Small is the theme of the following Chant, yet the greatest – namely,
One’s-Self – that wondrous thing a simple, separate person.
That, for the use of the New World, I sing.
Man’s physiology complete, from top to toe, I sing. Not physiognomy alone, nor brain alone, is worthy for the muse; – I say the Form complete is worthier far. The female equal with the male, I sing,
Nor cease at the theme of One’s-Self. I speak the word of the modern, the word En-Masse:
My Days I sing, and the Lands – with interstice I knew of hapless War.
O friend whoe’er you are, at last arriving hither to commence, I feel through every leaf the pressure of your hand, which I return.
And thus upon our journey link’d together let us go.