These States,”

She said, “how can Americans worth their salt

But listen to the wavesong on their shores,

The waves and Walt,

And hear the windsong over rock and wood,

The winds and Walt,

And let the mansong enter at their gates

And know that it is good!”

Walt Whitman, by his perfect friendliness

Has let me guess

That into Celia, into me,

He and unnumbered dead have come

To be our intimates,

To make of us their home

Commingling earth and heaven....

That by our true and mutual deeds

We shall at last be shriven

Of these hypocrisies and jealous creeds

And petty separate fates—

That I in every man and he in me,

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