Poem: Lines from “Song of Myself,” by Walt Whitman.
A child said What is the grass? Fetching it to me with full
How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any
more than he.
I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful
green stuff woven
Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt,
Bearing the owner’s name someway in the corners, that we
may see and remark, and say Whose?
And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.
This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.
All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and