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.
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TRC features media analysis, social critiques and spiritual refreshments focused on the socio/cultural impacts of a post-9/11, post-carbon, ponzi scheme world teetering on the edge of mass awakening or mutually assured destruction.
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