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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.

(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, footing the road, and more than once, and

link’d together let us go.)