On, on the Same, Ye Jocund Twain! by Walt Whitman

On, on the same, ye jocund twain! My life and recitative, containing birth, youth, mid-age years, Fitful as motley-tongues of flame, inseparably twined and merged in one⁠—combining all, My single soul⁠—aims, confirmations, failures, joys⁠—Nor single soul alone, I chant my nation’s crucial stage, (America’s, haply humanity’s)⁠—the trial great, the victory great, A strange éclaircissement of all the masses past, the eastern world, the ancient, medieval, Here, here from wanderings, strayings, lessons, wars, defeats⁠—here at the west a voice triumphant⁠—justifying all, A gladsome pealing cry⁠—a song for once of utmost pride and satisfaction; I chant from it the common bulk, the general average horde, (the best no sooner than the worst)⁠—And now I chant old age, (My verses, written first for forenoon life, and for the summer’s, autumn’s spread, I pass to snow-white hairs the same, and give to pulses winter-cool’d the same;) As here in careless trill, I and my recitatives, with faith and love, Wafting to other work, to unknown songs, conditions, On, on, ye jocund twain! continue on the same!