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I am not the poet of goodness only, I do not decline to be the poet of wickedness also. Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon just tinged with blue! Myself moving forward then and now and forever, Gathering and showing more always and with velocity, Infinite and omnigenous, and the like of these among them, Not too exclusive toward the reachers of my remembrancers, Picking out here one that I love, and now go with him on brotherly terms. That I could forget the trickling tears and the blows of the bludgeons and hammers! So they show their relations to me and I accept them, They bring me tokens of myself, they evince them plainly in their possession. The Yankee clipper is under her sky-sails, she cuts the sparkle and scud, My eyes settle the land, I bend at her prow or shout joyously from the deck. Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic, And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones, Growing among black folks as among white, Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I receive them the same. Something it swings on more than the earth I swing on, To it the creation is the friend whose embracing awakes me.