BIO: Walt Whitman (1819-1892) born in West Hills, Long Island, NY, and grew up in Brooklyn. He was an American poet who sang the praises of the United States and democracy, and received literary acclaim from English writers long before American critics recognized him as a great poet. Whitman's love of America grew from his faith that Americans might reach new wordly and spiritual heights. He wrote: "The chief reason for the being of the United States of America is to bring about the common good will of all mankind, the solidarity of the world." Although he had only a few years of formal schooling, he took a series of jobs - reporter, editor, printer, schoolteacher, carpenter. As a preface to his collection of poems, "Leaves of Grass," he wrote: "The United States themselves are essentially the greatest poem." "Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking" tells of a little boy observing a mockingbird. The bird is mourning its mate, which was lost in a storm at sea. The ! bird's song teaches the boy the meaning of death and makes him decide to become a poet. The theme of the poem is that death is part of the cycle of birth, life, death, and rebirth. Whitman wrote "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd" on the death of Abraham Lincoln. Whitman said that each spring the blooming lilac would remind him not only of the death of Lincoln, but also of the eternal return to life. He felt that poets eventually would lead men's souls back to God. Whitman worked as a printer and journalist in the NYC area. He wrote articles on political questions, civic affairs, and the arts. He loved mixing in crowds and attended debates, the theater, concerts, lectures, and political meetings. He often rode on stagecoaches and ferries just to talk with the drivers, boatmen, and passengers. He enjoyed a picnic as much as an opera. During the Civil War, Whitman was a volunteer assistant in the military hospitals in Washington, D. C. After the war he worked in several governmental departments until he suffered a stroke in 1873. He spent the rest of his life in Camden, NJ, where he continued to write poems and articles. He entertained such visitors as Oscar Wilde and Thomas Eakins, until his death in 1892. While I am personally not sure what his connection (if any) might be to Ireland, I thought that because he resided in NY, and in the wake of 09/11, I would post three poems of hope. UNSEEN BUDS Unseen buds, infinite, hidden well, Under the snow and ice, under the darkness, in every square or cubic inch, Germinal, exquisite, in delicate lace, microscopic, unborn, Like babes in wombs, latent, folded, compact, sleeping; Billions of billions, and trillons of trillons of them waiting, Urging slowly, surely forward, forming endless, And waiting ever more, forever more behind. MIRACLES Why, who makes much of a miracle? As to me I know of nothing else but miracles, Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan, Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky, Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the water, Or stand under trees in the woods, Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night with any one I love, Or sit at table at dinner with the rest, Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car, Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer forenoon, Or animals feeding in the fields, Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air, Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so quiet and bright, Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring! These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles, The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place. To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle, Every cubic inch of space is a miracle, Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same, Every foot of the interior swarms with the same. To me the sea is a continual miracle, The fishes that swim -- the rocks -- the motion of the waves -- the ships with men in them, What stranger miracles are there? SPARKLES FROM THE WHEEL Where the city's ceaseless crowd moves on the livelong day, Withdrawn I join a group of children watching, I pause aside with them. By the curb towards the edge of the flagging, A knife-grinder works at his wheel sharpening a great knife, Bending over he carefully holds it to the stone, by foot and knee, With measur'd tread he turns rapidly, as he presses with light but firm hand, Forth issue then in copious golden jets. Sparkles from the wheel. The scene and all its belongings, how they seize and affect me, The sad sharp-chinn'd old man with worn clothes and broad shoulder-band of leather, Myself effusing and fluid, a phantom curiously floating, now here absorb'd and arrested, The group, (an unminded point set in a vast surrounding.) The attentive, quiet children, the loud, proud, restive base of the streets, The low hoarse purr of the whirling stone, the light-press'd blade, Diffusing, dropping, sideways-darting, in tiny showers of gold. Sparkles from the wheel.