Wednesday, June 14, 2006

Walt Whitman

excerpts from Song of Myself

You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor

look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres

in books,

You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things

from me,

You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self.


Urge and urge and urge,

Always the procreant urge of the world.


Do you take it I would astonish?

Does the daylight astonish? does the early redstart twittering

through the woods?

Do I astonish more than they?


I find no sweeter fat than sticks to my own bones.


I believe in the flesh and the appetites,

Seeing, hearing, feeling, are miracles, and each part and tag of

me is a miracle.


All truths wait in all things,

They neither hasten their own delivery nor resist it,

They do not need the obstetric forceps of the surgeon,

The insignificant is as big to me as any,

(What is less or more than a touch?)


Enough! enough! enough!

Somehow I have been stunn’d. Stand back!

Give me a little time beyond my cuff’d head, slumbers, dreams,


I discover myself on the verge of a usual mistake.


Do I contradict myself?

Very well then I contradict myself,

(I am large, I contain multitudes.)

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