Glory Be To God For Dappled Things.

I Have Desired To Go Where Springs Not Fail, To Fields Where Flies No Sharp And Sided Hail And A Few Lilies Blow.

I Always Knew In My Heart Walt Whitman's Mind To Be More Like My Own Than Any Other Man's Living.

When I Compare Myself, My Being-myself, With Anything Else Whatever, All Things Alike, All In The Same Degree, Rebuff Me With Blank Unlikeness.

The World Is Charged With The Grandeur Of God. It Will Flame Out Like Shining From Shook Foil? Generations Have Trod, Have Trod, Have Trod; And All Is Seared With Trade; Bleared, Smeared With Toil; And Wearsman'ssmudgeand Sharesman'ssmell: Thesoil Is Bare Now, Nor Can Foot Feel, Being Shod.

What I Do Is Me, For That I Came.