Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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THE prairie-grass dividing—its own odor breathing,

I demand of it the spiritual corresponding,

Demand the most copious and close companionship
of men,

Demand the blades to rise of words, acts, beings,

Those of the open atmosphere, coarse, sunlit, fresh,
nutritious,

Those that go their own gait, erect, stepping with
freedom and command—leading, not following,

Those with a never-quell'd audacity—those with
sweet and lusty flesh, clear of taint, choice and
chary of its love-power,

Those that look carelessly in the faces of Presidents
and Governors, as to say, Who are you?

Those of earth-born passion, simple, never constrained,
never obedient,

Those of inland America.

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