As I think tonight about tomorrow’s election (and I’m thinking of little else), I have few words. I have finally, during the past couple of weeks, begun to feel hopeful about this election.
Tomorrow morning, I’ll walk the five blocks to our neighborhood middle school to cast my vote for the candidates of my choice. As I walk to the polls, and stand in a line that I hope will not be too long, I’ll think of all the other people — family, friends and strangers — standing in other lines outside libraries, churches and schools across this country, waiting for their chance to make their voices heard.
I hope you’ll be one of them.
I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear;
Those of mechanics–each one singing his, as it should be, blithe and strong;
The carpenter singing his, as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his, as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work;
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat–the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck;
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench–the hatter singing as he stands;
The wood-cutter’s song–the ploughboy’s, on his way in the morning, or at the noon intermission, or at sundown;
The delicious singing of the mother–or of the young wife at work–or of the girl sewing or washing–Each singing what belongs to her, and to none else;
The day what belongs to the day–At night, the party of young fellows, robust, friendly,
Singing, with open mouths, their strong melodious songs.
– Walt Whitman
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