I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.
My tongue, every atom of my blood, form’d from this soil, this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same,
I, now `twenty-seven` years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death …
- Adapted from `Walt Whitman's` `Song of Myself`
Yours in the hope of eternal life:
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