Whitman (May 31, 1819 – March 26, 1892)

Whitman would tug manfully
at a favorite hat
upon his head or
without it on the ground.
He wrote promiscuous poetry
under an eternally erect sun;
in the darkness his night stars
like little captions of literary light
showed him what he expected,
not what others doubted.
In Song of Myself, he was
both the in and the out,
extravagantly
making a tune of considerable importance
for himself.
And sing he did, even boasting of
standing amused when he wasn't being very funny.
But he learned to carve a path to values
which he shared in his work.
And while he waits, with no misery on his beard
his eyes still burn.