Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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DID you ask dulcet rhymes from me?

Did you seek the civilian's peaceful and languishing
rhymes?

Did you find what I sang erewhile so hard to follow?

Why I was not singing erewhile for you to follow, to
understand—nor am I now;

(I have been born of the same as the war was born;

The drum-corps' harsh rattle is to me sweet music—I
love well the martial dirge,

With slow wail and convulsive throb, leading the offi-
cer's funeral;)

—What to such as you, anyhow, such a poet as I?—
therefore leave my works,

And go lull yourself with what you can understand—
and with piano-tunes;

For I lull nobody—and you will never understand me.

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