From
Leaves of Grass, by
Walt Whitman:
The prairie-grass dividing, its special
odor breathing,
I demand of it the
spiritual corresponding,
Demand the most
copious and close
companionship of men,
Demand the
blades to rise of words, acts, beings,
Those of the open atmosphere,
coarse, sunlit, fresh,
nutritious,
Those that go their own
gait, erect, stepping with
freedom
and command, leading not following,
Those with a never-quell'd
audacity, those with sweet and
lusty
flesh clear of taint,
Those that look carelessly in the faces of
Presidents and
governors, as to say Who are you?
Those of earth-born
passion, simple, never constrain'd, never
obedient,
Those of inland
America.