Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

contents | previous | next

SHUT not your doors to me, proud libraries,

For that which was lacking among you all, yet needed
most, I bring;

A book I have made for your dear sake, O soldiers,

And for you, O soul of man, and you, love of comrades;

The words of my book nothing, the life of it every-
thing;

A book separate, not link'd with the rest, nor felt by
the intellect;

But you will feel every word, O Libertad! arm'd
Libertad!

It shall pass by the intellect to swim the sea, the air,

With joy with you, O soul of man.

contents | previous | next