Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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AS they draw to a close,

Of what underlies the precedent songs—of my aims in
them;

Of the seed I have sought to plant in them;

Of joy, sweet joy, through many a year, in them;

(For them—for them have I lived—in them my work
is done;)

Of many an aspiration fond—of many a dream and
plan,

Of you, O mystery great!—to place on record faith in
you, O death!

—To compact you, ye parted, diverse lives!

To put rapport the mountains, and rocks, and streams,

And the winds of the north, and the forests of oak and
pine,

With you, O soul of man.

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