Omne admirari

(...)
The rich coverlid of the grass—animals and birds—the private untrimm’d bank—the primitive apples—the pebble-stones,     
Beautiful dripping fragments—the negligent list of one after another, as I happen to call them to me, or think of them,     
The real poems, (what we call poems being merely pictures,)     
The poems of the privacy of the night, and of men like me,     
This poem, drooping shy and unseen, that I always carry, and that all men carry.
(…)
Walt Whitman