Leaves of Grass. Walt Whitman

of the line and all the modern improvements . . . . but the craft and pluck of the admiral?

      The dishes and fare and furniture . . . . but the host and hostess, and the look out of their eyes?

       The sky up there . . . . yet here or next door or across the way?

       The saints and sages in history . . . . but you yourself?

       Sermons and creeds and theology . . . . but the human brain, and what is called reason, and what is called love, and what is called life?

      I do not despise you priests;

       My faith is the greatest of faiths and the least of faiths,

       Enclosing all worship ancient and modern, and all between ancient and modern,

       Believing I shall come again upon the earth after five thousand years,

       Waiting responses from oracles . . . . honoring the gods . . . . saluting the sun,

       Making a fetish of the first rock or stump . . . . powowing with sticks in the circle of obis,

       Helping the lama or brahmin as he trims the lamps of the idols,

       Dancing yet through the streets in a phallic procession . . . . rapt and austere in the woods, a gymnosophist,

       Drinking mead from the skull-cup . . . . to shasta and vedas admirant . . . . minding the koran,

       Walking the teokallis, spotted with gore from the stone and knife -- beating the serpent-skin drum;

       Accepting the gospels, accepting him that was crucified, knowing assuredly that he is divine,

       To the mass kneeling -- to the puritan’s prayer rising -- sitting patiently in a pew,

       Ranting and frothing in my insane crisis -- waiting dead-like till my spirit arouses me;

       Looking forth on pavement and land, and outside of pavement and land,

       Belonging to the winders of the circuit of circuits.

      One of that centripetal and centrifugal gang,

       I turn and talk like a man leaving charges before a journey.

      Down-hearted doubters, dull and excluded,

       Frivolous sullen moping angry affected disheartened atheistical,

       I know every one of you, and know the unspoken interrogatories,

       By experience I know them.

      How the flukes splash!

       How they contort rapid as lightning, with spasms and spouts of blood!

      Be at peace bloody flukes of doubters and sullen mopers,

       I take my place among you as much as among any;

       The past is the push of you and me and all precisely the same,

       And the night is for you and me and all,

       And what is yet untried and afterward is for you and me and all.

      I do not know what is untried and afterward,

       But I know it is sure and alive, and sufficient.

      Each who passes is considered, and each who stops is considered, and not a single one can it fail.

      It cannot fail the young man who died and was buried,

       Nor the young woman who died and was put by his side,

       Nor the little child that peeped in at the door and then drew back and was never seen again,

       Nor the old man who has lived without purpose, and feels it with bitterness worse than gall,

       Nor him in the poorhouse tubercled by rum and the bad disorder,

       Nor the numberless slaughtered and wrecked . . . . nor the brutish koboo, called the ordure of humanity,

       Nor the sacs merely floating with open mouths for food to slip in,

       Nor any thing in the earth, or down in the oldest graves of the earth,

       Nor any thing in the myriads of spheres, nor one of the myriads of myriads that inhabit them,

       Nor the present, nor the least wisp that is known.

      It is time to explain myself . . . . let us stand up.

      What is known I strip away . . . . I launch all men and women forward with me into the unknown.

      The clock indicates the moment . . . . but what does eternity indicate?

      Eternity lies in bottomless reservoirs . . . . its buckets are rising forever and ever,

       They pour and they pour and they exhale away.

      We have thus far exhausted trillions of winters and summers;

       There are trillions ahead, and trillions ahead of them.

      Births have brought us richness and variety,

       And other births will bring us richness and variety.

      I do not call one greater and one smaller,

       That which fills its period and place is equal to any.

      Were mankind murderous or jealous upon you my brother or my sister?

       I am sorry for you . . . . they are not murderous or jealous upon me;

       All has been gentle with me . . . . . . I keep no account with lamentation;

       What have I to do with lamentation?

      I am an acme of things accomplished, and I an encloser of things to be.

      My feet strike an apex of the apices of the stairs,

       On every step bunches of ages, and larger bunches between the steps,

       All below duly traveled -- and still I mount and mount.

      Rise after rise bow the phantoms behind me,

       Afar down I see the huge first Nothing, the vapor from the nostrils of death,

      I know I was even there . . . . I waited unseen and always,

       And slept while God carried me through the lethargic mist,

       And took my time . . . . and took no hurt from the foetid carbon.

      Long I was hugged close . . . . long and long.

      Immense have been the preparations for me,

       Faithful and friendly the arms that have helped me.

      Cycles ferried my cradle, rowing and rowing like cheerful boatmen;

       For room to me stars kept aside in their own rings,

       They sent influences to look after what was to hold me.

      Before I was born out of my mother generations guided me,

       My embryo has never been torpid . . . . nothing could overlay it;

       For it the nebula cohered to an orb . . . . the long slow strata piled to rest it on . . . . vast vegetables gave it sustenance,

       Monstrous sauroids transported it in their mouths and deposited it with care.

      All forces have been steadily employed to complete and delight me,

       Now I stand on this spot with my soul.

      Span of youth! Ever-pushed elasticity! Manhood balanced and florid and full!

      My lovers suffocate me!

       Crowding my lips, and thick in the pores of my skin,

       Jostling me through streets and public halls . . . . coming naked to me at night,

       Crying by day Ahoy from the rocks of the river . . . . swinging and chirping over my head,

       Calling my name from flowerbeds or vines or tangled underbrush,

       Or while I swim in the bath . . . . or drink from the pump

      at the corner . . . . or the curtain is down at the opera . . . . or I glimpse at a woman’s face in the railroad car;