When the full-grown poet came
out spake pleas’d Nature(the round impassive Globe
with all its shows of day and night), saying, He is
mine;

But out spake too the Soul of Man, proud, jealous and un-
reconciled, nay, he is mine alone;
–Then the full-grown Poet stood between the two, and
took each by the hand;

And to-day and ever so stands, as blender, uniter, tightly
holding hands

Which he will never release until he reconciles the two

And wholly and joyously blends them.

w. whitman