The last scud of day holds back for me, It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow'd wilds, It coaxes me to the vapor and the… - Walt Whitman

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your bootsoles.

I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runway sun, I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love. If you want me again look for me under your boot soles. You will hardly know who I am or what I mean. Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged, missing me one place search another, I stop somewhere waiting for you

I depart as air .... I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
I effuse my flesh in eddies and drift it in lacy jags.
I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your bootsoles.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love, If you want me again look for me under your bootsoles.

If he breathes into anything that was before thought small, it dilates with the grandeur and life of the universe.

I say the real and permanent grandeur of these States must be their religion.

In the faces of men and women I see God.