Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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AS they draw to a close,

Of what underlies the precedent songs—of my aims in them,

Of the seed I have sought to plant in them,

Of joy, sweet joy, through many a year, in them,

(For them, for them have I lived, in them my work is done,)

Of many an aspiration fond, of many a dream and plan;

Through Space and Time fused in a chant, and the flowing eternal
identity,

To Nature encompassing these, encompassing God—to the joy-
ous, electric all,

To the sense of Death, and accepting exulting in Death in its
turn the same as life,

The entrance of man to sing;

To compact you, ye parted, diverse lives,

To put rapport the mountains and rocks and streams,

And the winds of the north, and the forests of oak and pine,

With you O soul.

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