I say that the real and permanent grandeur of these States
     must be their religion,
Otherwise there is no real and permanent grandeur;
(Nor character nor life worthy the name without religion,
Nor land nor man or woman without religion.)

What are you doing young man?
Are you so earnest, so given up to literature, science, art,
     amours?
These ostensible realities, politics, points?
Your ambition or business whatever it may be?

It is well — against such I say not a word, I am their poet also,
But behold! such swiftly subside, burnt up for religion's sake,
For not all matter is fuel to heat, impalpable flame, the
     essential life of the earth,
Any more than such are to religion.

What do you seek so pensive and silent?
What do you need camerado?
Dear son do you think it is love?

Listen dear son — listen America, daughter or son,
It is a painful thing to love a man or woman to excess, and
     yet it satisfies, it is great,
But there is something else very great, it makes the whole
     coincide,
It, magnificent, beyond materials, with continuous hands
     sweeps and provides for all.

Know you, solely to drop in the earth the germs of a greater
     religion,
The following chants each for its kind I sing.

My comrade!
For you to share with me two greatnesses, and a third one
     rising inclusive and more resplendent,
The greatness of Love and Democracy, and the greatness of
     Religion.

Melange mine own, the unseen and the seen,
Mysterious ocean where the streams empty,
Prophetic spirit of material shifting and flickering around
     me,
Living beings, identities now doubtless near us in the air that
     we know not of,
Contact daily and hourly that will not release me,
These selecting, these in hints demanded of me.

Not he with a daily kiss onward from childhood kissing
     me,
Has winded and twisted around me that which holds me to
    him,
Any more than I am held to the heavens and all the spiritual
     world,
After what they have done to me, suggesting themes.

O such themes — equalities! O divine average!
Warblings under the sun, usher'd as now, or at noon, or
     setting,
Strains musical flowing through ages, now reaching hither,
I take to your reckless and composite chords, add to them,
     and cheerfully pass them forward.

As I have walk'd in Alabama my morning walk,
I have seen where the she-bird the mocking-bird sat on her
     nest in the briers hatching her brood.

I have seen the he-bird also,
I have paus'd to hear him near at hand inflating his throat
     and joyfully singing.

And while I paus'd it came to me that what he really sang for
     was not there only,
Nor for his mate nor himself only, nor all sent back by the
     echoes,
But subtle, clandestine, away beyond,
A charge transmitted and gift occult for those being born.

Democracy! near at hand to you a throat is now inflating
     itself and joyfully singing.