in 1855, after reading "Leaves Of Grass", Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote to Walt Whitman,"I am not blind to the worth of the wonderful gift that of Leaves Of Grass, I find it the most extraordinary piece of wit and wisdom that America has yet contributed..."

..of course..i can always play with historical figures, make them make any statement I want, but in this case, i think that Emerson was not absolutely correct...i differ wid him..Leaves of Grass Is the MOST extraordinary literature (not just poem) that has EVER come out of America.
             
               Song Of Myself
   
   A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;
  How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more
     than he.

  I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green
     stuff woven.

  Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
  A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt,
  Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see
     and remark, and say Whose?

  Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the
     vegetation.

 
 Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
  And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,
  Growing among black folks as among white,
  Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I
     receive them the same.

 
 And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.

  
  Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
  It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,
  It may be if I had known them I would have loved them,
  It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken soon out
     of their mothers' laps,
  And here you are the mothers' laps.

 
  This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,
  Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
  Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.

 
  O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues,
  And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for
     nothing.

  
  I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and
     women,

 And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken
     soon out of their laps.

 
  What do you think has become of the young and old men?
  And what do you think has become of the women and children?

 
  They are alive and well somewhere,
  The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,
  And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the
     end to arrest it,
  And ceas'd the moment life appear'd.

 
  All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,
  And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.