Sunday, December 14, 2008

Whitman

All truths wait in all things,
They 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 in 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 flover there is the feeling they have for each other,
An they are to branch boundlessly out of that lesson untill it becomes omnific,
And untill every one shall delight us, and we them.




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