WALT WHITMAN by RAY CLARKE ROSE

I am no slender singing bird
That feeds on puny garden seed!
My songs are stronger than those heard
In ev'ry wind-full, shallow reed!
My pipes are jungle-grown and need
A strong man's breath to blow them well;
A strong soul's sense to solve their spell
And be by their deep music stirred.

My voice speaks not, in lisping notes,
The madrigals of lesser minds!
My heart tones thunder from the throats
Of throbbing seas and raging winds;
And yet, the master-spirit finds
The tenderness of mother earth
Is there expressed, despite the dearth
Of tinkle tunes like dancing motes!

My hand strokes not a golden lyre
Threaded with silver—spider spun!
The strings I strike are strands of fire,
Strung from Earth's center to the Sun!
Thrilled deep with passion, ev'ry one!
With songs of forest, corn, and vine;
Of rushing water, blood, and wine;
Of man's conception and desire!

But listen, comrade! This I say:
In all of all I give my heart!
With lover's voice I bid you stay
To share with me the better part
Of all my days! nights! thoughts! and start
With far-spread arms to welcome you,
And we will shout a song so true
That it shall ring for aye and aye.

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