Walt Whitman — On on the Same Ye Jocund Twain

On, on the same, ye jocund twain! My life and recitative, containing birth, youth, mid-age years, Fitful as motley-tongues of flame, inseparably twined and merged in          one—combining all, My single soul—aims, confirmations, failures, joys—Nor single soul alone, I chant my nation's crucial stage, (America's, haply humanity's)—          the trial great, the victory great, A strange eclaircissement of all the masses past, the eastern world,          the ancient, medieval, Here, here from wanderings, strayings, lessons, wars, defeats—here          at the west a voice triumphant—justifying all, A gladsome pealing cry—a song for once of utmost pride and satisfaction; I chant from it the common bulk, the general average horde, (the          best sooner than the worst)—And now I chant old age, (My verses, written first for forenoon life, and for the summer's,          autumn's spread, I pass to snow-white hairs the same, and give to pulses          winter-cool'd the same;) As here in careless trill, I and my recitatives, with faith and love, wafting to other work, to unknown songs, conditions, On, on ye jocund twain! continue on the same!