My Canary Bird
Did we count great, O soul, to penetrate the themes of mighty books,
Absorbing deep and full from thoughts, plays, speculations?
But now from thee to me, caged bird, to feel thy joyous warble,
Filling the air, the lonesome room, the long forenoon,
Is it not just as great, O soul?
|from Leaves of Grass: BOOK XXXIV. SANDS AT SEVENTY|
by Walt Whitman
|As I Sit Writing Here||Queries to My Seventieth Year|