
Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman. Part I.
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The Poet of the Woman
I am he that walks with the tender and growing night. I chant the chant of dilation or pride. We have had ducking and deprecating about enough. Have you outstripped the rest? Are you the president? It is a trifle. They will more than arrive there every one, and still pass on. And whether I come to my own today, or in ten thousand or ten million years, I can cheerfully take it now, or with equal cheerfulness, I can wait. My foothold is tenoned and mortised in granite. One world is aware, and by far the largest to me. And that is myself. The first I graft and increase upon
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