In Leaves of Grass
Whitman might tell you that a spreading beech is
mightier than a cathedral, and puts
the Sistine Chapel to shame;
he might tell you that the greatness
of a beech makes his own poems as nothing,
and that these vast trees dwarf all human endeavor;
he might tell you that a beech is
like America itself, sprawling, huge, with
the heavily-muscled arms of its pioneer stock,
hammering, digging, building their way
toward a dream, democratic.
In Leaves of Grass, Whitman might tell you
all of these things, but he will not
tell you that, when under a beech, you must
use a flash.