Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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AH poverties, wincings, and sulky retreats!

Ah you foes that in conflict have overcome me!

(For what is my life, or any man's life, but a conflict with
foes—the old, the incessant war?)

You degradations—you tussle with passions and appetites;

You smarts from dissatisfied friendships, (ah wounds, the
sharpest of all;)

You toil of painful and choked articulations—you mean-
nesses;

You shallow tongue-talks at tables, (my tongue the shal-
lowest of any;)

You broken resolutions, you racking angers, you smother'd
ennuis;

Ah, think not you finally triumph—My real self has yet to
come forth;

It shall yet march forth o'ermastering, till all lies beneath me;

It shall yet stand up the soldier of unquestion'd victory.

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