| I am of old and young, of the foolish as much as the wise; |
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| Regardless of others, ever regardful of others, |
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| Maternal as well as paternal, a child as well as a man, |
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| Stuff’d with the stuff that is coarse, and stuff’d with the stuff that is fine; |
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| One of the Great Nation, the nation of many nations, the smallest the same, and the largest the same; |
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| A southerner soon as a northerner—a planter nonchalant and hospitable, down by the Oconee I live; |
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| A Yankee, bound by my own way, ready for trade, my joints the limberest joints on earth, and the sternest joints on earth; |
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| A Kentuckian, walking the vale of the Elkhorn, in my deer-skin leggings—a Louisianian or Georgian; |
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| A boatman over lakes or bays, or along coasts—a Hoosier, Badger, Buckeye; |
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| At home on Kanadian snow-shoes, or up in the bush, or with fishermen off Newfoundland; |
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| At home in the fleet of ice-boats, sailing with the rest and tacking; |
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| At home on the hills of Vermont, or in the woods of Maine, or the Texan ranch; |
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| Comrade of Californians—comrade of free north-westerners, (loving their big proportions;) |
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| Comrade of raftsmen and coalmen—comrade of all who shake hands and welcome to drink and meat; |
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| A learner with the simplest, a teacher of the thoughtfullest; |
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| A novice beginning, yet experient of myriads of seasons; |
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| Of every hue and caste am I, of every rank and religion; |
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| A farmer, mechanic, artist, gentleman, sailor, quaker; |
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| A prisoner, fancy-man, rowdy, lawyer, physician, priest. |
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| I resist anything better than my own diversity; |
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| I breathe the air, but leave plenty after me, |
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| And am not stuck up, and am in my place. |
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| (The moth and the fish-eggs are in their place; |
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| The suns I see, and the suns I cannot see, are in their place; |
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| The palpable is in its place, and the impalpable is in its place.) |
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| These are the thoughts of all men in all ages and lands—they are not original with me; |
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| If they are not yours as much as mine, they are nothing, or next to nothing; |
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| If they are not the riddle, and the untying of the riddle, they are nothing; |
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| If they are not just as close as they are distant, they are nothing. |
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| This is the grass that grows wherever the land is, and the water is; |
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| This is the common air that bathes the globe.
– Song of Myself 16-17, Walt Whitman |
