Walt Whitman

(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892 / New York / United States)

Song Of Myself, XVII - Poem by Walt Whitman

These are really the thoughts of all men in all ages and lands, they are not original with me,
If they are not yours as much as mine they are nothing, or next to nothing,
If they are not the riddle and the untying of the riddle they are nothing,
If they are not just as close as they are distant they are nothing.

This is the grass that grows wherever the land is and the water is,
This the common air that bathes the globe.


Comments about Song Of Myself, XVII by Walt Whitman

There is no comment submitted by members..



Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags

What do you think this poem is about?



Poem Submitted: Friday, October 9, 2015



[Report Error]