I saw in Louisiana a live oak growing by Walt Whitman, the original manuscript and the 1860 edition. I saw in Louisiana a live oak growing, all alone stood it and the moss hung down from the branches. Without any companion it grew there, glistening out with joyous leaves of dark green. And its look, rude, unbending, lusty, made me think of myself. But I wondered how it could utter joyous leaves standing alone there without its friend, its lover. For I knew I could not. And I plucked a twig with a certain number of leaves upon it and climbed around it a little moss and brought it away and I have placed it in sight in my room. It is not needed to remind me as of my friends. For I believe lately I think of little else than of them. Yet it remains to me a curious token. I write these pieces and name them after it. For all that and though the tree glistens there in Louisiana solitary in a wide flat space, uttering joyous leaves all its life without a friend, a lover near, I know very well I could not. I saw in Louisiana a live oak growing, all alone stood it and the moss hung down from the branches. Without any companion it grew there, uttering joyous leaves of dark green. And its look, rude, unbending, lusty, made me think of myself. But I wondered how it could utter joyous leaves standing alone there without its friend, its lover near. For I knew I could not. And I broke off a twig with a certain number of leaves upon it and twined around it a little moss and brought it away and I have placed it in sight in my room. It is not needed to remind me as of my own dear friends. Or I believe lately I think of little else than of them. Yet it remains to me a curious token. It makes me think of manly love. For all that and though the live oak glistens there in Louisiana solitary in a wide flat space, uttering joyous leaves all its life without a friend, a lover near. I know very well I could not.