A Pact I make a pact with you, Walt Whitman— I shall not copy you, Nor would I be copied. But I stand here as a visionary In the wilderness and with my heart I could pull a gun and learn to hunt, Be after the mind of that dead arm, That it is the Dead who teach us, Like the saplings that unfold in spring To know that I could live As one with sun and moon and earth. But Walt, you called out my name, I have mighty songs that turn; I alone can find your murmur. When the green grass rings out, You ride the white-capped waves of glory, And yours are the seas! Yours the wind over hills of ash. You may outlive me yet— But your leaf, Walt, Folding in my house, shall bring thee near!

—To sweep through the hourglass Is but to strike the valley’s stone.

• Ezra Pound