You are the road,
Walt Whitman!
You are the highway of the poets of America.

You are the road, Walt Whitman:
The road that runs for the sake of running,
Caring not whither;
The road that is
A leaving behind
And a going to meet—
The leaving behind the black sea of the past,
The going to meet the gray sea of the future;
The road that says hail and farewell,
Always hail and farewell,
To the tree-tops and the hill-tops,
To the flat land and the high land,
To the sleepy towns and to the roaring cities,
To the sunset and the moonrise—
Always hail and farewell.

You are the road, Walt Whitman!
It is you have assaulted intrepidly
The jungle of America—
Assaulted the jungle with song:
Hewing to the right,
Hewing to the left,
With song;
Flinging yourself barebreasted to the future.
You are the great white song-road through the jungle of America.

Under the feet of the poets of America
Forever you lie,
Watching them branch off
To the northward or the south,
Watching them gathering songs
From the flat lands and the high lands,
From the sleepy towns and from the roaring cities;
Hearing them echo the call
Of come-and-come-and-come,
Hearing them echo the call
Of hail-and-farewell.
Under the feet of the poets of America
Forever you lie,
Starter of motion!

You are the road, Walt Whitman.
The road ever runs,
The road ever rests,
The road carries all from the past on to the future.
The road is a server of all.

You are the road,
Walt Whitman!
You are the highway of the poets of America.