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 soldier,
And at intervals waiting or in the midst of camp,
Composed these songs.

Log in or register to write something here or to contact authors.