A child said, What is the grass?
A
child
said,
What
is
the
grass?
fetching
it
to
me
with
full
hands;
How
could
I
answer
the
child?.
.
.
.I
do
not
know
what
it
is
any
more
than
he.
I
guess
it
must
be
the
flag
of
my
disposition,
out
of
hopeful
green
stuff
woven.
Or
I
guess
it
is
the
handkerchief
of
the
Lord,
A
scented
gift
and
remembrancer
designedly
dropped,
Bearing
the
owner's
name
someway
in
the
corners,
that
we
may
see
and
remark,
and
say
Whose?
Or
I
guess
the
grass
is
itself
a
child.
.
.
.the
produced
babe
of
the
vegetation.
Or
I
guess
it
is
a
uniform
hieroglyphic,
And
it
means,
Sprouting
alike
in
broad
zones
and
narrow
zones,
Growing
among
black
folks
as
among
white,
Kanuck,
Tuckahoe,
Congressman,
Cuff,
I
give
them
the
same,
I
receive
them
the
same.
And
now
it
seems
to
me
the
beautiful
uncut
hair
of
graves.
Tenderly
will
I
use
you
curling
grass,
It
may
be
you
transpire
from
the
breasts
of
young
men,
It
may
be
if
I
had
known
them
I
would
have
loved
them;
It
may
be
you
are
from
old
people
and
from
women,
and
from
offspring
taken
soon
out
of
their
mother's
laps,
And
here
you
are
the
mother's
laps.
This
grass
is
very
dark
to
be
from
the
white
heads
of
old
mothers,
Darker
than
the
colorless
beards
of
old
men,
Dark
to
come
from
under
the
faint
red
roofs
of
mouths.
O
I
perceive
after
all
so
many
uttering
tongues!
And
I
perceive
they
do
not
come
from
the
roofs
of
mouths
for
nothing.
I
wish
I
could
translate
the
hints
about
the
dead
young
men
and
women,
And
the
hints
about
old
men
and
mothers,
and
the
offspring
taken
soon
out
of
their
laps.
What
do
you
think
has
become
of
the
young
and
old
men?
What
do
you
think
has
become
of
the
women
and
children?
They
are
alive
and
well
somewhere;
The
smallest
sprouts
show
there
is
really
no
death,
And
if
ever
there
was
it
led
forward
life,
and
does
not
wait
at
the
end
to
arrest
it,
And
ceased
the
moment
life
appeared.
All
goes
onward
and
outward.
.
.
.and
nothing
collapses,
And
to
die
is
different
from
what
any
one
supposed,
and
luckier.
Walt Whitman
Walt Whitman, (born May 31, 1819, West Hills, Long Island, New York, U.S.—died March 26, 1892, Camden, New Jersey), American poet, journalist, and essayist whose verse collection Leaves of Grass, first published in 1855, is a landmark in the history of American literature. Walt Whitman’s poetry was innovative for its verse style and for the way it challenged traditional narratives. He championed the individual soul over social conventions, presenting himself as a rough and free spirit. His poetry has continued to resonate with new generations of Americans, and he is considered a symbol of American democracy.