Walt Whitman - A child said, What is the gra**? lyrics

A child said, What is the gra**? 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 dropped Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we May see and remark, and say Whose? Or I guess the gra** 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 gra** 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 and from women, and From offspring taken soon out of their mother's laps And here you are the mother's laps This gra** 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? What do you think has become of the women and Children? They are alive and well somewhere; The smallest sprouts show there is really no d**h And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait At the end to arrest it And ceased the moment life appeared All goes onward and outward. . . .and nothing collapses And to die is different from what any one supposed, and Luckier