I depart as air—I shake my white locks at the run-away
sun,
sun,
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.
I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I
love,
love,
If you want me again, look for me under your boot-soles.
You will hardly know who I am, or what I mean,
You will hardly know who I am, or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.
Failing to fetch me at first, keep encouraged,
Missing me one place, search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.
I stop somewhere waiting for you.
Walt Whitman, from Leaves of Grass


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