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 man wished to call his poems Leaves of Grass; the name suggests that which in Nature is most “natural” of all—most widespread and common, at the same time most divinely healthy, friendly, and fresh. Hid as yet within the sheath are those sturdy heads of cocks-foot grass which, later in the summer, will bring into the silence of the hills gangs of grass-seeders, broad-hatted, bent of back, sickle in hand—owing to the slope and surface, machinery is worthless here—to gather in its harvest. But here are silvery “goose-grass,” soft “fog,” all lovely dove-colour and purple, so baneful to the purse, so profitable to the eye; bronzing rye, fescue, and others whose names I do not know, already nodding in the brisk air their delicate heads, and, by means of their companies of straight-standing stalks, sending waves of glowing greenness through the light. And oh, smell! smell in, to some deep and vital part of you, the sweet scent of this white clover, blooming at their roots! How honeyed it is, yet, at the same time, how uncloying! All the freshness of the fields is in it, and it dwells in what delicious recesses! Stoop a moment, and look into, look through, this low, cool palace of green—vault beyond vault of green walls, green roof, equable green air—that the grasses build every summer for the clover and sorrel, the ants and spiders—yes, and for more than these! Look! where yonder out of its deeps, up, up into “the deep blue bell of day,” a lark springs, warbling. Does not some of oneself spring with him?