by Walt Whitman (from Leaves of Grass)

I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,

Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be

blithe and strong,

The carpenter singing as he measures his plank and beam,

The mason singing his as he makes ready for work,

or leaves off for work,

The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the

deck-hand singing on the steamboat deck,

The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter

singing as he stands,

The wood-cutter’s song, the ploughboy’s on his way in the

morning, or at noon intermission or at

sundown,

The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at

work, or of the girl sewing or washing,

Each singing what belongs to him or her and to no one else,

The day what belongs to the day – at night the party of

young fellows, robust, friendly,

Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.