Daily Whitman


Song of Myself

  I do not despise you priests, all time, the world over,
  My faith is the greatest of faiths and the least of faiths,
  Enclosing 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 fetich of the first rock or stump, powowing with sticks in
      the circle of obis,
  Helping the llama 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-cap, to Shastas 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 or the puritan's prayer rising, or sitting
      patiently in a pew,
  Ranting and frothing in my insane crisis, or waiting dead-like till
      my spirit arouses me,
  Looking forth on pavement and land, or 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
      man leaving charges before a journey.

  Down-hearted doubters dull and excluded,
  Frivolous, sullen, moping, angry, affected, dishearten'd, atheistical,
  I know every one of you, I know the sea of torment, doubt, despair
      and unbelief.

  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, me, all, precisely the same,
  And what is yet untried and afterward is for you, me, all, precisely
      the same.

  I do not know what is untried and afterward,
  But I know it will in its turn prove sufficient, and cannot fail.

  Each who passes is consider'd, each who stops is consider'd, not
      single one can it fall.

  It cannot fall 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 peep'd 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 poor house tubercled by rum and the bad disorder,
  Nor the numberless slaughter'd and wreck'd, nor the brutish koboo
      call'd 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 the myriads of myriads
      that inhabit them,
  Nor the present, nor the least wisp that is known.


Posted on 04/06/2014, in literature, poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 1 Comment.

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