Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

Leaves of Grass (1891-92)

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OF THAT BLITHE THROAT OF THINE.

[More than eighty-three degrees north—about a good day's steaming distance to the Pole by one of our fast oceaners in clear water—Greely the explorer heard the
song of a single snow-bird merrily sounding over the desolation.]

Of that blithe throat of thine from arctic bleak and blank,

I'll mind the lesson, solitary bird—let me too welcome chilling
drifts,

E'en the profoundest chill, as now—a torpid pulse, a brain un-
nerv'd,

Old age land-lock'd within its winter bay—(cold, cold, O cold!)

These snowy hairs, my feeble arm, my frozen feet,

For them thy faith, thy rule I take, and grave it to the last;

Not summer's zones alone—not chants of youth, or south's warm
tides alone,

But held by sluggish floes, pack'd in the northern ice, the cumulus
of years,

These with gay heart I also sing.

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