"As the Greek's Signal Flame" (p. 476). First published in the New York Herald, December 15, 1887, with the heading, "Walt Whitman's Praise". In the Herald version, between lines 1 and 2, appears the line, "(Tally of many hard strain'd battle struggle, year — triumphant only at the last.)" Although Whittier is said to have thrown into the fire the complimentary copy of the first edition which Whitman sent him (Perry, 1908, p. 100), the poets admired each other personally, and Whitman at his seventy-second birthday dinner drank a toast to the Quaker poet, "a noble old man". (In Re, p. 297.)

"The Dismantled Ship" (p. 476). First published in New York Herald, February 23, 1888. Whitman said to Traubel: "Yes, it was suggested by the picture in Harned's parlor: that's me — that's my old hulk — was laid up at last: no good anymore — no good" — pausing — "a fellow might get melancholy seeing himself in such a mirror — but I guess we can see through as well as in the mirrors when the test comes!" (Traubel, I, p. 390.) Mr. Harned gave to the present editor a similar account of the origin of this poem.

"An Evening Lull" (p. 477). For a discussion concerning the poem, between Whitman, Traubel, and Bucke, see Traubel, I, pp. 354, 472-491.

"Old Age's Lambent Peaks" (p. 477). First published in the Century, September 1888.

"After the Supper and Talk" (p. 478). First published in Lippincott's Magazine, 1887. The manuscript of this poem is reproduced in facsimile in the Complete Writings (1902), Vol. II, facing p. 322.

"Second Annex" (Good-Bye My Fancy) (p. 479). In Whitman's final edition this group of poems had the following preface:

"Had I not better withhold (in this old age and paralysis of me) such little tags and fringe-dots (maybe specks, stains), as follow a long dusty journey, and witness it afterward? I have probably not been enough afraid of careless touches, from the first — and am not now — nor of parrot-like repetitions — nor platitudes and the commonplace. Perhaps I am too democratic for such avoidances. Besides, is not the verse- field, as originally plann'd by my theory, now sufficiently illustrated — and full time for me to silently retire? — (indeed amid no loud call or market for my sort of poetic utterance).

In answer, or rather defiance, to that kind of well-put interrogation, here comes this little cluster, and conclusion of my preceding clusters. Though not at all clear that, as here collated, it is worth printing (certainly I have nothing fresh to write) — I while away the hours of my 72d year — hours of forced confinement in my den — by putting in shape this small old age collation:

Last droplets of and after spontaneous rain,
From many limpid distillations and past showers;
(Will they germinate anything? mere exhalations as they all are — the land's and sea's — America's;
Will they filter to any deep emotion? any heart and brain?

However that may be, I feel like improving to-day's opportunity and wind up. During the last two years I have sent out, in the lulls of illness and exhaustion, certain chirps — lingering-dying ones probably (undoubtedly) — which I may as well gather and put in fair type while able to see correctly — (for my eyes plainly warn me they are dimming, and my brain more and more palpably neglects or refuses, month after month, even slight tasks or revisions).

In fact, here I am these current years 1890 and '91, (each successive fortnight getting stiffer and stuck deeper) much like some hard-cased dilapidated grim ancient shell-fish or time-bang'd conch (no legs, utterly non-locomotive) cast up high and dry on the shore-sands, helpless to move anywhere — nothing left but behave myself quiet, and while away the days yet assign'd, and discover if there is anything for the said grim and time-bang'd conch to be got at last out of inherited good spirits and primal buoyant centre-pulses down there deep somewhere within his gray-blurr'd old shell. . . . (Reader, you must allow a little fun here — for one reason there are too many of the following poemets about death, &c., and for another the passing hours (July 5, 1890) are so sunny-fine. And old as I am I feel to-day almost