greatest work of poetry to come out of America since Walt Whitman published Leaves of Grass.

"I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world." Walt Whitman, 1855.

The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains of my gab and my loitering.

Only the lull I like

Nor do I understand who there can be more wonderful than myself.

yet who can stray from me?

I am the teacher of athletes,

But each man and each woman of you I lead upon a knoll,

I acknowledge the duplicates of myself

Kanadian

make me sick discussing their duty to God,

Logic and sermons never convince, The damp of the night drives deeper into my soul.

The scent of these arm-pits aroma finer than prayer,

I make holy whatever I touch

the father-stuff

Whoever degrades another degrades me, And whatever is done or said returns at last to me.

Walt Whitman, a kosmos,

I accept Reality and dare not question it,

The pleasures of heaven are with me and the pains of hell are with me,

Fourth-month showers

There shall be no difference between them and the rest

fancy-man

I am of old and young, of the foolish as much as the wise, Regardless of others, ever regardful of others, Maternal as well as paternal, a child as well as a man, Stuff’d with the stuff that is coarse and stuff’d with the stuff that is fine,

it is the fourth of Seventh-month,

;)

I love him

I had him sit next me at table

a red girl

The suicide sprawls on the bloody floor of the bedroom,

the beautiful uncut hair of graves

my sisters and lovers

some man or woman I love,

Trippers

and admire myself.

I am in love with it,

observing a spear of summer grass.