Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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THE prairie-grass dividing—its special odor breathing,

I demand of it the spiritual corresponding,

Demand the most copious and close companionship of
men,

Demand the blades to rise of words, acts, beings,

Those of the open atmosphere, coarse, sunlit, fresh,
nutritious,

Those that go their own gait, erect, stepping with free-
dom and command—leading, not following,

Those with a never-quell'd audacity—those with sweet
and lusty flesh, clear of taint,

Those that look carelessly in the faces of Presidents
and Governors, as to say, Who are you?

Those of earth-born passion, simple, never-constrain'd,
never obedient,

Those of inland America.

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