Song of Myself Walt Whitman
I am of old and young,
of the foolish as much as the wise,
Regardless of others,
even regardful of others,
maternal as well as paternal,
a child as well as a man,
stuff'd with the stuff that is coarse,
and stuff with the stuff that is fine,
one of the nation of many nations,
the smallest the same and the largest the same.
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I depart as air,
I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
I effuse my flesh eddies, and drift it in lacy lags,
I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love.
If you want to find me again,
look for me under your boot-soles,
you will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
and filter and fibre your blood,
failing to fetch me at first key encouraged,
missing me one place search others,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.