“To a Stranger”

“To a Stranger”
By Walt Whitman (from Leaves of Grass, 1860 edition)

Passing stranger! you do not know how longingly I look upon you,
You must be he I was seeking, or she I was seeking, (it comes to me as of a dream,)
I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you,
All is recall’d as we flit by each other, fluid, affectionate, chaste, matured,
You grew up with me, were a boy with me or a girl with me,
I ate with you and slept with you—your body has become not yours only nor left my body mine only,
You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, as we pass—you take of my beard, breast, hands, in return,
I do not ask who you are—that is not important to me,
You can do nothing and be nothing but what I will infold you,
To one side for you is the onward road and to my side the same, I give you my hand,
I give you my love more precious than money,
I give you myself before preaching or law,
Will you give me yourself? will you come travel with me?
Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?


About the Poem

In “To a Stranger,” Walt Whitman captures a moment many queer people know intimately: the electric, instantaneous recognition of someone—another man, perhaps—whose presence stirs desire, curiosity, and a sense of deep, unexplainable connection. The poem unfolds in a fleeting encounter on a street or in a crowd, a stranger seen and felt in passing. But within those seconds, a whole imagined history blooms. This is not just a glance; it’s a lifetime distilled into a gaze.

Whitman’s poem belongs to his “Calamus” cluster—arguably the most homoerotic section of Leaves of Grass. In it, he expresses a spiritual and physical love between men with tenderness and boldness rare for the 19th century. Though the poem never explicitly mentions gender, the “stranger” often reads, in context and tone, as a man. Whitman universalizes desire while also encoding a personal and radical queer perspective. The fluidity of the poem mirrors the fluidity of identity, attraction, and intimacy.

This encounter is imagined as eternal and reincarnated: “I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you.” Whitman’s speaker does not ask for a name or demand recognition—only that the stranger accept his open hand and heart. The poem dares to believe that love and recognition can transcend boundaries, even if unspoken. During Pride Month, it feels especially poignant as a celebration of queer connection in a world that still too often passes by without noticing.


About the Poet

Walt Whitman (1819–1892) is widely considered one of the foundational poets of American literature, and Leaves of Grass remains a revolutionary work in both form and content. His radical embrace of the body, sensuality, and nonconformity challenged the poetic conventions of his time. Though Whitman never openly declared himself gay (the concept didn’t exist as it does now), his writing speaks volumes. The poems in the “Calamus” section express a loving, spiritual intimacy between men, often autobiographical in nature.

Whitman lived in Brooklyn and Washington, D.C., working variously as a printer, journalist, nurse, and government clerk. During the Civil War, he tended wounded soldiers—experiences that deepened his compassion and his poetic vision. Scholars and readers alike have long recognized the homoerotic dimension of his poetry, even as it was obscured or censored in his own time. Today, Whitman is embraced as a queer literary forefather—one who gave voice to the sacred beauty of male love in a society still bound by silence.

In “To a Stranger,” Whitman offers not just a look or a line, but an invitation. As we close this Pride Month poetry series, it’s worth asking his final question once more: “Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?” In community, in love, and in remembrance—we say yes.