the drift of it every thing
Shut not your doors to me proud libraries,
For that which was lacking on all your well-fill’d shelves, yet needed most, I bring,
Forth from the war emerging, a book I have made,
The words of my book nothing, the drift of it every thing,
A book separate, not link’d with the rest nor felt by the intellect,
But you ye untold latencies will thrill to every page.
Walt Whitman, “Shut not Your Doors,” Leaves of Grass: A Textual Variorum of the Printed Poems, vol. 2: Poems, 1860–67, ed. Sculley Bradley, Harold W. Blodgett, Arthur Golden and William White, Collected Writings of Walt Whitman (New York, NY: NYUP, 1980) link.