Leaves of Grass. Walt Whitman

neither hasten their own delivery nor resist it,

      They do not need the obstetric forceps of the surgeon,

      The insignificant is as big to me as any,

      (What is less or more than a touch?)

      Logic and sermons never convince,

      The damp of the night drives deeper into my soul.

      (Only what proves itself to every man and woman is so,

      Only what nobody denies is so.)

      A minute and a drop of me settle my brain,

      I believe the soggy clods shall become lovers and lamps,

      And a compend of compends is the meat of a man or woman,

      And a summit and flower there is the feeling they have for each other,

      And they are to branch boundlessly out of that lesson until it becomes omnific,

      And until one and all shall delight us, and we them.

      I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey work of the stars,

      And the pismire is equally perfect, and a grain of sand, and the egg of the wren,

      And the tree-toad is a chef-d’oeuvre for the highest,

      And the running blackberry would adorn the parlors of heaven,

      And the narrowest hinge in my hand puts to scorn all machinery,

      And the cow crunching with depress’d head surpasses any statue,

      And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels.

      I find I incorporate gneiss, coal, long-threaded moss, fruits, grains, esculent roots,

      And am stucco’d with quadrupeds and birds all over,

      And have distanced what is behind me for good reasons,

      But call any thing back again when I desire it.

      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 and the great monsters lying low,

      In vain the buzzard houses herself with the sky,

      In vain the snake slides through the creepers and logs,

      In vain the elk takes to the inner passes of the woods,

      In vain the razor-bill’d auk sails far north to Labrador,

      I follow quickly, I ascend to the nest in the fissure of the cliff.

      I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and self-contain’d,

      I stand and look at them long and long.

      They do not sweat and whine about their condition,

      They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins,

      They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God,

      Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of owning things,

      Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago,

      Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth.

      So they show their relations to me and I accept them,

      They bring me tokens of myself, they evince them plainly in their possession.

      I wonder where they get those tokens,

      Did I pass that way huge times ago and negligently drop them?

      Myself moving forward then and now and forever,

      Gathering and showing more always and with velocity,

      Infinite and omnigenous, and the like of these among them,

      Not too exclusive toward the reachers of my remembrancers,

      Picking out here one that I love, and now go with him on brotherly terms.

      A gigantic beauty of a stallion, fresh and responsive to my caresses,

      Head high in the forehead, wide between the ears,

      Limbs glossy and supple, tail dusting the ground,

      Eyes full of sparkling wickedness, ears finely cut, flexibly moving.

      His nostrils dilate as my heels embrace him,

      His well-built limbs tremble with pleasure as we race around and return.

      I but use you a minute, then I resign you, stallion,

      Why do I need your paces when I myself out-gallop them?

      Even as I stand or sit passing faster than you.

      Space and Time! now I see it is true, what I guess’d at,

      What I guess’d when I loaf’d on the grass,

      What I guess’d while I lay alone in my bed,

      And again as I walk’d the beach under the paling stars of the morning.

      My ties and ballasts leave me, my elbows rest in sea-gaps,

      I skirt sierras, my palms cover continents,

      I am afoot with my vision.

      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 of a new purchase,

      Scorch’d ankle-deep by the hot sand, hauling my boat down the shallow river,

      Where the panther walks to and fro on a limb overhead, where the buck turns furiously at the hunter,

      Where the rattlesnake suns his flabby length on a rock, where the otter is feeding on fish,

      Where the alligator in his tough pimples sleeps by the bayou,

      Where the black bear is searching for roots or honey, where the beaver pats the mud with his paddle-shaped tall;

      Over the growing sugar, over the yellow-flower’d cotton plant, over the rice in its low moist field,