A poem by Walt Whitman
, from his Leaves of Grass
. I love the humble
strength in this one. I bet he was an egomaniac
in person, but shhhh.
Not youth pertains to me,
Nor delicatesse, I cannot beguile the time with talk,
Awkward in the parlor, neither a dancer nor elegant,
In the learn'd coterie sitting constrain'd and still, for learning
insures not to me,
Beauty, knowledge, inure not to me - yet there are two or
three things inure to me,
I have nourish'd the wounded and sooth'd many a dying
And at intervals waiting or in the midst of camp,
Composed these songs.