From
Leaves of Grass, by
Walt Whitman:
Shut not your
doors to me
proud libraries,
For that which was lacking on all your well-fill'd shelves, yet needed most, I bring,
Forth from the
war emerging, a
book I have made,
The words of my book
nothing, the drift of it every thing,
A book separate, not
link'd with the rest nor felt by the
intellect,
But you ye untold latencies will thrill to every page.