My head is heavy, my limbs are weary,
And it is not life that makes me move.

Add to your show, before you close it, France,
With all the rest, visible, concrete, temples, towers, goods, machines and ores,
Our sentiment wafted from many million heart-throbs, ethereal but solid,
(We grand-sons and great-grand-sons do not forget your grand-sires,)
From fifty Nations and nebulous Nations, compacted, sent oversea to-day,
America's applause, love, memories and good-will.

I doubt it not — then more, far more;
In each old song bequeath'd — in every noble page or text,
(Different — something unreck'd before — some unsuspected author,)
In every object, mountain, tree, and star — in every birth and life,
As part of each — evolv'd from each — meaning, behind the ostent,
A mystic cipher waits infolded.

The soothing sanity and blitheness of completion,
The pomp and hurried contest-glare and rush are done;
Now triumph! transformation! jubilate!

( FROM THE 1867 EDITION OF Leaves of Grass )
Small the theme of my Chant, yet the greatest — namely, One's-Self — a simple, separate person. That, for the use of the New World, I sing.
Man's physiology complete, from top to toe, I sing. Not physiognomy alone, nor brain alone, is worthy for the Muse; — I say the Form complete is worthier far. The Female equally with the Male, I sing.
Nor cease at the theme of One's-Self. I speak the word of the modern, the word En-Masse.
My Days I sing, and the Lands — with interstice I knew of hapless War.

To get the final lilt of songs,
To penetrate the inmost lore of poets — to know the mighty ones,
Job, Homer, Eschylus, Dante, Shakspere, Tennyson, Emerson;
To diagnose the shifting-delicate tints of love and pride and doubt — to truly understand,
To encompass these, the last keen faculty and entrance-price,
Old age, and what it brings from all its past experiences.

Apple orchards, the trees all cover'd with blossoms;
Wheat fields carpeted far and near in vital emerald green;
The eternal, exhaustless freshness of each early morning;
The yellow, golden, transparent haze of the warm afternoon sun;
The aspiring lilac bushes with profuse purple or white flowers.

( MIDNIGHT, SEPT. 19 20, 1881)
The sobbing of the bells, the sudden death-news everywhere,
The slumberers rouse, the rapport of the People,
(Full well they know that message in the darkness,
Full well return, respond within their breasts, their brains, the sad reverberations,)
The passionate toll and clang — city to city, joining, sounding, passing,
Those heart-beats of a Nation in the night.

What ship puzzled at sea, cons for the true reckoning?
Or coming in, to avoid the bars and follow the channel a perfect pilot needs?
Here, sailor! here, ship! take aboard the most perfect pilot,
Whom, in a little boat, putting off and rowing, I hailing you offer.

One sung of thee who left the tale untold,
Like the false dawns which perish in the bursting;
Like empty cups of wrought and daedal gold,
Which mock the lips with air, when they are thirsting.