from: Leaves of Grass (1900) by Walt Whitman
How lucky can you get? When I haven't
got a clue what to write about next,
someone quite acclaimed rescues me.
So, thank you today, Walt Whitman.
Alas,tomorrow's another day!
SONG OF MYSELF/ section 52
The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me-
he complains of my gab and my loitering.
I too am not a bit tamed- I too am
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs
of the world.
The last scud of day holds back for me;
it flings my likeness after the rest, and true
as any, on the shadow'd wilds;
it coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.
I depart as air- I shake my white locks
at the runaway sun;
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in
I bequeathe myself to the dirt, to grow
from the grass I love;
if you want me again, look for me under
You will hardly know who I am, or what I mean:
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.
Failing to fetch me at first, keep encouraged;
Missing the one place, search another;
I stop somewhere, waiting for you.
Who speaks for you today?