Walt Whitman - Leaves of Grass

148 Whatever goes to the tilth of me, it shall be you!
You my rich blood! Your milky stream, pale strippings of my life.

149 Breast that presses against other breasts, it shall be you!
My brain, it shall be your occult convolutions.

150 Root of washed sweet-flag! Timorous pond-snipe! Nest of guarded duplicate eggs! it shall be you!
Mixed tussled hay of head, beard, brawn, it shall be you!
Trickling sap of maple! Fibre of manly wheat! it shall be you!

151 Sun so generous, it shall be you!
Vapors lighting and shading my face, it shall be you!
You sweaty brooks and dews, it shall be you!
Winds whose soft-tickling genitals rub against me, it shall be you!
Broad, muscular fields! Branches of live oak! Loving lounger in my winding paths! it shall be you!
Hands I have taken—face I have kissed—mortal I have ever touched! it shall be you.

152 I dote on myself—there is that lot of me, and all so luscious,
Each moment, and whatever happens, thrills me with joy.

153 O I am so wonderful!
I cannot tell how my ankles bend, nor whence the cause of my faintest wish,
Nor the cause of the friendship I emit, nor the cause of the friendship I take again.

154 That I walk up my stoop, I pause to consider if it really be,
That I eat and drink is spectacle enough for the great authors and schools,
A morning-glory at my window satisfies me more than the metaphysics of books.

155 To behold the day-break!
The little light fades the immense and diaphanous shadows,
The air tastes good to my palate.

156 Hefts of the moving world, at innocent gambols, silently rising, freshly exuding,
Scooting obliquely high and low.

157 Something I cannot see puts upward libidinous prongs,
Seas of bright juice suffuse heaven.

158 The earth by the sky staid with—the daily close of their junction,
The heaved challenge from the east that moment over my head,
The mocking taunt, See then whether you shall be master!

159 Dazzling and tremendous, how quick the sun-rise would kill me,
If I could not now and always send sun-rise out of me.

160 We also ascend, dazzling and tremendous as the sun,
We found our own, O my Soul, in the calm and cool of the day-break.

161 My voice goes after what my eyes cannot reach,
With the twirl of my tongue I encompass worlds, and volumes of worlds.

162 Speech is the twin of my vision—it is unequal to measure itself;
It provokes me forever,
It says sarcastically, Walt, you understand enough — why don’t you let it out then?

163 Come now, I will not be tantalized—you conceive too much of articulation.

164 Do you not know how the buds beneath are folded?
Waiting in gloom, protected by frost,
The dirt receding before my prophetical screams,
I underlying causes, to balance them at last,
My knowledge my live parts—it keeping tally with the meaning of things,
Happiness—which, whoever hears me, let him or her set out in search of this day.

165 My final merit I refuse you—I refuse putting from me the best I am.

166 Encompass worlds, but never try to encompass me,
I crowd your sleekest talk by simply looking toward you.

167 Writing and talk do not prove me,
I carry the plenum of proof, and everything else, in my face,
With the hush of my lips I confound the topmost skeptic.

168 I think I will do nothing for a long time but listen,
To accrue what I hear into myself—to let sounds contribute toward me.

169 I hear bravuras of birds, bustle of growing wheat, gossip of flames, clack of sticks cooking my meals.

170 I hear the sound I love, the sound of the human voice,
I hear all sounds running together, combined, fused or following,
Sounds of the city and sounds out of the city—sounds of the day and night,
Talkative young ones to those that like them—the recitative of fish-pedlers and fruit-pedlers—the loud laugh of work-people at their meals,
The angry base of disjointed friendship—the faint tones of the sick,
The judge with hands tight to the desk, his shaky lips pronouncing a death-sentence,
The heave’e’yo of stevedores unlading ships by the wharves—the refrain of the anchor-lifters,
The ring of alarm-bells—the cry of fire—the whirr of swift-streaking engines and hose-carts, with premonitory tinkles, and colored lights,
The steam-whistle—the solid roll of the train of approaching cars,
The slow-march played at night at the head of the association, marching two and two,
(They go to guard some corpse—the flag-tops are draped with black muslin.)

171 I hear the violoncello, or man’s heart’s complaint;
I hear the keyed cornet—it glides quickly in through my ears,
It shakes mad-sweet pangs through my belly and breast.

172 I hear the chorus—it is a grand-opera,
Ah, this indeed is music! This suits me.

173 A tenor large and fresh as the creation fills me,
The orbic flex of his mouth is pouring and filling me full.

174 I hear the trained soprano—she convulses me like the climax of my love-grip,
The orchestra wrenches such ardors from me, I did not know I possessed them,
It throbs me to gulps of the farthest down horror,
It sails me—I dab with bare feet—they are licked by the indolent waves,
I am exposed, cut by bitter and poisoned hail,
Steeped amid honeyed morphine, my windpipe throttled in fakes of death,
At length let up again to feel the puzzle of puzzles,
And that we call Being .

175 To be in any form—what is that?
(Round and round we go, all of us, and ever come back thither,)
If nothing lay more developed, the quahaug in its callous shell were enough.

176 Mine is no callous shell,
I have instant conductors all over me, whether I pass or stop,
They seize every object, and lead it harmlessly through me.

177 I merely stir, press, feel with my fingers, and am happy,
To touch my person to some one else’s is about as much as I can stand.

178 Is this then a touch? quivering me to a new identity,
Flames and ether making a rush for my veins,
Treacherous tip of me reaching and crowding to help them,
My flesh and blood playing out lightning to strike what is hardly different from myself,
On all sides prurient provokers stiffening my limbs,
Straining the udder of my heart for its withheld drip,
Behaving licentious toward me, taking no denial,
Depriving me of my best, as for a purpose,
Unbuttoning my clothes, holding me by the bare waist,
Deluding my confusion with the calm of the sun-light and pasture-fields,
Immodestly sliding the fellow-senses away,
They bribed to swap off with touch, and go and graze at the edges of me,
No consideration, no regard for my draining strength or my anger,
Fetching the rest of the herd around to enjoy them a while,
Then all uniting to stand on a headland and worry me.

179 The sentries desert every other part of me,
They have left me helpless to a red marauder,
They all come to the headland, to witness and assist against me.