The wild gander leads his flock through the cool night; Ya-honk! he says, and sounds it down to me like an invitation; (The pert may suppose it meaningless, but I listen close; I find its purpose and place up there toward the wintry sky.)
The sharp-hoof?d moose of the north, the cat on the house-sill, the chickadee, the prairie-dog, 240 The litter of the grunting sow as they tug at her teats, The brood of the turkey-hen, and she with her half-spread wings; I see in them and myself the same old law.
The press of my foot to the earth springs a hundred affections; They scorn the best I can do to relate them. 245
I am enamour?d of growing out-doors, Of men that live among cattle, or taste of the ocean or woods, Of the builders and steerers of ships, and the wielders of axes and mauls, and the drivers of horses; I can eat and sleep with them week in and week out -Walt Whitman, Song of Myself
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