As I see my soul reflected in Nature, As I see through a mist, One with inexpressible completeness, sanity, beauty, See the bent head and arms folded… - Walt Whitman

Freedom: to walk free and own no superior

Demon or bird! (said the boy’s soul,)
Is it indeed toward your mate you sing? or is it mostly to me?
For I, that was a child, my tongue’s use sleeping,
Now I have heard you,
Now in a moment I know what I am for — I awake, 150
And already a thousand singers — a thousand songs, clearer, louder and more sorrowful than yours,
A thousand warbling echoes have started to life within me,
Never to die.

O you singer, solitary, singing by yourself — projecting me;
O solitary me, listening — nevermore shall I cease perpetuating you; 155
Never more shall I escape, never more the reverberations,
Never more the cries of unsatisfied love be absent from me,
Never again leave me to be the peaceful child I was before what there, in the night,
By the sea, under the yellow and sagging moon,
The messenger there arous’d — the fire, the sweet hell within, 160
The unknown want, the destiny of me.

It is almost incredible what a little stretch of nature will do to arouse a fellow — convert him, so to speak. I cannot think of a rarer experience than one I met on the river Saguenay, up there in Canada. The river’s water is an inky black — a curious study, I believe, to this day to the scientific men: take it up in a bucket, and it is still unmistakably black — the color of the stream. Oh! that great day! Down the stream a boat — sails open — wing-a-wing — one one side, one the other — patched, stained, heavy — but oh! how beautiful! It was a curious revelation out of little means. Wing-a-wing is rarely fine anyhow — I have not known it much in pictures — but few artists can accomplish it. See then, the large result of what may seem a small impulse. Why should we go hunt beauty then — I should rather ask — where can you go to get away from it?