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Song of Myself

Walt Whitman

New Worlds
Released 1855
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Walt Whitman

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Allons! whoever you are, come travel with me Travelling with me, you find what never tires The earth never tires; the earth is rude Silent, incomprehensible at first Nature is rude and incomprehensible at first Be not discouraged; keep on, there are divine things well enveloped I swear to you there are divine things More beautiful than words can tell Allons! we must not stop here However sweet these laid-up stores, however Convenient this dwelling, we cannot remain here However sheltered this port, and however Calm these waters, we must not anchor here However welcome the hospitality that surrounds us We are permitted to receive it but a little while I concentrate toward them that are nigh I wait on the door-slab. Who has done his day's work? Who will soonest be through with his supper? Who wishes to walk with me? Will you speak before I am gone? Will you prove already too late? The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me He complains of my gab and my loitering I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world The last scud of day holds back for me It flings my likeness after the rest And true as any on the shadow'd wilds It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the run-away sun I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags I bequeath myself to the dirt, to grow from the grass I love If you want me again, look for me under your boot-soles You will hardly know who I am, or what I mean But I shall be good health to you, nevertheless And filter and fibre your blood Failing to fetch me at first, keep encouraged Missing me one place, search another I stop somewhere, waiting for you

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