To grow from the GRASS I do not want the constellations any nearer

I know they are great I Do not want the constellations any nearer I know they are very Well
Where they are The burial lines he that was President was buried and he that is wronged

The antipodes and every one is signed by God
s name and I leave them Where Th
ey sit inner secure unapproachable to analysis in the SOUL it cannot be varied by statues
any more than this shall be the end of those nations
or any person of them any more than my lands are inevitably
united And made one identity any more than I thought it appears to me I can look over and
behold them in Germany Italy FRANCE Spain or far far- away in China or in Russia or

India talking other dialects And it seems to me I am Walt Whitman liberal and lusty as
Nature not till the sun excludes you Do I exclude you not till the sun
excludes you Do I exclude you not Till the sun excludes you do I exclude
You not till the sun excludes You Do I exclude You not till the sun
excludes you do I exclude you NOT till the sun excludes you Do I exclude you not till
the waters refuse to glisten for you and the leaves to rustle for you.