Book XXXIV. Sands At Seventy: Small the Theme of My Chant
Small the theme of my Chant, yet the greatest—namely, One’s-Self—a
simple, separate person. That, for the use of the New World, I sing.
Man’s physiology complete, from top to toe, I sing. Not physiognomy
alone, nor brain alone, is worthy for the
Muse;—I say the Form complete is worthier far. The Female equally
with the Male, I sing.
Nor cease at the theme of One’s-Self. I speak the word of the modern,
the word En-Masse.
My Days I sing, and the Lands—with interstice I knew of hapless War.
(O friend, whoe’er you are, at last arriving hither to commence, I feel
through every leaf the pressure of your hand, which I return.
And thus upon our journey, footing the road, and more than once, and
link’d together let us go.)
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