Not the Pilot
by Walt Whitman.
Not the pilot has charged himself to bring his ship into port,
though beaten back and many times baffled;
Not the pathfinder penetrating inland weary and long,
By deserts parch’d, snows chill’d, rivers wet, perseveres till he
reaches his destination,
More than I have charged myself, heeded or unheeded, to compose
march for these States,
For a battle-call, rousing to arms if need be, years, centuries hence.
|from Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman|
|As Toilsome I Wander’d Virginia’s Woods||Year That Trembled and Reel’d Beneath Me|