Poem to Walt Whitman

You too found Him all attractive, And your thoughts of Him you called Leaves of Grass For His green handiwork bends beneath His Feet, And you knew well those leaves of life Transpire from the breasts of the dead.

Those leaves of grass for you Were tokens designedly dropped by the Lord, His handkerchief, "Bearing the owner's Name somewhere in the corner, That we may stop and look and say Whose?" And those Leaves of yours, dead Greybeard, Were leaves you dropped so graciously for me.

I first found them ten years ago When at sixteen, on the Atlantic beach, the Florida sands, Beneath the baking sun I read Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking And marveled at it all.

And today, in Golden Gate Park, The Great Camerado spread a carpet Of young April grass, And we sat upon the delicate leaves To sing to Bhagavan, His Song of Myself.

And looking at the grass, Shining radiant, green in the sun, I thought Of Time and Life and Death, All the living and all the dead, And chanted Hare Krishna Just to feel the cosmos vibrate, And feeling a sudden terror When it did.

Just when I feared everything would pop, I thought of you, Who "smilest content at death," And chanted much louder To see His light and leaves of grass Play before me, an endless carillon, endless miracle. Then I felt giddy with joy.

How lucky I am, camerado, To have such a great friend like you Reach across the century Just to comfort me.

—Hayagriva Das Brahmacary (Howard Wheeler)