“When The Full-grown Poet Came,” ~A Poem By Walt Whitman

When the full-grown poet came,

Out spake pleased Nature (the round impassive globe, with all its shows of day and night,) saying, He is mine;

But out spake too the Soul of man, proud, jealous and unreconciled, Nay, he is mine alone;

-Then the full-grown poet stood between the two, and took each by the hand;

And to-day and ever so stands, as blender, uniter, tightly holding hands,

Which he will never release until he reconciles the two,

And wholly and joyously blends them.

“O Living Always, Always Dying,” ~A Poem By Walt Whitman

O living always, always dying!

O the burials of me past and present,

O me while I stride ahead, material, visible, imperious as ever;

O me, what I was for years, now dead, (I lament not, I am content;)

O to disengage myself from those corpses of me, which I turn and look at where I cast them,

To pass on, (O living! always living!) and leave the corpses behind.