Leaves of Grass. Walt Whitman
You the New Person Drawn Toward Me?
Roots and Leaves Themselves Alone
Not Heat Flames Up and Consumes
I Saw in Louisiana a Live-Oak Growing
This Moment Yearning and Thoughtful
I Hear It Was Charged Against Me
When I Peruse the Conquer'd Fame
Here the Frailest Leaves of Me
What Think You I Take My Pen in Hand?
O You Whom I Often and Silently Come
France [the 18th Year of these States