Walt Whitman House

The Walt Whitman House is a historic building in Camden, New Jersey which was the last residence of American poet Walt Whitman, in his declining years before his death. It is located at 330 Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard, known as Mickle St. during Whitman's time there.

Read more about Walt Whitman House:  History, Modern History, See Also, Further Reading

Other articles related to "walt whitman, walt whitman house":

John Mitchell (composer) - Works
55 Three Songs from the Mystic Trumpeter (1984) (Voice and Piano) (Walt Whitman) Op. 1) (Vocal Quartet and Piano) (Walt Whitman) Op. 2) (Vocal Quartet and Piano) (Walt Whitman) Op ...
Nancy Van De Vate - Selected Works
... hp – str Choral Suite from “Nemo” (English), as above An American Essay, 1994, Texts Walt Whitman, 30', VM Premiere June 29, 1994, Koszalin, Poland, Chorus ... soprano 2/2/2/2 - 2/0/1/0 - 2 perc - hp - str Voices of Women, 1993, Texts James Joyce, Walt Whitman, Charles Baudelaire, anon ... Hawaii fl, vn, cl, vc, pf Choral Music Cantata for Women's Voices, 1979, Texts James Joyce, Walt Whitman, Charles Baudelaire, anon ...
Walt Whitman House - Further Reading
... Keller, Elizabeth Leavitt ... Walt Whitman in Mickle Street ...

Famous quotes containing the words walt whitman, house, walt and/or whitman:

    In the far South the sun of autumn is passing
    Like Walt Whitman walking along a ruddy shore.
    He is singing and chanting the things that are part of him,
    The worlds that were and will be, death and day.
    Nothing is final, he chants. No man shall see the end.
    His beard is of fire and his staff is a leaping flame.
    Wallace Stevens (1879–1955)

    Every burned book or house enlightens the world; every suppressed or expunged word reverberates through the earth from side to side.
    Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803–1882)

    I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking
    among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys.
    Allen Ginsberg (b. 1926)

    When I heard at the close of the day how my name had been receiv’d
    with plaudits in the capitol, still it was not a happy night for me
    that follow’d,
    And else when I carous’d, or when my plans were accomplish’d,
    still I was not happy,
    But the day when I rose at dawn from the bed of perfect health,
    refresh’d, singing, inhaling the ripe breath of autumn,
    —Walt Whitman (1819–1892)