Did you fear some scrofula out of the unflagging pregnancy? I find one side a balance and the antipodal side a balance,. Soft doctrine as steady help as stable doctrine,. Thoughts and deeds of the present our rouse and early start.
The Dead Are Dead Until the Rapture or Resurrection
This minute that comes to me over the past decillions,. What behaved well in the past or behaves well to-day is not such a wonder,. The wonder is always and always how there can be a mean man or an infidel. And mine a word of the modern, the word En-Masse. Here or henceforward it is all the same to me, I accept Time absolutely. It alone is without flaw, it alone rounds and completes all,.
That mystic baffling wonder alone completes all. Hurrah for positive science! Fetch stonecrop mixt with cedar and branches of lilac,. This is the lexicographer, this the chemist, this made a grammar of the old cartouches,. These mariners put the ship through dangerous unknown seas. This is the geologist, this works with the scalpel, and this is a mathematician.
Your facts are useful, and yet they are not my dwelling,. I but enter by them to an area of my dwelling. Less the reminders of properties told my words,. And more the reminders they of life untold, and of freedom and extrication,. And make short account of neuters and geldings, and favor men and women fully equipt,. And beat the gong of revolt, and stop with fugitives and them that plot and conspire. Walt Whitman, a kosmos, of Manhattan the son,. Turbulent, fleshy, sensual, eating, drinking and breeding,. No sentimentalist, no stander above men and women or apart from them,. Unscrew the doors themselves from their jambs!
And whatever is done or said returns at last to me. Through me the afflatus surging and surging, through me the current and index. I speak the pass-word primeval, I give the sign of democracy,. By God!
I will accept nothing which all cannot have their counterpart of on the same terms. Voices of the interminable generations of prisoners and slaves,. Voices of cycles of preparation and accretion,. And of the threads that connect the stars, and of wombs and of the father-stuff,. And of the rights of them the others are down upon,. Fog in the air, beetles rolling balls of dung. I keep as delicate around the bowels as around the head and heart,.
- The Confessions of Saint Augustine, by Saint Augustine.
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Copulation is no more rank to me than death is. Seeing, hearing, feeling, are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle. The scent of these arm-pits aroma finer than prayer,. This head more than churches, bibles, and all the creeds. If I worship one thing more than another it shall be the spread of my own body, or any part of it,. Whatever goes to the tilth of me it shall be you!
You my rich blood! Breast that presses against other breasts it shall be you! My brain it shall be your occult convolutions! Trickling sap of maple, fibre of manly wheat, 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 live oak, loving lounger in my winding paths, 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,.
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Nor the cause of the friendship I emit, nor the cause of the friendship I take again. That I walk up my stoop, I pause to consider if it really be,. A morning-glory at my window satisfies me more than the metaphysics of books. The little light fades the immense and diaphanous shadows,. Hefts of the moving world at innocent gambols silently rising freshly exuding,. Something I cannot see puts upward libidinous prongs,. The earth by the sky staid with, the daily close of their junction,.
The mocking taunt, See then whether you shall be master! Dazzling and tremendous how quick the sun-rise would kill me,. If I could not now and always send sun-rise out of me.
Making Sense of Robert E. Lee
We also ascend dazzling and tremendous as the sun,. We found our own O 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,. Come now I will not be tantalized, you conceive too much of articulation,. Do you not know O speech how the buds beneath you are folded? The dirt receding before my prophetical screams,.
George Packer on Richard Holbrooke and Pax Americana’s Decay - The Atlantic
I underlying causes to balance them at last,. My knowledge my live parts, it keeping tally with the meaning of all 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 what I really am,.
Books by Whitman
Encompass worlds, but never try to encompass me,. I crowd your sleekest and best by simply looking toward you. I carry the plenum of proof and every thing else in my face,. With the hush of my lips I wholly confound the skeptic. To accrue what I hear into this song, to let sounds contribute toward it.