Walt Whitman (1819–92)

Small the theme of my Chant, yet the greatest — namely, One’s-Self — a simple, separate

        person. That, for the use of the New World, I sing.

Man’s physiology complete, from top to toe, I sing. Not physiognomy alone, nor brain alone,

        is worthy for the Muse; — I say the Form complete is worthier far. The Female equally

        with the Male, I sing.

Nor cease at the theme of One’s-Self. I speak the word of the modern, the word En-Masse.

My Days I sing, and the Lands — with interstice I knew of hapless War.

(O friend, whoe’er you are, at last arriving hither to commence, I feel through every leaf

        the pressure of your hand, which I return.

And thus upon our journey, footing the road, and more than once, and link’d together let us

        go.)