Weave in, weave in, my hardy life,
Weave yet a soldier strong
and full for great campaigns
to come, Weave in red blood, weave
sinews in like ropes, the senses,
sight weave in, Weave lasting sure,
weave day and night the weft,
the warp, incessant weave,
tire not, (We know not what the use O life,
nor know the aim, the end, nor really aught
we know, But know the work, the need
goes on and shall go on, the death-envelop’d
march of peace as well as war goes on,)
For great campaigns of peace
the same the wiry threads to weave,
We know not why or what, yet weave,
forever weave.

Walt Whitman, 1819 – 1892.

Photograph of anti-Trump sit in, Mission District, San Francisco, by Pax Ahimsa Gethen.

Facing west, from California’s shores,
Inquiring, tireless, seeking what is yet unfound,
I, a child, very old, over waves, towards the house of maternity, the land of migrations, look afar,
Look off the shores of my Western Sea–the circle almost circled;
For, starting westward from Hindustan, from the vales of Kashmere,
From Asia–from the north–from the God, the sage, and the hero,
From the south–from the flowery peninsulas, and the spice islands;
Long having wander’d since–round the earth having wander’d,
Now I face home again–very pleas’d and joyous;
(But where is what I started for, so long ago?
And why is it yet unfound?)

A promise to California,
Also to the great Pastoral Plains, and for Oregon:
Sojourning east a while longer, soon I travel toward you, to remain,
to teach robust American love;
For I know very well that I and robust love belong among you, inland,
and along the Western Sea;
For These States tend inland, and toward the Western Sea–and I will
also.

(Walt Whitman, 1819-1892)