Walt Whitman


SMALL is the theme of the following Chant, yet the greatest—namely, One’s-Self—that wondrous thing 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 equal 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 link’d together let us go.

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