A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands; How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he. - Walt Whitman

Let your soul stand cool and composed before a million universes.

I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,
Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it
should be blithe and strong,
The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank
or beam,
The mason singing his as he makes ready for work,
or leaves off work,
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his
boat, the deckhand singing on the steamboat
deck,
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the
hatter singing as he stands,
The wood-cutter’s song, the ploughboy’s on his
way in the morning, or at noon intermission
or at sundown,
The delicious singing of the mother, or of the
young wife at work, or of the girl sewing or
washing,
Each singing what belongs to him or her and to
none else,
The day what belongs to the day — at night the
party of young fellows, robust, friendly,
Singing with open mouths their strong melodious
songs.

I believe that much unseen is also here.