When I look at your heavens, the work of your fingers,
the moon and the stars that you have established;

what are human beings that you are mindful of them,
mortals that you care for them? 

                                      Psalm 8.3,4 

What am I, After All? 

WHAT am I, after all, but a child, pleas’d with the sound of my own name? repeating it over and over;     

I stand apart to hear—it never tires me.     
To you, your name also;     
Did you think there was nothing but two or three pronunciations in the sound of your name?

                                                                                            Walt Whitman