Walt Whitman Poem by Alexander Anderson

Strong poet of the sleepless gods that dwell
As far above the stars as we beneath,
Whose melody disdaining the soft sheath
Of dainty modern music, snaps the spell,
And careless of all form or fettering plan
Clothes itself slovenly in rough, free words,
And strikes with no soft touch the inner chords
That vibrate with the strong and healthy man.
What if the ages that are yet to be,
Emerging from the bloodless wars of thought,
Seize hollow custom, and at one keen blow
Smite off its seven heads, and having smote,
Turn round, and with their larger veins aglow
With new found vigour mould themselves to thee?