Walt Whitman

Leaves of Grass. 34. Sands at Seventy. 34. Small the Theme of My Chant

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.)