Back to Index

When I Read the Book

by Walt Whitman, 1892

When I read the book, the biography famous,
And is this then (said I) what the author calls a man's life?
And so will some one when I am dead and gone write my life?
(As if any man really knew aught of my life,
Why even I myself I often think know little or nothing of my real life,
Only a few hints, a few diffused faint clews and indirections
I seek for my own use to trace out here.)

Published in Leaves of Grass
Tags:

Any corrections or public domain poems I should have here? Email me at poems (at) this domain.