Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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ON, on the same, ye jocund twain!

My life and recitative, containing birth, youth, mid-age years,

Fitful as motley-tongues of flame, inseparably twined and merged
in one—combining all,

My single soul—aims, confirmations, failures, joys—Nor single
soul alone,

I chant my nation's crucial stage, (America's, haply humanity's)
—the trial great, the victory great,

A strange eclaircissement of all the masses past, the eastern
world, the ancient, medieval,

Here, here from wanderings, strayings, lessons, wars, defeats—
here at the west a voice triumphant—justifying all,

A gladsome pealing cry—a song for once of utmost pride and
satisfaction;

I chant from it the common bulk, the general average horde,
(the best no sooner than the worst)—And now I chant old
age,

(My verses, written first for forenoon life, and for the summer's,
autumn's spread,

I pass to snow-white hairs the same, and give to pulses winter-
cool'd the same;)

As here in careless trill, I and my recitatives, with faith and
love,

Wafting to other work, to unknown songs, conditions,

On, on, ye jocund twain! continue on the same!

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