By the city's quadrangular houses-in log huts, camping with lumber-men, Along the ruts of the turnpike, along the dry gulch and rivulet bed, Weeding my onion-patch or hosing rows of carrots and parsnips, crossing savannas, trailing in forests, Prospecting, gold-digging, girdling the trees.
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My head slues round on my neck, Music rolls, but not from the organ, Folks are around me, but they are no household of mine.Were mankind murderous or jealous upon you, my brother, my sister?One of the pumps has been shot away, it is generally thought we are sinking.And mine a word of the modern, the word En-Masse.I believe in those wing'd purposes, And acknowledge red, yellow, white, playing within me, And consider green and violet and the tufted crown intentional, And do not call the tortoise unworthy because she is not something else, And the in the woods never studied the.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 in ten thousand or ten million years, I can cheerfully take it now, or with equal cheerfulness I can wait.This minute that comes to me over the past decillions, There is no better than it and now.Through me the afflatus surging and surging, through me the current and index.A few quadrillions of eras, a few octillions of cubic leagues, do not hazard the span or make it impatient, They are but parts, any thing is but a part.
This hour I tell things in confidence, I might not tell everybody, but I will tell you.
In all people I see myself, none more and not one a barley-corn less, And the good or bad I say of myself I say of them.
24 Walt Whitman, a kosmos, of Manhattan the son, Turbulent, fleshy, sensual, eating, drinking and breeding, No sentimentalist, no stander above men and women igi 1 game setup file or apart from them, No more modest than immodest.
And what do you think has become of the women and children?
Have you practis'd so long to learn to read?In vain the speeding or shyness, In vain the plutonic rocks send their old heat against my approach, In vain the mastodon retreats beneath its own powder'd bones, In vain objects stand leagues off and assume manifold shapes, In vain the ocean settling in hollows.Broad muscular fields, branches of live oak, loving lounger in my winding paths, it shall be you!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.Urge and urge and urge, Always the procreant urge of the world.I ascend to the foretruck, I take my place late at night in the crow's-nest, We sail the arctic sea, it is plenty light enough, Through the clear atmosphere I stretch around on the wonderful beauty, The enormous masses of ice pass me and.20 Who goes there?Breast that presses against other breasts it shall be you!I do not know it-it is without name-it is a word unsaid, It is not in any dictionary, utterance, symbol.Will you speak before I am gone?