I remember hiking mountains in the Northwest and chanting Whitman poems aloud by the side of some lake, the surrounding cedars and firs and mountainside like a great natural amphitheater--the lake, seen from above, seemingly a wide eye open to the universe. And Walt Whitman and I its voice. Or rather, giving voice to all its voluptuous citizenry. This essay speaks to one of the converted.
Even though, years later, when I visited Whitman's home on a trip through Camden, I got a parking ticket.
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