Forth from the war emerging, a book I have made, The words of my book nothing, the drift of it every thing, - Walt Whitman

The words of my book are nothing, the drift of it everything.

The words of my book nothing, the drift of it everything.

I am he that walks with the tender and growing night,
I call to the earth and sea half-held by the night.

I know I am deathless,
I know this orbit of mine cannot be swept by the carpenter’s compass,
I know I shall not pass like a child’s carlacue cut with a burnt stick at night.

I know I am august,
I do not trouble my spirit to vindicate itself or be understood,
I see that the elementary laws never apologize,
I reckon I behave no prouder than the level I plant my house by, after all.

I exist as I am — that is enough,
If no other in the world be aware, I sit content,
And if each and all be aware, I sit content.

The efflux of the soul is happiness, here is happiness,
I think it pervades the open air, waiting at all times,
Now it flows unto us, we are rightly charged.