Except from the poem “Song of Myself” from Walt Whitman

401 In all people I see myself, none more and not one a barley-corn less,
402
And the good or bad I say of myself I say of them.


403 I know I am solid and sound,
404 To me the converging objects of the universe perpetually flow,
405 All are written to me, and I must get what the writing means.

406 I know I am deathless,
407 I know this orbit of mine cannot be swept by a carpenter’s compass,
408 I know I shall not pass like a child’s carlacue cut with a burnt stick at night.

409 I know I am august,
410 I do not trouble my spirit to vindicate itself or be understood,
411 I see that the elementary laws never apologize,
412 (I reckon I behave no prouder than the level I plant my house by, after all.)

413 I exist as I am, that is enough,
414 If no other in the world be aware I sit content,
415 And if each and all be aware I sit content.

416 One world is aware and by far the largest to me, and that is myself,
417 And whether I come to my own to-day or in ten thousand or ten million years,
418 I can cheerfully take it now, or with equal cheerfulness I can wait.

419 My foothold is tenon’d and mortis’d in granite,
420 I laugh at what you call dissolution,
421 And I know the amplitude of time.
If you would like to read the whole text of the poem, you can find it here.
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~ by cjt on June 6, 2008.

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