A child said, *What is the grass?* fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is, any more than he.
I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff
woven.
Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer, designedly dropt,
Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see and
remark, and say, *Whose?*
Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the
vegetation.
Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic;
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,
Growing among black folks as among white;
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I receive them
the same.
Walt Whitman: Leaves of Grass
Creo que una hoja de hierba, no es menos
que el día de trabajo de las estrellas,
y que una hormiga es perfecta,
y un grano de arena,
y el huevo del régulo,
son igualmente perfectos,
y que la rana es una obra maestra,
digna de los señalados,
y que la zarzamora podría adornar,
los salones del paraíso,
y que la articulación más pequeña de mi mano,
avergüenza a las máquinas,
y que la vaca que pasta, con su cabeza gacha,
supera todas las estatuas,
y que un ratón es milagro suficiente,
como para hacer dudar,
a seis trillones de infieles.
Versión de León Felipe
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Clarence the Cross-eyed Lionpro says:
*Ingo*pro says:
Blendo says:
or maybe he was!