LEAVES OF GRASS 



I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of 



hopeful green stuff woven. 

 Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord, 

 A scented gift and remembrancer designedly 



dropped, 

 Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, 



that we may see and remark, and say Whose? 

 Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced 



babe of the vegetation. 

 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. 

 And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of 



graves. 



Tenderly will I use you, curling grass, 

 It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men, 

 It may be if I had known them I would have loved 



them, 

 It may be you are from old people, or from offspring 



taken soon out of their mothers' laps, 

 And here you are the mothers' laps. 

 This grass is very dark to be from the white heads 



of old mothers, 



Darker than the colorless beards of old men, 

 Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths. 

 Oh, I perceive after all so many uttering tongues, 



