Walt Whitman Poems

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SMALL is the theme of the following Chant, yet the greatest—namely,
One’s-Self—that wondrous thing 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
equal
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.

O friend whoe’er you are, at last arriving hither to commence, I feel through every
leaf
the pressure of your hand, which I return. And thus upon our journey link’d together
let
us go.

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