Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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I SAW in Louisiana a live-oak growing,

All alone stood it, and the moss hung down from the
branches;

Without any companion it grew there, uttering joyous
leaves of dark green,

And its look, rude, unbending, lusty, made me think
of myself;

But I wonder'd how it could utter joyous leaves,
standing alone there, without its friend, its
lover near—for I knew I could not;

And I broke off a twig with a certain number of
leaves upon it, and twined around it a little
moss,

And brought it away—and I have placed it in sight in
my room;

It is not needed to remind me as of my own dear
friends,

(For I believe lately I think of little else than of
them;)

Yet it remains to me a curious token—it makes me
think of manly love;

—For all that, and though the live-oak glistens there
in Louisiana, solitary, in a wide flat space,

Uttering joyous leaves all its life, without a friend, a
lover, near,

I know very well I could not.

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