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A funny poem from our vast
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<< A Poem by Walt Whitman >>
As they draw to a close,
Of what underlies the precedent songs--of my aims in them;
Of the seed I have sought to plant in them;
Of joy, sweet joy, through many a year, in them;
(For them--for them have I lived--In them my work is done;)
Of many an aspiration fond--of many a dream and plan,
Of you, O mystery great!--to place on record faith in you, O death!
--To compact you, ye parted, diverse lives!
To put rapport the mountains, and rocks, and streams,
And the winds of the north, and the forests of oak and pine,
With you, O soul of man.
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