Small is the theme of the following Chant, 
yet the greatest—namely, One’s-Self — 
that wondrous thing a simple, sep'rate person.
That, for the use of the New World, I sing.	

Man’s physiology complete, from top to toe, I sing. 
Not physiognomy alone, nor brain alone, 
is worthy for the muse; — I say the Form complete is worthier far. 
The female equal with the male, I sing,
Nor cease at the theme of One’s-Self. 
I speak the word of the modern, the word En-Masse:
My Days I sing, and the Lands — 
with interstice I knew of hapless War.

O friend whoe’er you are, at last arriving hither to commence, 
I feel through every leaf 
the pressure of your hand, which I return. 
And thus upon our journey link'd together 
let us go.