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Leaves of Grass.
425
Not the pilot has charged himself to bring his ship
into port, though beaten back, and many times
baffled,
Not the path-finder, penetrating inland, weary and
long,
By deserts parched, snows chilled, rivers wet,
perseveres till he reaches his destination,
More than I have charged myself, heeded or
unheeded, to compose a free march for These
States,
To be exhilarating music to them, years, centuries
hence.
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I thought I was not alone, walking here by the shore,
But the one I thought was with me, as now I walk by
the shore,
As I lean and look through the glimmering light—
that one has utterly disappeared,
And those appear that perplex me.
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36*
