Walt Whitman (1819–1892). Leaves of Grass. 1900.
125. Not the Pilot
N
Not the path-finder, penetrating inland, weary and long,
By deserts parch’d, snows-chill’d, rivers wet, perseveres till he reaches his destination,
More than I have charged myself, heeded or unheeded, to compose a free march for These States,
To be exhilarating music to them—a battle-call, rousing to arms, if need be—years, centuries hence.