Inscription

 SMALL is the theme of the following Chant, yet the greatest—namely,
 One’s-Self—that wondrous thing a simple, separate person.
 That, for the use of
 the
 New World, I sing.
 
Man’s physiology complete, from top to toe, I sing.
 Not physiognomy alone, nor brain
 alone, is worthy for the muse;—I say the Form complete is worthier far.
 The female
 equal
 with the male, I sing, 
Nor cease at the theme of One’s-Self.
 I speak the word of the modern, the word
 En-Masse: 
My Days I sing, and the Lands—with interstice I knew of hapless War.
 

O friend whoe’er you are, at last arriving hither to commence, I feel through every
 leaf
 the pressure of your hand, which I return.
 And thus upon our journey link’d together
 let
 us go.

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