Leaves of Grass. Walt Whitman

is the meal pleasantly set . . . . this is the meat and drink for natural hunger,

       It is for the wicked just the same as the righteous . . . . I make appointments with all,

       I will not have a single person slighted or left away,

       The keptwoman and sponger and thief are hereby invited . . . . the heavy-lipped slave is invited . . . . the venerealee is invited,

       There shall be no difference between them and the rest.

      This is the press of a bashful hand . . . . this is the float and odor of hair,

       This is the touch of my lips to yours . . . . this is the murmur of yearning,

       This is the far-off depth and height reflecting my own face,

       This is the thoughtful merge of myself and the outlet again.

      Do you guess I have some intricate purpose?

       Well I have . . . . for the April rain has, and the mica on the side of a rock has.

      Do you take it I would astonish?

       Does the daylight astonish? or the early redstart twittering through the woods?

       Do I astonish more than they?

      This hour I tell things in confidence,

       I might not tell everybody but I will tell you.

      Who goes there! hankering, gross, mystical, nude?

       How is it I extract strength from the beef I eat?

      What is a man anyhow? What am I? and what are you?

       All I mark as my own you shall offset it with your own,

       Else it were time lost listening to me.

      I do not snivel that snivel the world over,

       That months are vacuums and the ground but wallow and filth,

       That life is a suck and a sell, and nothing remains at the end but threadbare crape and tears.

      Whimpering and truckling fold with powders for invalids . . . . conformity goes to the fourth-removed,

       I cock my hat as I please indoors or out.

      Shall I pray? Shall I venerate and be ceremonious?

      I have pried through the strata and analyzed to a hair,

       And counselled with doctors and calculated close and found no sweeter fat than sticks to my own bones.

      In all people I see myself, none more and not one a barleycorn less,

       And the good or bad I say of myself I say of them.

      And I know I am solid and sound,

       To me the converging objects of the universe perpetually flow,

      All are written to me, and I must get what the writing means.

      And I know I am deathless,

       I know this orbit of mine cannot be swept by a carpenter’s compass,

       I know I shall not pass like a child’s carlacue cut with a burnt stick at night.

      I know I am august,

       I do not trouble my spirit to vindicate itself or be understood,

       I see that the elementary laws never apologize,

       I reckon I behave no prouder than the level I plant my house by after all.

      I exist as I am, that is enough,

       If no other in the world be aware I sit content,

       And if each and all be aware I sit content.

      One world is aware, and by far the largest to me, and that is myself,

       And whether I come to my own today or in ten thousand or ten million years,

       I can cheerfully take it now, or with equal cheerfulness I can wait.

      My foothold is tenoned and mortised in granite,

       I laugh at what you call dissolution,

       And I know the amplitude of time.

      I am the poet of the body,

       And I am the poet of the soul.

      The pleasures of heaven are with me, and the pains of hell are with me,

       The first I graft and increase upon myself . . . . the latter I translate into a new tongue.

      I am the poet of the woman the same as the man,

       And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man,

       And I say there is nothing greater than the mother of men.

      I chant a new chant of dilation or pride,

       We have had ducking and deprecating about enough,

       I show that size is only developement.

      Have you outstript the rest? Are you the President?

       It is a trifle . . . . they will more than arrive there every one, and still pass on.

      I am he that walks with the tender and growing night;

       I call to the earth and sea half-held by the night.

      Press close barebosomed night! Press close magnetic nourishing night!

       Night of south winds! Night of the large few stars!

       Still nodding night! Mad naked summer night!

      Smile O voluptuous coolbreathed earth!

       Earth of the slumbering and liquid trees!

       Earth of departed sunset! Earth of the mountains misty-topt!

       Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon just tinged with blue!

       Earth of shine and dark mottling the tide of the river!

       Earth of the limpid gray of clouds brighter and clearer for my sake!

       Far-swooping elbowed earth! Rich apple-blossomed earth!

       Smile, for your lover comes!

      Prodigal! you have given me love! . . . . therefore I to you give love!

       O unspeakable passionate love!

      Thruster holding me tight and that I hold tight!

       We hurt each other as the bridegroom and the bride hurt each other.

      You sea! I resign myself to you also . . . . I guess what you mean,

       I behold from the beach your crooked inviting fingers,

       I believe you refuse to go back without feeling of me;

      We must have a turn together . . . . I undress . . . . hurry me out of sight of the land,

       Cushion me soft . . . . rock me in billowy drowse,

       Dash me with amorous wet . . . . I can repay you.

      Sea of stretched ground-swells!

       Sea breathing broad and convulsive breaths!

       Sea of the brine of life! Sea of unshovelled and always-ready graves!

       Howler and scooper of storms! Capricious and dainty sea!

       I am integral with you . . . . I too am of one phase and of all phases.

      Partaker of influx and efflux . . . . extoler of hate and conciliation,

       Extoler of amies and those that sleep in each others’ arms.

      I am he attesting sympathy;

       Shall I make my list of things in the house and skip the house that supports them?

      I am the poet of commonsense and of the demonstrable and of immortality;

       And am not the poet of goodness only . . . . I do not decline to be the poet of wickedness also.

      Washes and razors for foofoos . . . . for me freckles and a bristling beard.