The Complete Poetical Works of Walt Whitman. Walt Whitman

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      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 and 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 is aroma finer than prayer,

       This head is more than churches or bibles or creeds.

      If I worship any particular thing it shall be some of the spread of my body;

       Translucent mould of me it shall be you,

       Shaded ledges and rests, firm masculine coulter, it shall be you,

       Whatever goes to the tilth of me it shall be you,

       You my rich blood, your milky stream pale strippings of my life;

       Breast that presses against other breasts it shall be you,

       My brain it shall be your occult convolutions,

       Root of washed sweet-flag, timorous pond-snipe, nest of guarded duplicate eggs, it shall be you,

       Mixed tussled hay of head and beard and brawn it shall be you,

       Trickling sap of maple, fibre of manly wheat, it shall be you;

       Sun so generous it shall be you,

       Vapors lighting and shading my face it shall be you,

       You sweaty brooks and dews it shall be you,

       Winds whose soft-tickling genitals rub against me it shall be you,

       Broad muscular fields, branches of liveoak, loving lounger in my winding paths, it shall be you,

       Hands I have taken, face I have kissed, mortal I have ever touched, it shall be you.

      I dote on myself . . . . there is that lot of me, and all so luscious,

       Each moment and whatever happens thrills me with joy.

      I cannot tell how my ankles bend . . . . nor whence the cause of my faintest wish,

       Nor the cause of the friendship I emit . . . . nor the cause of the friendship I take again.

      To walk up my stoop is unaccountable . . . . I pause to consider if it really be,

       That I eat and drink is spectacle enough for the great authors and schools,

       A morning-glory at my window satisfies me more than the metaphysics of books.

      To behold the daybreak!

       The little light fades the immense and diaphanous shadows,

       The air tastes good to my palate.

      Hefts of the moving world at innocent gambols, silently rising, freshly exuding,

       Scooting obliquely high and low.

      Something I cannot see puts upward libidinous prongs,

       Seas of bright juice suffuse heaven.

      The earth by the sky staid with . . . . the daily close of their junction,

       The heaved challenge from the east that moment over my head,

       The mocking taunt, See then whether you shall be master!

      Dazzling and tremendous how quick the sunrise would kill me,

       If I could not now and always send sunrise out of me.

      We also ascend dazzling and tremendous as the sun,

       We found our own my soul in the calm and cool of the daybreak.

      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 understand enough . . . . why don’t you let it out then?

      Come now I will not be tantalized . . . . you conceive too much of articulation.

      Do you not know how the buds beneath are folded?

       Waiting in gloom protected by frost,

       The dirt receding before my prophetical screams,

       I underlying causes to balance them at last,

       My knowledge my live parts . . . . it keeping tally with the meaning of things,

       Happiness . . . . which whoever hears me let him or her set out in search of this day.

      My final merit I refuse you . . . . I refuse putting from me the best I am.

      Encompass worlds but never try to encompass me,

       I crowd your noisiest talk by looking toward you.

      Writing and talk do not prove me,

       I carry the plenum of proof and every thing else in my face,

       With the hush of my lips I confound the topmost skeptic.

      I think I will do nothing for a long time but listen,

       And accrue what I hear into myself . . . . and let sounds contribute toward me.

      I hear the bravuras of birds . . . . the bustle of growing wheat . . . . gossip of flames . . . . clack of sticks cooking my meals.

      I hear the sound of the human voice . . . . a sound I love,

       I hear all sounds as they are tuned to their uses . . . .

      sounds of the city and sounds out of the city . . . . sounds of the day and night;

       Talkative young ones to those that like them . . . . the recitative of fish-pedlars and fruit-pedlars . . . . the loud laugh of workpeople at their meals,

       The angry base of disjointed friendship . . . . the faint tones of the sick,

       The judge with hands tight to the desk, his shaky lips pronouncing a death-sentence,

       The heave’e’yo of stevedores unlading ships by the wharves . . . . the refrain of the anchor-lifters;

       The ring of alarm-bells . . . . the cry of fire . . . . the whirr of swift-streaking engines and hose-carts with premonitory tinkles and colored lights,

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