What Walt Whitman Might Have Had to Say on the Subject

I feel that the Spring has at last come.
I, Walt Whitman, feel this:
For I can hear the chirp of the robin, — the male robin, the female robin, the robin flying to the nest with a bit of string in his bill, the baby robins, their mouths distended eager for the worm;
The cat-bird, the bobolink, the whip-poor-will, the red-winged black-bird, the oriole, the vireo, the junco, the scarlet tanager, the cuckoo, the pewee, the finch, the lark, the ibis, and the nightingale.
I can hear them all.
Did you ever try to hear a robin sing?
I can also hear the factory whistle, the boom of the surf, the vibrant thrill of a trolley-car rounding its curve, the plash of a river among its reeds, the oath of a gin-soaked stevedore, the cry of a baby pricked by a safety-pin.
Did you ever try to beat an egg with a crocus stalk ?
Try it!
You may enjoy it.
Then again you may not.
I feel the April mud on my ankles.
I do not feel it alone.
Others feel it.
The little boy feels it as he hurries to the kindergarten; the typewriter girl feels it squunch round her new Oxford ties; the greasy immigrant feels it as he slouches with his dinner-pail toward the quarry; the broker — his lips still warm with the good-by kiss of his wife — feels it.
I feel the Spring in every atom of my terrestrial being:
I feel it in my eyelashes; in my finger-nails;
In my left elbow; in a wen on the right-hand side of my nose, I feel it;
In my ten toes; in my nine fingers, —for one finger I lost on a buzz-saw when a boy.
In every particular and separate scintilla of me, myself, I feel the Spring.
Do you also feel it ?
I hope so!