6/28/2023 0 Comments Walt whitman's poem song of myself![]() ![]() I do not trouble my spirit to vindicate itself or be understood, 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. To me the converging objects of the universe perpetually flow,Īll are written to me, and I must get what the writing means. In all people I see myself, none more and not one a barley-corn less,Īnd the good or bad I say of myself I say of them. I find no sweeter fat than sticks to my own bones. Having pried through the strata, analyzed to a hair, counsel'd with doctors and calculated close, Why should I pray? why should I venerate and be ceremonious? I wear my hat as I please indoors or out. Whimpering and truckling fold with powders for invalids, conformity goes to the fourth-remov'd, That months are vacuums and the ground but wallow and filth. ![]() I do not snivel that snivel the world over, What is a man anyhow? what am I? what are you?Īll I mark as my own you shall offset it with your own, How is it I extract strength from the beef I eat? Who goes there? hankering, gross, mystical, nude ![]()
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