Beautiful dripping fragments.
The negligent list
of one after another,
as I happen to call them to me,
or drink to them.
The real poems,
what we call poems.
Being merely pictures.
The poems of the privacy of the night,
and of men like me.
This poem,
drooping shy and unseen,
that I always carry,
and that all men carry.
Writen by the big poetry writer Walt Whitman...
