Walt Whitman(1819–1892) · Leaves of Grass · Sands at Seventy · 1888
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.)