Poetry

Leaves of Ass

The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me complains of my gab and my loitering I too am not a bit tamed I too am untranslatable I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world I depart as air I shake my white locks at the runaway sun I effuse my flesh in eddies and drift it in lacy jags I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love if you want me again look for me you will hardly know who I am or what I mean but I shall be good health to you nevertheless and filter and fibre your blood failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged missing me one place search another I stop somewhere waiting for you.

WALT WHITMAN

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