Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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SHUT not your doors to me proud libraries,

For that which was lacking on all your well-fill'd shelves, yet
needed most, I bring,

Forth from the war emerging, a book I have made,

The words of my book nothing, the drift of it every thing,

A book separate, not link'd with the rest nor felt by the intellect,

But you ye untold latencies will thrill to every page.

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