The Whitmaniac Clam

For the Bookman

Not Dante when he wandered by the river Arno, Not Burns who plowed the banks and braes of bonnie Ayr, Not even Shakspere on the shores of Avon,--ah, no! Not one of those great bards did taste true Poet's Fare.

But Whitman, loafing in Long Island and New Jersey, Found there the sustenance of mighty ode and psalm, And while his rude emotions swam around in verse, he Fed chiefly on the wild, impassioned, sea-born clam.

Thus in his work we feel the waves' bewildering motion, And winds from mighty mud-flats, weird and wild: His clam-filled bosom answered to the voice of ocean, And rose and fell responsively with every tide.