Reading Whitman aloud is even more difficult. In the worst of his poems are mines of rich matter. But thrown in a heap with a crash and a clatter. Makes a poem, but rather the general tone, The something pervading, uniting the whole, The before unconceived, unconceivable soul. What Nature for her poets hides, 'Tis wiser to divine than clutch.
Art lies in knowing how little is needed.
A new vista, and the work is done. Neither too much, nor too much finish. In this respect Whitman does not himself, certainly, err. One may with profit to himself do considerable editing, abbreviating or omitting altogether phrases and lines. All these last little chants, songs, greetings, come with especial flavor of friendliness, as do all the bits of reminiscence.