On the road

Why are there trees I never walk under
but large and melodious thoughts descend upon me?

Walt Whitman, Song of the Open Road, 1856

Poets to come

Poets to come! Orators, singers, musicians to come!
Not to-day is to justify me and answer what I am for,
but you, a new brood, native, athletic, continental, greater than before known,
Arouse! For you must justify me.

I myself but write one or two indicative words for the future,
I but advance a moment only to wheel and hurry back in the darkness.

I am a man who, sauntering along without fully stopping
turns a casual look upon you and then averts his face,
Leaving it to you to prove and define it,
Expecting the main things from you. [1860]

Walt Whitman, 31 May 1819 - 26. March 1892