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About this Poem 

“Song of the Open Road, IV” was published in Leaves of Grass (David McKay, 1891-92).

Song of the Open Road, IV

The earth expanding right hand and left hand,
The picture alive, every part in its best light,
The music falling in where it is wanted, and stopping where it is      not wanted,
The cheerful voice of the public road, the gay fresh sentiment       of the road.

O highway I travel, do you say to me Do not leave me?
Do you say Venture not—if you leave me you are lost?
Do you say I am already prepared, I am well-beaten and                   undenied, adhere to me?

O public road, I say back I am not afraid to leave you, yet I love       you,
You express me better than I can express myself,
You shall be more to me than my poem.

I think heroic deeds were all conceiv’d in the open air, and all          free poems also,
I think I could stop here myself and do miracles,
I think whatever I shall meet on the road I shall like, and                  whoever beholds me shall like me,
I think whoever I see must be happy.

 

This poem is in the public domain. 

This poem is in the public domain. 

Walt Whitman

Walt Whitman

Born on May 31, 1819, Walt Whitman is the author of Leaves of Grass and, along with Emily Dickinson, is considered one of the architects of a uniquely American poetic voice. 

by this poet

poem
Come up from the fields father, here's a letter from our Pete, 
And come to the front door mother, here's a letter from thy
   dear son.

Lo, 'tis autumn, 
Lo, where the trees, deeper green, yellower and redder,
Cool and sweeten Ohio's villages with leaves fluttering in the
   moderate wind,
Where apples ripe in
poem
1

To conclude—I announce what comes after me;   
I announce mightier offspring, orators, days, and then, for the present, depart. 
   
I remember I said, before my leaves sprang at all,   
I would raise my voice jocund and strong, with reference to consummations.   
   
When America does what was promis’d,
When
poem
In paths untrodden,
In the growth by margins of pond-waters,
Escaped from the life that exhibits itself,
From all the standards hitherto publish'd, from the
   pleasures, profits, conformities,
Which too long I was offering to feed my soul,
Clear to me now standards not yet publish'd, clear to me
   that my soul