Leaves of Grass

On, on the Same, Ye Jocund Twain!

  On, on the same, ye jocund twain!
  My life and recitative, containing birth, youth, mid-age years,
  Fitful as motley-tongues of flame, inseparably twined and merged in
      one—combining all,
  My single soul—aims, confirmations, failures, joys—Nor single soul alone,
  I chant my nation’s crucial stage, (America’s, haply humanity’s)—
      the trial great, the victory great,
  A strange eclaircissement of all the masses past, the eastern world,
      the ancient, medieval,
  Here, here from wanderings, strayings, lessons, wars, defeats—here
      at the west a voice triumphant—justifying all,
  A gladsome pealing cry—a song for once of utmost pride and satisfaction;
  I chant from it the common bulk, the general average horde, (the
      best sooner than the worst)—And now I chant old age,
  (My verses, written first for forenoon life, and for the summer’s,
      autumn’s spread,
  I pass to snow-white hairs the same, and give to pulses
      winter-cool’d the same;)
  As here in careless trill, I and my recitatives, with faith and love,
  wafting to other work, to unknown songs, conditions,
  On, on ye jocund twain! continue on the same!