Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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HEAVE the anchor short!

Raise main-sail and jib—steer forth,

O little white-hull'd sloop, now speed on really deep waters,

(I will not call it our concluding voyage,

But outset and sure entrance to the truest, best, maturest;)

Depart, depart from solid earth—no more returning to these
shores,

Now on for aye our infinite free venture wending,

Spurning all yet tried ports, seas, hawsers, densities, gravitation,

Sail out for good, eidólon yacht of me!

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