Oh, Walt Whitman, you've done it again...gone and stole my heart!
There was a child went forth every day,
And the first object she look'd upon, that object she became,
And that object became part of her for the day or a certain part of the day,
Or for many years or stretching cycles of year.
The early lilacs became part of this child,
And grass and white and red morning glories, and white and red clover, and the song of the phoebe-bird,
And the Third-month lambs and the sow's pink-faint litter,
and the mare's foal and the cow's calf,
And the noisy brood of the barn-yard, or by the mire of the pond-side,
And the fish suspending themselves so curiously below there—and the beautiful curious liquid,
And the water-plants with their graceful flat heads—all became part of her....