Now if a thousand perfect men were to
   appear it would not amaze me,
 Now if a thousand beautiful forms of
   women appear'd it would not astonish
   me.

Now I see the secret of the making of the
   best persons,
 It is to grow in the open air and to eat and
   sleep with the earth.

Here a great personal deed has room,
 (Such a deed seizes upon the hearts of the
   whole race of men,
 Its effusion of strength and will overwhelms
   law and mocks all authority and all 
   argument against it.)

Here is the test of wisdom,
 Wisdom is not finally tested in schools,
 Wisdom cannot be pass'd from one having
   it to another not having it,
 Wisdom is of the soul, is not susceptible of
   proof, is its own proof,
 Applies to all stages and objects and 
   qualities and is content, 
 Is the certainty of the reality and
   immortality of things, and the excellence 
   of things;
 Something there is in the float of the sight
   of things that provokes it out of the soul.

Now I re-examine philosophies and 
   religions,
 They may prove well in lecture-rooms, yet
   not prove at all under the spacious clouds
   and along the landscape and flowing
   currents.

Here is realization,
 Here is a man tallied -- he realizes here what 
   he has in him,
 The past, the future, majesty, love -- if they
   are vacant of you, you are vacant of them.

Only the kernel of every object nourishes;
 Where is he who tears off the husks for you
   and me?
 Where is he that undoes stratagems and
   envelopes for you and me?

Here is adhesiveness, it is not previously
   fashion'd, it is apropos;
 Do you know what it is as you pass to be
   loved by strangers?
 Do you know the talk of those turning eye-
   balls?