Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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No labor-saving machine,

Nor discovery have I made;

Nor will I be able to leave behind me any wealthy
bequest to found a hospital or library,

Nor reminiscence of any deed of courage, for America,

Nor literary success, nor intellect—nor book for the
book-shelf;

Only a few carols, vibrating through the air, I leave,

For comrades and lovers.

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