Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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As I lay with my head in your lap, Camerado,

The confession I made I resume—what I said to you
and the open air I resume:

I know I am restless, and make others so;

I know my words are weapons, full of danger, full of
death;

(Indeed I am myself the real soldier:

It is not he, there, with his bayonet, and not the red-
striped artilleryman;)

For I confront peace, security, and all the settled laws,
to unsettle them;

I am more resolute because all have denied me, than I
could ever have been had all accepted me;

I heed not, and have never heeded, either experience,
cautions, majorities, nor ridicule;

And the threat of what is call'd hell is little or nothing
to me;

And the lure of what is call'd heaven is little or nothing
to me;

…Dear camerado! I confess I have urged you onward
with me, and still urge you, without the least
idea what is our destination,

Or whether we shall be victorious, or utterly quell'd and
defeated.

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