The Walt Whitman MEGAPACK ®. Walt Whitman

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СКАЧАТЬ creeds, theology—but the fathomless human brain,

      And what is reason? and what is love? and what is life?

      43

      I do not despise you priests, all time, the world over,

      My faith is the greatest of faiths and the least of faiths,

      Enclosing 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 fetich of the first rock or stump, powowing with sticks in the circle of obis,

      Helping the llama 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-cap, 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.

      One of that centripetal and centrifugal gang I turn and talk like man leaving charges before a journey.

      Down-hearted doubters dull and excluded,

      Frivolous, sullen, moping, angry, affected, dishearten’d, atheistical,

      I know every one of you, I know the sea of torment, doubt, despair and unbelief.

      How the flukes splash!

      How they contort rapid as lightning, with spasms and spouts of blood!

      Be at peace bloody flukes of doubters and sullen mopers,

      I take my place among you as much as among any,

      The past is the push of you, me, all, precisely the same,

      And what is yet untried and afterward is for you, me, all, precisely the same.

      I do not know what is untried and afterward,

      But I know it will in its turn prove sufficient, and cannot fail.

      Each who passes is consider’d, each who stops is consider’d, not single one can it fall.

      It cannot fall the young man who died and was buried,

      Nor the young woman who died and was put by his side,

      Nor the little child that peep’d in at the door, and then drew back and was never seen again,

      Nor the old man who has lived without purpose, and feels it with bitterness worse than gall,

      Nor him in the poor house tubercled by rum and the bad disorder,

      Nor the numberless slaughter’d and wreck’d, nor the brutish koboo call’d the ordure of humanity,

      Nor the sacs merely floating with open mouths for food to slip in,

      Nor any thing in the earth, or down in the oldest graves of the earth,

      Nor any thing in the myriads of spheres, nor the myriads of myriads that inhabit them,

      Nor the present, nor the least wisp that is known.

      44

      It is time to explain myself—let us stand up.

      What is known I strip away,

      I launch all men and women forward with me into the Unknown.

      The clock indicates the moment—but what does eternity indicate?

      We have thus far exhausted trillions of winters and summers,

      There are trillions ahead, and trillions ahead of them.

      Births have brought us richness and variety,

      And other births will bring us richness and variety.

      I do not call one greater and one smaller,

      That which fills its period and place is equal to any.

      Were mankind murderous or jealous upon you, my brother, my sister?

      I am sorry for you, they are not murderous or jealous upon me,

      All has been gentle with me, I keep no account with lamentation,

      (What have I to do with lamentation?)

      I am an acme of things accomplish’d, and I an encloser of things to be.

      My feet strike an apex of the apices of the stairs,

      On every step bunches of ages, and larger bunches between the steps,

      All below duly travel’d, and still I mount and mount.

      Rise after rise bow the phantoms behind me,

      Afar down I see the huge first Nothing, I know I was even there,

      I waited unseen and always, and slept through the lethargic mist,

      And took my time, and took no hurt from the fetid carbon.

      Long I was hugg’d close—long and long.

      Immense have been the preparations for me,

      Faithful and friendly the arms that have help’d me.

      Cycles ferried my cradle, rowing and rowing like cheerful boatmen,

      For room to me stars kept aside in their own rings,

      They sent influences to look after what was to hold me.

      Before I was born out of my mother generations guided me,

      My embryo has never been torpid, nothing could overlay it.

      For it the nebula cohered to an orb,

      The long slow strata piled to rest it on,

      Vast vegetables gave it sustenance,

      Monstrous СКАЧАТЬ