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,
And I or you pocketless of dime may purchase the pick of the earth,
And to glance with an eye or show a bean in its pod confounds the
learning of all times,
And there is no trade or employment but the young man following it may
become a hero,
And there is no object so soft but it makes a hub for the wheeled
And any man or woman shall stand cool and supercilious before a
And I call to mankind, Be not curious about God.
For I who am curious about each am not curious about God,
No array of terms can say how much I am at peace about God and about
Why should I wish to see God better than this day?
I see something of God in each hour of twenty-four, and each moment then
In the faces of men and women I see God, and in my own face in the glass;
I find letters from God dropped in the street, and every one is signed
by God's name,
And I leave them where they are, for I know that others will
punctually come forever and ever.
And as to you death, and you bitter hug of mortality
.. it is idle to
try to alarm me.
To his work without flinching the accoucheur comes,
I see the elderhand pressing receiving supporting,
I recline by the sills of the exquisite flexible doors
. and mark
the outlet, and mark the relief and escape.
And as to you corpse, I think you are good manure
But that does not offend me.
I smell the white roses sweetscented and growing,
I reach to the leafy lips
.I reach to the polished breasts of melons.
And as to you life, I reckon you are the leavings of many deaths,
No doubt I have died myself ten thousand times before.
I hear you whispering there O stars of heaven,
.O grass of graves
.O perpetual transfers and promotions
do not say anything how can I say anything?
Of the turbid pool that lies in the autumn forest,
Of the moon that descends the steeps of the soughing twilight,
Toss, sparkles of day and dusk
.toss on the black stems that decay in
Toss to the moaning gibberish of the dry limbs.
I ascend from the moon
.I ascend from the night,
And perceive of the ghastly glimmer the sunbeams reflected,
And debouch to the steady and central from the offspring great or small.
There is that in me
.I so not know what it is
.. but I know it is in me.
Wrenched and sweaty
calm and cool then my body becomes;
.I sleep long.
I do not know it
.it is without name
.it is a word unsaid,
It is not in any dictionary or utterance or symbol.
Something it swings on more than the earth I swing on,
To it the creation is the friend whose embracing awakes me.
Perhaps I might tell more
.Outlines! I plead for my brothers
Do you see O my brothers and sisters?
It is not chaos or death
.It is form and union and plan
is eternal life
.it is happiness.
-Walt Whitman, from "Leaves of Grass"