8 The little one sleeps in its cradle, I lift the gauze and look a long time, and silently brush away flies with my hand.The youngster and the red-faced girl turn aside up the bushy hill, I peeringly view them from the top.
What do you think has become of the young and old men?
And what do you think has become of the women and children?
1 I celebrate myself, and sing myself, And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
I loafe and invite my soul, I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.
Urge and urge and urge, Always the procreant urge of the world.