What is a man anyhow? what am I? what are you? - Walt Whitman

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,

My respiration and inspiration...the beating of my heart...the passing of blood and air through my lungs, the sniff of green leaves and dry leaves and of the short and dark colored sea-rocks and of hay in the barn...the delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields and hillsides, the feeling of health...the full moon trill...the song of me rising from bed and meeting the sun.

A writer can do nothing for men more necessary, satisfying, than just simply to reveal to them the infinite possibility of their own souls.