Walt Whitman (1819–1892). Leaves of Grass. 1900.

297. So Far and So Far, and on Toward the End

SO far, and so far, and on toward the end,

Singing what is sung in this book, from the irresistible impulses of me;

But whether I continue beyond this book, to maturity,

Whether I shall dart forth the true rays, the ones that wait unfired,

(Did you think the sun was shining its brightest?

No—it has not yet fully risen;)

Whether I shall complete what is here started,

Whether I shall attain my own height, to justify these, yet unfinished,

Whether I shall make THE POEM OF THE NEW WORLD, transcending all others—depends, rich persons, upon you,

Depends, whoever you are now filling the current Presidentiad, upon you,

Upon you, Governor, Mayor, Congressman,

And you, contemporary America.