Come listen all!
From my last years, last thoughts I here bequeath:
I teach straying from me—yet who can stray from me?
I follow you, whoever you are, from the present hour,
I pursue you where none else has pursued you, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless,
I am not to be denied,
If your lover, husband, wife, is welcome by day or night, I must be personally as welcome,
I compel, and cannot be shaken away,
If there be one left in any country who has no faith in me, I will travel to that country, and go to that one.

Eleves, I salute you! come forward!
I see the approach of your numberless gangs,
I see you understand yourselves and me,
And know that my steps drag behind yours, yet go before them.
I am he who tauntingly compels men, women, nations,
Crying, Leap from your seats and contend for your lives!
For your life adhere to me,
I only can unloose you and toughen you.

Who wishes to walk with me?
Who would sign himself a candidate for my affections?
I do not thank you for liking me as I am, and liking the touch of me—
I know that it is good for you to do so.
That I can think such large and melodious thoughts as these is wonderful,
And that I can remind you, and you put them in the windows of your brain and think them, and know them to be true, is just as wonderful.

But there is no royal road to learning,
The whole past theory of your life and all conformity to the lives around you would have to be abandon’d,
You would have to give up all else, 
Leave all the preaching and teaching of others, and mind only these words of mine.
I alone would expect to be your sole and exclusive standard.

Do you think it so easy to have me become your lover?
If blood like mine circle not in your veins,
If you be not silently selected by lovers and do not silently select lovers,
Of what use is it that you seek to become eleve of mine?
Nor will the candidates for my love (unless at most a very few) prove victorious.

Do you think the friendship of me would be unalloy’d satisfaction?
I am not he bringing ointments and soft wool for you,
Your novitiate would be long and exhausting,
The way is suspicious, the result slow, uncertain, perhaps destructive,
For I confront peace, security, and all the settled laws, to unsettle them.

These “Leaves” conning you con at peril,
The book will not serve as books serve, but as the rude air, the salt sea, the burning fire, and the rocky ground—
Sharp, full of danger, full of contradictions and offense, full of death,
Nor will my poems do good only, they will do just as much evil, perhaps more.

Yet my words itch at your ears till you understand them;
Continue your annotations, continue your questionings,
My book is my response, my truest explanation of all,
In it I have put my body and spirit.

These “Leaves” and me you will not understand at first,
You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
I put many things on record that you will not understand—but they must be understood.
They will elude you at first and still more afterward,
I know very well they may have to be searched many times before they come to you and comply with you,
But what of that?
Has not nature to be searched many times?
I may have to be persuaded many times before I consent to give myself really to you,
But what of that?
Must not nature be persuaded many times?

In my prose as well as my poetry are many knots to untie,
To young men my problems offering—I the muscle of their brains trying,
My books wrestle with you and puzzle you,
I almost pity the young man or woman who grapples with “Leaves of Grass”—it is so hard a tussle.
Though my books wrestle with you and puzzle you,
Pursue them awhile—listen—yield yourself—persevere,
I am he with whom you must wrestle for the solid prizes of the universe,
For such I afford whoever can persevere to win them.

But even while you should think you had unquestionably caught me, behold!
I will certainly elude you,
Already you see I have escaped from you.

Farewell, dear friend, whoever you are,
I feel like one who has done work for the day to retire awhile.
May the blessings of hope and peace never be absent from you,
May the sun of peace warm you, and the dews of prosperity fall thick around your path,
Sweet blossoms bloom beneath your eyes, and the songs of birds gladden your hearing,
May the bloom of health glow on your features, and the tide of joy swell in your heart,
May your kind angel hover in the invisible air, and lose sight of your blessed presence never.

Take from my lips this kiss, I give it especially to you,
I will you, in all, myself,
I in all my songs behind me leaving,
Do not forget me, remember my words.

Be of good cheer, I will not desert you,
Wherever I go I believe I shall often return,
I love you, and I hope we shall meet again.

If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles,
Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you,
Wafting to you, dear reader, from amid the fresh scent of the grass,
My best wishes, my true good will and love,
With promise never to desert you,
To which I sign my name, signing for soul and body,
                                                                            Walt Whitman.

We understand then, do we not?
What I promis’d without mentioning it, have you not accepted?
What the push of reading could not start is started by me personally, is it not?
What the study could not teach—what the preaching could not accomplish—is accomplish’d, is it not?
Surely all will one day be accomplished.

NEXT: ABOUT THIS ANTHOLOGY

The texts in this anthology should NOT be cited as direct quotations from Whitman. If you want to quote from this site for something you are writing or posting, please read this first (click here).