(_As Walt Whitman might have written all around it_)
I
You over there, young man with the guide-book,
red-bound, covered flexibly with red linen,
Come here, I want to talk with you; I, Walt, the
Manhattanese, citizen of these States, call you.
Yes, and the courier, too, smirking, smug-mouthed, with
oil’d hair; a garlicky look about him generally; him,
too, I take in, just as I would a coyote or a king,
or a toad-stool, or a ham-sandwich, or anything, or
anybody else in the world.
Where are you going?
You want to see Paris, to eat truffles, to have a good
time; in Vienna, London, Florence, Monaco, to have a
good time; you want to see Venice.
Come with me. I will give you a good time; I will give
you all the Venice you want, and most of the Paris.
I, Walt, I call to you. I am all on deck! Come and
loafe with me! Let me tote you around by your elbow and
show you things.
You listen to my ophicleide!
Home!
Home, I celebrate. I elevate my fog-whistle, inspir’d
by the thought of home.
Come in!—take a front seat; the jostle of the crowd
not minding; there is room enough for all of you.
This is my exhibition—it is the greatest show on
earth—there is no charge for admission.
All you have to pay me is to take in my romanza.