“Poets to Come (Leaves of Grass.90)”
by Walt Whitman, (1819-1892)
Poets to come! orators, singers, musicians to come!
Not to-day is to justify me and answer what I am for,
But you, a new brood, native, athletic, continental,
greater than before known,
Arouse! for you must justify me!
I myself but write one or two indicative words for the
I but advance a moment only to wheel and hurry back
in the darkness.
I am a man who, sauntering along without fully
stopping, turns a casual look upon you and then
averts his face,
Leaving it to you to prove and define it,
Expecting the main things from you.