"There was never any more inception than there is now,
Nor any more youth or age than there is now,
And will never be any more perfection than there is now,
Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.

I am of old and young, of the foolish as much as the wise,
Regardless of others, ever regardful of others,
Maternal as well as paternal, a child as well as a man,
Stuff'd with the stuff that is coarse and stuff'd with the stuff
     that is fine,

Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)

The friendly and flowing savage, who is he?
Is he waiting for civilization, or past it and mastering it?

Behavior lawless as snow-flakes, words simple as grass,
     uncomb'd head, laughter, and naivetè,
Slow-stepping feet, common features, common modes and
     emanations,
They descend in new forms from the tips of his fingers,

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you."

--Walt Whitman
from "Song of Myself,"  1855