Leaves of Grass

When I Read the Book

  When I read the book, the biography famous,
  And is this then (said I) what the author calls a man’s life?
  And so will some one when I am dead and gone write my life?
  (As if any man really knew aught of my life,
  Why even I myself I often think know little or nothing of my real life,
  Only a few hints, a few diffused faint clews and indirections
  I seek for my own use to trace out here.)