Walt Whitman - Leaves of Grass

264 Behold! I do not give lectures or a little charity,
What I give, I give out of myself.

265 You there, impotent, loose in the knees,
Open your scarfed chops till I blow grit within you,
Spread your palms, and lift the flaps of your pockets;
I am not to be denied—I compel—I have stores plenty and to spare,
And anything I have I bestow.

266 I do not ask who you are—that is not important to me,
You can do nothing, and be nothing, but what I will infold you.

267 To a drudge of the cotton-fields or cleaner of privies I lean,
On his right cheek I put the family kiss,
And in my soul I swear, I never will deny him.

268 On women fit for conception I start bigger and nimbler babes,
This day I am jetting the stuff of far more arrogant republics.

269 To any one dying—thither I speed, and twist the knob of the door,
Turn the bed-clothes toward the foot of the bed,
Let the physician and the priest go home.

270 I seize the descending man, and raise him with resistless will.

271 O despairer, here is my neck,
By God! you shall not go down! Hang your whole weight upon me.

272 I dilate you with tremendous breath—I buoy you up,
Every room of the house do I fill with an armed force,
Lovers of me, bafflers of graves.

273 Sleep! I and they keep guard all night,
Not doubt—not decease shall dare to lay finger upon you,
I have embraced you, and henceforth possess you to myself,
And when you rise in the morning you will find what I tell you is so.

274 I am he bringing help for the sick as they pant on their backs,
And for strong upright men I bring yet more needed help.

275 I heard what was said of the universe,
Heard it and heard it of several thousand years;
It is middling well as far as it goes,—But is that all?

276 Magnifying and applying come I,
Outbidding at the start the old cautious hucksters,
The most they offer for mankind and eternity less than a spirt of my own seminal wet,
Taking myself the exact dimensions of Jehovah,
Lithographing Kronos, Zeus his son, and Hercules his grandson,
Buying drafts of Osiris, Isis, Belus, Brahma, Buddha,
In my portfolio placing Manito loose, Allah on a leaf, the crucifix engraved,
With Odin, and the hideous-faced Mexitli, and every idol and image,
Taking them all for what they are worth, and not a cent more,
Admitting they were alive and did the work of their day,
Admitting they bore mites, as for unfledged birds, who have now to rise and fly and sing for themselves,
Accepting the rough deific sketches to fill out better in myself—bestowing them freely on each man and woman I see,
Discovering as much, or more, in a framer framing a house,
Putting higher claims for him there with his rolled-up sleeves, driving the mallet and chisel,
Not objecting to special revelations—considering a curl of smoke or a hair on the back of my hand just as curious as any revelation,
Those ahold of fire engines and hook-and-ladder ropes no less to me than the Gods of the antique wars,
Minding their voices peal through the crash of destruction,
Their brawny limbs passing safe over charred laths—their white foreheads whole and unhurt out of the flames;
By the mechanic’s wife with her babe at her nipple interceding for every person born,
Three scythes at harvest whizzing in a row from three lusty angels with shirts bagged out at their waists,
The snag-toothed hostler with red hair redeeming sins past and to come,
Selling all he possesses, travelling on foot to fee lawyers for his brother, and sit by him while he is tried for forgery;
What was strewn in the amplest strewing the square rod about me, and not filling the square rod then,
The bull and the bug never worshipped half enough,
Dung and dirt more admirable than was dreamed,
The supernatural of no account—myself waiting my time to be one of the Supremes,
The day getting ready for me when I shall do as much good as the best, and be as prodigious,
Guessing when I am it will not tickle me much to receive puffs out of pulpit or print;
By my life-lumps! becoming already a creator,
Putting myself here and now to the ambushed womb of the shadows.

277 A call in the midst of the crowd,
My own voice, orotund, sweeping, final.

278 Come my children,
Come my boys and girls, my women, household, and intimates,
Now the performer launches his nerve—he has passed his prelude on the reeds within.

279 Easily written, loose-fingered chords! I feel the thrum of their climax and close.

280 My head slues round on my neck,
Music rolls, but not from the organ,
Folks are around me, but they are no household of mine.

281 Ever the hard unsunk ground,
Ever the eaters and drinkers—Ever the upward and downward sun—Ever the air and the ceaseless tides,
Ever myself and my neighbors, refreshing, wicked, real,
Ever the old inexplicable query—Ever that thorned thumb—that breath of itches and thirsts,
Ever the vexer’s hoot! hoot! till we find where the sly one hides, and bring him forth;
Ever love—Ever the sobbing liquid of life,
Ever the bandage under the chin—Ever the tressels of death.

282 Here and there, with dimes on the eyes walking,
To feed the greed of the belly, the brains liberally spooning,
Tickets buying, taking, selling, but in to the feast never once going,
Many sweating, ploughing, thrashing, and then the chaff for payment receiving,
A few idly owning, and they the wheat continually claiming.

283 This is the city, and I am one of the citizens,
Whatever interests the rest interests me—politics, markets, newspapers, schools,
Benevolent societies, improvements, banks, tariffs, steamships, factories, stocks, stores, real estate, and personal estate.

284 They who piddle and patter here in collars and tailed coats—I am aware who they are—they are not worms or fleas.

285 I acknowledge the duplicates of myself—the weakest and shallowest is deathless with me,
What I do and say, the same waits for them,
Every thought that flounders in me, the same flounders in them.

286 I know perfectly well my own egotism,
I know my omnivorous words, and cannot say any less,
And would fetch you, whoever you are, flush with myself.

287 My words are words of a questioning, and to indicate reality and motive power:
This printed and bound book—but the printer, and the printing-office boy?
The well-taken photographs—but your wife or friend close and solid in your arms?
The fleet of ships 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, creeds, theology—but the human brain, and what is reason? and what is love? and what is life?

288 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, powwowing 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 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.