.

These attachments, these loves, were not mere diversions. They shaped my poetry, infusing my publication of Leaves of Grass with the language of male-male affection, longing, and the beauty of bodies and souls entwined.

The world above may have passed us by, unknowing, but in the vault at Pfaff’s, I found the courage to give voice to what was hidden, to make poetry of the love that dared not speak its name.

So, let the living pass overhead, ‘recking not of us.’ Here, in memory and verse, our laughter and longing endure.”

Walt, at the risk of sounding repetitious,  let’s talk about the very first edition of Leaves of Grass—the slim book you published yourself in 1855. It was only twelve poems, am I right? How did that initial version differ from the later editions, especially the famous “deathbed” version?

Ah, yes, George—the 1855 edition was indeed my first leap into the world. Just twelve poems, but each one a world unto itself. I printed it myself, bound it in green cloth, and sent copies to Emerson and others. That book was raw, immediate—long, unmetrical lines that didn’t follow the rules of the day. I didn’t just describe events or feelings; I tried to make the poems themselves into events, into living things. The book grew with me, but that first version was pure, unfiltered Whitman.

In this episode, you mentioned Emerson and how he famously wrote you a letter praising the book. But what about your contemporaries at Pfaff’s? Did they understand what you were trying to do with that first edition?

Pfaff’s—now there’s a memory. The cellar saloon on Broadway, a gathering place for artists, writers, and free spirits. The crowd at Pfaff’s was open-minded, but even there, my work was seen as radical. The first Leaves of Grass was unlike anything most had read. It was egotistical, sure, but in a way that demanded the reader join me in the experience. I wanted the poems to be conversations, not just recitations. Some at Pfaff’s embraced the energy, the defiance of convention; others found it baffling or even offensive. But that was the point—to challenge, to provoke thought.

The structure of the first edition is so different from traditional poetry of the time. What were you hoping to achieve with that style?

Mr. Bartley, I wanted to capture the vastness and diversity of America—the voices of the people, the land, the cities, the open road. The long, sprawling lines and catalogues of images were meant to reflect the unconstrained energy of the nation itself. I broke free from rhyme and meter to create something that felt alive, organic. The poems were digressive, sometimes seeming aimless, but that was part of the journey—to drift into the deepest parts of the self and the world. The first edition was my attempt to forge a new American voice, one that wasn’t bound by European traditions.

And the poems themselves—like “Song of Myself”— a poem we will discuss more later - were you aware of how groundbreaking they would be?

I felt it in my bones, George. “Song of Myself” was a celebration of the individual, of the body, of democracy itself. I put myself at the center, yes, but only so that every reader could see themselves there too. The poem was controversial—it talked about sexuality, about the common man and woman, about life and death in a way that made some uncomfortable. But I believed then, as I do now, that poetry should be honest, should embrace all of life, not just the parts that are easy to talk about.

Thank you, Walt. That first edition remains a touchstone for American poetry, and your time at Pfaff’s is a reminder of how important it is for artists to challenge the status quo.

Oh yes Mr. Bartley, many people felt that the cover of the original edition was extremely simple and unassuming—no author’s name, just a portrait of me in workman’s clothes—and how this reflected my democratic ideals.

Yes Mr. Whitman, That first edition is now seen as a foundational text for American literature, its influence felt in every generation since.  And as a ghost who has been able to see the effects of the original leaves of grass, would you care to comment on its impact.

Yes Mr. Bartley, I believe that the original leaves of grass from 1855 - with just 12 untitled poems - revolutionized poetic form and content, and set a new standard for American literary expression. For example, the original leaves of grass broke with traditional rhyme in meter, pioneering free verse that allowed poetry to play more naturally and reflect the rhythms of American speech and life. I I firmly believed that my work championed the dignity and worth of every person, celebrating working-class Americans, women, African Americans, and immigrants.

And Mr. Whitman, may I point out that women, African-Americans and immigrants were often ignored in literature of the time.

Yes Mr. Bartley, and I strongly believe that such groups were necessary to include as integral parts of a society for it to be called a democracy.

And Mr. Whitman, I may be permitted to interject a comment - Leaves of Grass helped define a distinctly American poetic voice, rooted in the country’s diversity and democratic ideals, rather than European literary traditions. The bold, inclusive style and experimental form inspired generations of poets, from Emily Dickinson and Langston Hughes to the Beats and beyond, making you a foundational figure in American literature. Initially met with mixed and often hostile reactions, the collection gradually became recognized as a masterwork - from a literary curiosity to the “secular scripture” of the United States.

Ah yes, Mr. Bartley - I always welcome the opportunity to talk about my first publication. You see, the original Leaves of Grass was a literary lightning bolt, shocking readers with its free verse and unapologetic celebration of the body, democracy, and the common person. My bold style and inclusive vision redefined American poetry, paving the way for future generations of poets to experiment and speak in their own authentic voices. Today, Leaves of Grass stands as a cornerstone of American literature—a testament to the power of poetry to capture the spirit of a nation and its people.

Mr. Whitman, do you have any additional comments regarding your poetry and the Democratic spirit of the United States?

I would like to think that my poetry embodied the democratic spirit of the United States, celebrating the dignity and worth of every individual regardless of background.  metaphor of grass—where each blade is unique yet collectively forms a unified field—symbolizes both individuality and unity within American society, reinforcing the idea that all people are equal and interconnected.  And I hope that my poems give voice to all - to the common man and woman, as well as marginalized groups, by including diverse characters and experiences within the American landscape. My language was deliberately inclusive, embracing “black folks as among white, Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressmen, Cuff”—highlighting the nation’s diversity and the shared humanity of all its citizens.

