...
I know I am solid and sound,
To me the converging objects of the universe perpetually flow,
All are written to me, and I must get what the writing means.
I know I am deathless,
I know this orbit of mine cannot be swept by a carpenter’s compass,
I know I shall not pass like a child’s carlacue cut with a burnt stick at night.
I know I am august,
I do not trouble my spirit to vindicate itself or be understood, I see that the elementary laws never apologize,
(I reckon I behave no prouder than the level I plant my house by, after all.)
I exist as I am, that is enough,
If no other in the world be aware I sit content,
And if each and all be aware I sit content.
One world is aware and by far the largest to me, and that is myself,
And whether I come to my own to-day or on ten thousand or ten million years,
I can cheerfully take it now, or with equal cheerfulness I can wait.
My foothold is tenon’d and mortis’d in granite,
I laugh at what you call dissolution,
And I know the amplitude of time.
To me the converging objects of the universe perpetually flow,
All are written to me, and I must get what the writing means.
I know I am deathless,
I know this orbit of mine cannot be swept by a carpenter’s compass,
I know I shall not pass like a child’s carlacue cut with a burnt stick at night.
I know I am august,
I do not trouble my spirit to vindicate itself or be understood, I see that the elementary laws never apologize,
(I reckon I behave no prouder than the level I plant my house by, after all.)
I exist as I am, that is enough,
If no other in the world be aware I sit content,
And if each and all be aware I sit content.
One world is aware and by far the largest to me, and that is myself,
And whether I come to my own to-day or on ten thousand or ten million years,
I can cheerfully take it now, or with equal cheerfulness I can wait.
My foothold is tenon’d and mortis’d in granite,
I laugh at what you call dissolution,
And I know the amplitude of time.
I am the poet of the Body and I am the poet of the Soul,
The pleasures of heaven are with me and the pains of hell are with me,
The first I graft and increase upon myself, the latter I translate into a new tongue.
I am the poet of the woman the same as the man,
And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man,
And I say there is nothing greater than the mother of men.
I chant the chant of dilation or pride,
...
One taste the same etheric flesh in the work of Emerson, Whitman, Thoreau and Engels, and I more attune with molding my mind from men who could weave the very fabric of space and time, men who could bend the earth to their will with alchemical cultivation, love's renunciation. I too long for that mien of the forest, the vistas drinking, the leisure life.
One taste the same etheric flesh in the work of Emerson, Whitman, Thoreau and Engels, and I more attune with molding my mind from men who could weave the very fabric of space and time, men who could bend the earth to their will with alchemical cultivation, love's renunciation. I too long for that mien of the forest, the vistas drinking, the leisure life.
It takes a few lines into each's read to go Ah! someone must be well versed in Vedic literature Like Thoreau and Emerson, Whitman is cut from a similar cloth of the eternities, his was a man with a thorough understand of God man and nature the strings that bind them and everything in between.
Songs of Myself is Whitman's equivalent of the Bhavaghad Gita and I implore anyone who haven't read it to make time,
it is my favourite poem off Whitman's repoitoire. A truly wonderful cleanse, Do drink!
it is my favourite poem off Whitman's repoitoire. A truly wonderful cleanse, Do drink!
e5