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Books by Whitman

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YOU and I—what the earth is, we are,

We two—how long we were fooled!

Now delicious, transmuted, swiftly we escape, as
Nature escapes,

We are Nature—long have we been absent, but now
we return,

We become plants, leaves, foliage, roots, bark,

We are bedded in the ground—we are rocks,

We are oaks—we grow in the openings side by side,

We browse—we are two among the wild herds,
spontaneous as any,

We are two fishes swimming in the sea together,

We are what the locust blossoms are—we drop scent

around the lanes, mornings and evenings,

We are also the coarse smut of beasts, vegetables,
minerals,

We are what the flowing wet of the Tennessee is—
we are two peaks of the Blue Mountains, rising
up in Virginia,

We are two predatory hawks—we soar above and
look down,

We are two resplendent suns—we it is who balance
ourselves orbic and stellar—we are as two
comets;

We prowl fanged and four-footed in the woods—we
spring on prey;

We are two clouds, forenoons and afternoons, driving
overhead,

We are seas mingling—we are two of those cheerful
waves, rolling over each other, and interwetting
each other,

We are what the atmosphere is, transparent, receptive,
pervious, impervious,

We are snow, rain, cold, darkness—we are each
product and influence of the globe,

We have circled and circled till we have arrived
home again—we two have,

We have voided all but freedom, and all but our
own joy.

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