Mr. Whitman, you seem to have a most innovative style and authentic language.

Mr. Bartley, Breaking from traditional poetic forms, I used free verse and the rhythms of American speech, creating a style that felt natural, immediate, and distinctly American. This approach allowed the poems to reflect the energy, diversity, and expansiveness of the country itself.  And I attempted to link  personal experience to national character, envisioning America as a tapestry of individual stories and voices. I saw the United States as “the greatest poem,” where varied narratives and identities coexist under a unified, democratic ideal.

And Mr. Whitman, I was especially moved when I first realized your vision regarding democracy.

Oh yes Mr. Bartley, I would like to think that by celebrating both self-expression and communal bonds, I articulated a vision where each person’s uniqueness contributes to the strength of the whole. I felt it was important to empower readers to see themselves as vital parts of the national fabric, fostering a sense of belonging and purpose.  I would like to think that Leaves of Grass helped shape the American voice by championing democracy, diversity, and authenticity, and by forging a poetic language that spoke directly to the American experience—making it a foundational work for understanding American identity.

Mr. Whitman, I don't want to end this episode without you commenting on inclusivity and diversity again.

Certainly Mr. Bartley. Inclusivity and diversity are central to how I defined America through my poetry, My vision of the nation was not limited to a narrow or elite group, but rather embraced the full spectrum of American life—its people, their labor, and their unique stories.

So your vision would extend to all people from the president of the United States to a factory worker to an immigrant worker to a person who is fortunate enough to be attracted to members of the same gender - in other words to all people.

Precisely, Mr. Bartley. Inclusivity and diversity are central to how I defined America through my  poetry, particularly in Leaves of Grass. My vision of the nation was not limited to a narrow or elite group, but rather embraced the full spectrum of American life—its people, their labor, and their unique stories.

My later poems, such as  “I Hear America Singing,” highlight the dignity and individuality of working-class Americans—mechanics, masons, boatmen, mothers, and young wives. I give voice to those often overlooked, emphasizing that each person’s contribution is essential to the national fabric.

I admire that inclusiveness.

George, my poetry actively includes men and women, urban and rural workers, and people of various backgrounds. And as I am sure you know, this inclusion was radical for my time, especially in recognizing the roles of women and laborers, who were frequently marginalized in literature and society.  And I hope that my words communicate the reality that I am not just observing diversity, but actively celebrating it, making my poetry a space for the voiceless.

Mr. Whitman, how is your inclusive approach connected to your Democratic ideals?

Mr. Bartley, my inclusive approach is rooted in my democratic ideals. I envisioned America as a place where all people—regardless of class, gender, or background—could find belonging and contribute to the nation’s identity. My poetry rejects elitism and class stratification, affirming that “the great American experiment” includes everyone.

My commitment to inclusivity and diversity helped shape a new American voice—one that saw the nation’s strength in its variety and unity in its multiplicity. My poetry remains a foundational example of how literature can reflect and celebrate the true character of a people.

Mr. Whitman, I know this is a controversial topic among some people but how do you see immigrant workers as vital to America's soul?

I see immigrant workers as vital to America’s soul because I viewed the nation as fundamentally shaped by its people—their labor, their dreams, and their diverse origins. America’s greatness is not in its institutions or landscapes alone, but in the collective spirit and energy of its inhabitants. I view America as an inclusive, ever-evolving community where every individual, regardless of background, could contribute to the national character and help fulfill its democratic promise.

Immigrant workers, in my vision, embody the boldness, adventurousness, and optimism that define the American experience. They arrive with hope, seeking opportunity and a new life, and their contributions—through labor, culture, and community—are woven into the fabric of the nation.I believe that immigration and the mixing of peoples would break down barriers and enrich American society, making it more vibrant and resilient. In fact, I see the nation as a “vast, surging, hopeful, army of workers,” and argue that America should welcome all, giving everyone a chance to participate in the ongoing creation of its identity.

Ultimately, I see the soul of America as residing in the multiplicity and vitality of its people. Immigrant workers, with their unique stories and perspectives, are essential to this vision—they help ensure that America remains a place of renewal, possibility, and shared purpose.

Well Mr. Mr. Whitman, I certainly am looking forward to exploring your life and works in the following podcast episodes.

 And I as well - during my earthly existence, as you know I was greatly interested in the printing press as a medium of communication. But having your digital means of communication in a podcast is something that I greatly anticipate utilizing.

I appreciate those words, Mr. Whitman, and I  have a feeling that your words today are just as relevant as when you first wrote them in the 19th century. Well this episode, has been a little bit longer out of necessity, and I look forward to our next episode where are you and the ghost of Mr. Edgar Allan Poe compare your views of democracy.

Farewell Mr. Bartley.

Goodbye Mr. Whitman.

Join Celebrate Poe for episode 397 - Poe versus Whitman for a fascinating comparison of the views regarding democracy of Edgar Allan Poe and Walt Whitman. You might be very surprised!

Sources include: the Complete Works of Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman, Walt Whitman: A Life by Justin Kaplan, Walt Whitman’s America by David S. Reynolds, Rebel Souls by Justin Martin, Walt Whitman: The Song of Himself by Jerome Loving, O Captain, My Captain: Walt Whitman, Abraham Lincoln, and the Civil War, What is the Grass by Mark Doty, and the online Walt Whitman archive from the University of Iowa.

Thank you for listening to Celebrate Poe.