Leaves of Grass. Walt Whitman

Lighting on every moment of my life,

       Bussing my body with soft and balsamic busses,

       Noiselessly passing handfuls out of their hearts and giving them to be mine.

      Old age superbly rising! Ineffable grace of dying days!

      Every condition promulges not only itself . . . . it promulges what grows after and out of itself,

       And the dark hush promulges as much as any.

      I open my scuttle at night and see the far-sprinkled systems,

       And all I see, multiplied as high as I can cipher, edge but the rim of the farther systems.

       Wider and wider they spread, expanding and always expanding,

       Outward and outward and forever outward.

      My sun has his sun, and round him obediently wheels,

       He joins with his partners a group of superior circuit,

       And greater sets follow, making specks of the greatest inside them.

      There is no stoppage, and never can be stoppage;

       If I and you and the worlds and all beneath or upon their surfaces, and all the palpable life, were this moment reduced back to a pallid float, it would not avail in the long run,

       We should surely bring up again where we now stand,

       And as surely go as much farther, and then farther and farther.

      A few quadrillions of eras, a few octillions of cubic leagues, do not hazard the span, or make it impatient,

       They are but parts . . . . any thing is but a part.

      See ever so far . . . . there is limitless space outside of that,

       Count ever so much . . . . there is limitless time around that.

      Our rendezvous is fitly appointed . . . . God will be there and wait till we come.

      I know I have the best of time and space -- and that I was never measured, and never will be measured.

      I tramp a perpetual journey,

       My signs are a rain-proof coat and good shoes and a staff cut from the woods;

       No friend of mine takes his ease in my chair,

       I have no chair, nor church nor philosophy;

       I lead no man to a dinner-table or library or exchange,

       But each man and each woman of you I lead upon a knoll,

       My left hand hooks you round the waist,

       My right hand points to landscapes of continents, and a plain public road.

      Not I, not any one else can travel that road for you,

       You must travel it for yourself.

      It is not far . . . . it is within reach,

       Perhaps you have been on it since you were born, and did not know,

       Perhaps it is every where on water and on land.

      Shoulder your duds, and I will mine, and let us hasten forth;

       Wonderful cities and free nations we shall fetch as we go.

      If you tire, give me both burdens, and rest the chuff of your hand on my hip,

       And in due time you shall repay the same service to me;

       For after we start we never lie by again.

      This day before dawn I ascended a hill and looked at the crowded heaven,

       And I said to my spirit, When we become the enfolders of those orbs and the pleasure and knowledge of every thing in them, shall we be filled and satisfied then?

       And my spirit said No, we level that lift to pass and continue beyond.

      You are also asking me questions, and I hear you;

       I answer that I cannot answer . . . . you must find out for yourself.

      Sit awhile wayfarer,

       Here are biscuits to eat and here is milk to drink,

       But as soon as you sleep and renew yourself in sweet clothes I will certainly kiss you with my goodbye kiss and open the gate for your egress hence.

      Long enough have you dreamed contemptible dreams,

       Now I wash the gum from your eyes,

       You must habit yourself to the dazzle of the light and of every moment of your life

      Long have you timidly waded, holding a plank by the shore,

       Now I will you to be a bold swimmer,

       To jump off in the midst of the sea, and rise again and nod to me and shout, and laughingly dash with your hair.

      I am the teacher of athletes,

       He that by me spreads a wider breast than my own proves the width of my own,

       He most honors my style who learns under it to destroy the teacher.

      The boy I love, the same becomes a man not through derived power but in his own right,

       Wicked, rather than virtuous out of conformity or fear,

       Fond of his sweetheart, relishing well his steak,

       Unrequited love or a slight cutting him worse than a wound cuts,

       First rate to ride, to fight, to hit the bull’s eye, to sail a skiff, to sing a song or play on the banjo,

       Preferring scars and faces pitted with smallpox over all latherers and those that keep out of the sun.

      I teach straying from me, yet who can stray from me?

       I follow you whoever you are from the present hour;

       My words itch at your ears till you understand them.

      I do not say these things for a dollar, or to fill up the time while I wait for a boat;

       It is you talking just as much as myself . . . . I act as the tongue of you,

       It was tied in your mouth . . . . in mine it begins to be loosened.

      I swear I will never mention love or death inside a house,

       And I swear I never will translate myself at all, only to him or her who privately stays with me in the open air.

      If you would understand me go to the heights or water-shore,

       The nearest gnat is an explanation and a drop or the motion of waves a key,

       The maul the oar and the handsaw second my words.

      No shuttered room or school can commune with me,

       But roughs and little children better than they.

      The young mechanic is closest to me . . . . he knows me pretty well,

       The woodman that takes his axe and jug with him shall take me with him all day,

       The farmboy ploughing in the field feels good at the sound of my voice,

       In vessels that sail my words must sail . . . . I go with fishermen and seamen, and love them,

       My face rubs to the hunter’s face when he lies down alone in his blanket,

       The driver thinking of me does not mind the jolt of his wagon,

       The young mother and old mother shall comprehend me,

       The girl and the wife rest the needle a moment and forget where they are,

       They and all would resume what I have told them.

      I have said that the soul is not more than the body,

       And I have said that the body is not more than the soul,

       And nothing, not God, is greater to one than one’s-self is,

      And whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his own funeral, dressed in his shroud,