Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation.
Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord, A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt, Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say Whose?Divine am I inside and out, and I make holy whatever I touch or am touch'd from, The scent of these arm-pits aroma finer than prayer, This head more than churches, bibles, and all the creeds.Hankering, gross, mystical, nude; How is it I extract strength from the beef I eat?Behold, I do not give lectures or a little charity, When I give I give myself.I see something of God each hour of the twenty-four, and each moment then, In the faces of men and women I see God, and in my own face in the glass, I find letters from God dropt in the street, and every one.We had receiv'd some eighteen pound shots under the water, On our lower-gun-deck two large pieces had burst at the first fire, killing all around and blowing up overhead.Parting track'd by arriving, perpetual payment of perpetual loan, Rich showering rain, and recompense richer afterward.Which of the young men does she like the best?
Oxen that rattle the yoke and chain or halt in the leafy shade, what is that you express in your eyes?
Do you see O my brothers and sisters?
Again the long roll of the drummers, Again the attacking cannon, mortars, Again to my listening ears the cannon responsive.Wherever he goes men and women accept and desire him, They desire he should like them, touch them, speak to them, stay with them.Is he waiting for civilization, or past it and mastering it?The last scud of day holds back for me, It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on hack cookie run ios the shadow'd wilds, It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.7 Has any one supposed it lucky to be born?Breast that presses against other breasts it shall be you!By the city's quadrangular houses-in log huts, camping with lumber-men, Along the ruts of the turnpike, along the dry gulch and rivulet bed, Weeding my onion-patch or hosing rows of carrots and parsnips, crossing savannas, trailing in forests, Prospecting, gold-digging, girdling the trees.And to those whose war-vessels sank in the sea!Are you the President?9 The big doors of the country barn stand open and ready, The dried grass of the harvest-time loads the slow-drawn wagon, The clear light plays on the brown gray and green intertinged, The armfuls are pack'd to the sagging mow.