I am he that walks with the tender and growing night, I call to the earth and sea half-held by the night. Press close bare-bosom’d night — press clo… - Walt Whitman

"Press close, bare-bosomed Night!
Press close, magnetic, nourishing Night!
Night of south winds! Night of the large, few stars!
Still, nodding Night! Mad, naked, Summer Night!

from Strophe 21, "Song of Myself

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

I conn'd old times, I sat studying at the feet of the great masters, Now if eligible O that the great masters might return and study me.

I am enamour'd of growing out-doors, Of men that live among cattle or taste of the ocean or woods,

Poetic style, when address'd to the Soul, is less definite form, outline, sculpture, and becomes vista, music, half-tints, and even less than half- tints. True, it may be architecture; but again it may be the forest wild-wood, or the best effects thereof, at twilight, the waving oaks and cedars in the wind, and the impalpable odor.