Poem by 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.)

1. Leaves of Grass. 34. Sands at Seventy. 56. Old Age's Lambent Peaks
2. Leaves of Grass. 24. Autumn Rivulets. 13. Out from Behind This Mask [To Confront a Portrait]
3. Leaves of Grass. 34. Sands at Seventy. Fancies at Navesink. 1. The Pilot in the Mist
4. Leaves of Grass. 34. Sands at Seventy. 32. Life
5. Leaves of Grass. 34. Sands at Seventy. 40. The Voice of the Rain

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