By Blue Ontario’s Shore
15 I swear I begin to see the meaning of these things, It is not the earth, it is not America who is so great, It is I who am great or to be great, it is You up there, or any one, It is to walk rapidly through civilizations, governments, theories, Through poems, pageants, shows, to form individuals. Underneath all, individuals, I swear nothing is good to me now that ignores individuals, The American compact is altogether with individuals, The only government is that which makes minute of individuals, The whole theory of the universe is directed unerringly to one single individual—namely to You. (Mother! with subtle sense severe, with the naked sword in your hand, I saw you at last refuse to treat but directly with individuals.)
Posted on 21/03/2015, in literature, poetry and tagged 19th Century Poetry, American literature, American poets, Daily Whitman, free verse, Leaves of Grass, literature, poems, poetry, Transcendentalists, Walt Whitman. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.