What is the grass?: Response to Arthur Haswell’s Pan-Pathism

When I turn away from world-weariness, the child in me finds room to wonder, What is the grass? Is it the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven? Is it a scented gift designedly dropped by God? Or, is it the beautiful uncut hair of graves? Walt Whitman was a cosmic optimist, but he was not [ ]