Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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IN paths untrodden,

In the growth by margins of pond-waters,

Escaped from the life that exhibits itself,

From all the standards hitherto publish'd—from the
pleasures, profits, conformities,

Which too long I was offering to feed my Soul;

Clear to me, now, standards not yet publish'd—clear
to me that my Soul,

That the Soul of the man I speak for, feeds, rejoices
in comrades;

Here, by myself, away from the clank of the world,

Tallying and talk'd to here by tongues aromatic,

No longer abash'd—for in this secluded spot I can
respond as I would not dare elsewhere,

Strong upon me the life that does not exhibit itself,
yet contains all the rest,

Resolv'd to sing no songs to-day but those of manly
attachment,

Projecting them along that substantial life,

Bequeathing, hence, types of athletic love,

Afternoon, this delicious Ninth-month, in my forty-
first year,

I proceed, for all who are, or have been, young men,

To tell the secret of my nights and days,

To celebrate the need of comrades.

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