I celebrate myself, and sing myself, And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I know I am deathless…We have thus far exhausted trillions of winters and summers, There are trillions ahead, and trillions ahead of them.

Shut not your doors to me proud libraries.

O to be self-balanced for contingencies, to confront night, storms, hunger, ridicule, accidents, rebuffs, as the trees and animals do.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love, If you want me again look for me under your bootsoles.

The truest and greatest Poetry, (while subtly and necessarily always rhythmic, and distinguishable easily enough) can never again, in the English language, be express'd in arbitrary and rhyming metre, any more than the greatest eloquence, or the truest power and passion.

The future is no more uncertain than the present.