A poem by Walt Whitman, from his Leaves of Grass. I love the humble strength in this one. I bet he was an egomaniac in person, but shhhh.

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Not youth pertains to me,
Nor delicatesse, I cannot beguile the time with talk,
Awkward in the parlor, neither a dancer nor elegant,
In the learn'd coterie sitting constrain'd and still, for learning insures not to me,
Beauty, knowledge, inure not to me - yet there are two or three things inure to me,
I have nourish'd the wounded and sooth'd many a dying soldier,
And at intervals waiting or in the midst of camp,
Composed these songs.

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