In all people I see myself, none more and not one a barley-corn less, And the good or bad I say of myself I say of them. - Walt Whitman

Will you seek afar off? You surely come back at last,
In things best known to you finding the best or as good as the best,
In folks nearest to you finding also the sweetest and strongest and lovingest,
Happiness not in another place, but this place... not for another hour, but this hour

What is this you bring my America?
Is it uniform with my country?
Is it not something that has been better told or done before?
Have you not imported this or the spirit of it in some ship?
Is it not a mere tale? a rhyme? a prettiness? — is the good old
cause in it?
Has it not dangled long at the heels of the poets, politicians,
literats, of enemies' lands?
Does it not assume that what is notoriously gone is still here?
Does it answer universal needs? will it improve manners?
Does it sound with trumpet-voice the proud victory of the Union
in that secession war?
Can your performance face the open fields and the seaside?
Will it absorb into me as I absorb food, air, to appear again in my
strength, gait, face?
Have real employments contributed to it? original makers, not
mere amanuenses?
Does it meet modern discoveries, calibres, facts, face to face?
What does it mean to American persons, progresses, cities? Chi-
cago, Kanada, Arkansas?
Does it see behind the apparent custodians the real custodians
standing, menacing, silent, the mechanics, Manhattanese,
Western men, Southerners, significant alike in their apathy,
and in the promptness of their love?
Does it see what finally befalls, and has always finally befallen, each
temporizer, patcher, outsider, partialist, alarmist, infidel,
who has ever ask'd any thing of America?

إني أرى شيئا من الله كل ساعة من الساعات الأربع والعشرين
وكل لحظة في وجوه الرجال والنساء أرى الله
وفي وجهي أمام المرآة.
فإنني أرى رسائل من الله ملقاة في الشوارع
وكل رسالة موقعة من الله
وأنا أترك الرسائل مكانها
فأنا أعلم أنني حيثما حللت
فإن رسائل أخرى ستظل تجيء ٬ إلى الأبد