Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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A carol closing sixty-nine—a résumé —a repetition,

My lines in joy and hope continuing on the same,

Of ye, O God, Life, Nature, Freedom, Poetry;

Of you, my Land—your rivers, prairies, States—you, mottled
Flag I love,

Your aggregate retain'd entire—Of north, south, east and west,
your items all;

Of me myself—the jocund heart yet beating in my breast,

The body wreck'd, old, poor and paralyzed—the strange inertia
falling pall-like round me,

The burning fires down in my sluggish blood not yet extinct,

The undiminish'd faith—the groups of loving friends.

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