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.