from Song of Myself

All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.

Having pried through the strata, analysed to a hair,
Counselled with doctors and calculated close,
I find no sweeter fat than sticks to my own bones.

I am not the poet of goodness only, I do not decline to be the poet of wickedness also.
What blurt is this about virtue and about vice?
Evil propels me and reform of evil propels me,
I stand indifferent,
My gait is no fault-finder's or rejecter's gait,
I moisten the roots of all that has grown.

Through me forbidden voices,
Voices of sexes and lusts, voices veiled and I removes the veil,
Voices indecent by me clarified and transfigured. I do not press my finger across my mouth,
I keep as delicate around the bowels as around the head and heart,
Copulation is no more rank to me than death is.
I believe in the flesh and the appetites,
Seeing, hearing, feeling are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle.
Divine am I inside and out, and I make holy whatever I touch or am touched from,
The scent of these arm-pits aroma finer than prayer,
This head more than churches, bibles, and all the creeds.

My voice goes after what my eyes cannot reach,
With the twirl of my tongue I encompass worlds and volumes of worlds.
Speech is the twin of my vision, it is unequal to measure itself,
It provokes me forever, it says sarcastically,
Walt, you contain enough, why don't you let it out then?

I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and self-contained, I stand and look at them long and long.
They do not sweat and whine about their condition,
They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins,
They do not make me sick discussing their duty to god,
Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of owning things,
Not one kneels to another, nor to its kind that lived thousands of years ago,
Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth.

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,
I hear and behold god in every object, yet understand god not in the least,
Nor do I understand who there can be more wonderful than myself.

Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I contradict myself, (I am large, I contain multitudes.)

From this hour I ordain myself loosed of limits and imaginary lines,
Going where I list, my own master total and absolute,
Listening to others, considering well what they say,
Pausing, searching, receiving, contemplating,
Gently, but with undeniable will, divesting myself of the holds that would hold me.
I inhale great draughts of space,
The east and the west are mine, the north and the south are mine.
I am larger, better than I thought, I did not know I held so much goodness.

Now I see the secret of the making of the best persons, It is to grow in the open air, and to eat and sleep with the earth.

These are the days that must happen to you:
You shall not heap up what is called riches,
You shall scatter with a lavish hand all that you earn or achieve,
You but arrive at the city to which you were destined,
You hardly settle yourself to satisfaction before you are called by an irresistable call to depart,
You shall be treated to the ironical smiles and mockings of those who remain behind you,
What beckonings of love you receive you shall only answer with passionate kisses of parting,
You shall not allow the hold of those who spread their reached hands toward you.

Allons! to that which is endless as it was beginingless,
To undergo much, tramps of days, rests of nights,
To see nothing anywhere but what you may reach it and pass it, To conceive no time, however distant, but you may reach it and pass it,
To look up or down no road but it stretches and waits for you,
However long but it stretches and waits for you,
To see no being, not god's, but you also go thither,
To see no possession but you may possess it, enjoying all without labour or purchase,
Abstracting the feast, yet not abstracting one particle of it.
To carry buildings and streets with you afterward wherever you go,
To gather minds of men out of their brains as you encounter them, to gather the love out of their hearts,
To take your lovers on the road with you, for all that you leave them behind,
To know the universe itself as a road, as many roads, as roads for travelling souls.

Allons! the road is before us! It is safe-
I have tried it- my own feet have tried it well- be not detained!
Let the paper remain on the desk unwritten, and the book on the shelf unopened!
Let the tools remain in the workshop! let the money remain unearned!
Let the school stand! mind not the cry of the teacher!
Let the preacher preach in his pulpit! let the lawyer plead in the court, and the judge expound the law,
Camerado, I give you my hand! I give you my love more precious than money,
I give you myself before preaching or law: Will you give me yourself? will you come travel with me?
Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?