To young men my problems offering—no dallier I—I the muscle of
their brains trying,
So I pass, a little time vocal, visible, contrary,
Afterward a melodious echo, passionately bent for, (death making
 me really undying,)
The best of me then when no longer visible, for toward that I have
 been incessantly preparing.
What is there more, that I lag and pause and crouch extended with
  unshut mouth?
Is there a single final farewell?
My songs cease, I abandon them,
From behind the screen where I hid I advance personally solely to you.
Camerado, this is no book,
Who touches this touches a man,
(Is it night? are we here together alone?)
It is I you hold and who holds you,
I spring from the pages into your arms—decease calls me forth.
O how your fingers drowse me,
Your breath falls around me like dew, your pulse lulls the tympans
 of my ears,
Leaves of Grass  transcends space and time! Walt Whitman’s words are immortal. His voice still resonates today. His songs still ring true. 
 
 Whitman poured himself into his poetry – in every page, it’s hard to miss his expanding ego, his physicality, his passions and musings. Is it a little creepy? Absolutely. But it’s also powerful and beautiful. 

Leaves of Grass So Long 