I find no sweeter fat than sticks to my own bones. - Walt Whitman

It is not upon you alone the dark patches fall, The dark threw its patches down upon me also, The best I had done seem'd to me blank and suspicious,
My great thoughts as I supposed them, were they not in reality meagre?

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This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless,
Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson
done,
Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the
themes thou lovest best,
Night, sleep, death and the stars.

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— Walt Whitman, “A Clear Midnight,” Leaves of Grass. Originally published: July 4, 1855.
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O sight of pity, shame and dole!
O fearful thought - a convict soul.