Verse > Walt Whitman > Leaves of Grass
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Walt Whitman (1819–1892).  Leaves of Grass.  1900.

207. Here, Sailor


WHAT ship, puzzled at sea, cons for the true reckoning? 
Or, coming in, to avoid the bars, and follow the channel, a perfect pilot needs? 
Here, sailor! Here, ship! take aboard the most perfect pilot, 
Whom, in a little boat, putting off, and rowing, I, hailing you, offer. 


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