Song Of Myself

Song of Myself
by Walt Whitman

Trippers and askers surround me,
People I meet….the effect upon me of my early
life….of the ward and city I live in….of
the nation,

The latest news….discoveries, inventions,
societies….authors old and new,

My dinner, dress, associates, looks, business,
compliments, dues,

The real or fancied indifference of some man or
woman I love,

The sickness of one of my folks – or myself….
or ill-doing….or loss or lack of money….
or depressions or exaltations,

These come to me days and nights and go from
me again,

But they are not the Me myself.

Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am,

Stands amused, complacent, compassionating,
idle, unitary,

Looks down, is erect, bends an arm on an impalpable
certain rest,

Looks with its sidecurved head, curious what will
come next,

Both in and out of the game, and watching and
wondering at it.

I believe in you my soul….the other I am must not
abase itself to you,

And you must not be abased to the other.

Loafe with me in the grass…. loose the stop from
your throat,

Not words, not music or rhyme I want….
not custom or lecture, not even the best,

Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.

I mind how we lay in June, such a transplant
summer morning;

You settled your head athwart my hips and gently
turned over upon me,

And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and
plunged your tongue to my barestript heart,

And reached till you felt my beard, and reached till
you held my feet.

Swiftly arose and spread around me peace
and knowledge that pass all the argument
of the earth;

And I know that the hand of God is the elderhand
of my own,

And that all the men ever born are also my
brothers….and the women my sisters
and lovers,

And that a kelson of the creation is love.