Song of Myself

I believe in you my soul . . . . the other I am must not abase itself to you,
And you must not be abased to the other

The sickness of one of my folks . . . . or of myself . . . . or ill-doing . . . . or loss or lack of money . . . . or depressions or exaltations,
They come to me days and nights and go from me again,
But they are not the Me myself

Shall I postpone my acceptation and realization and scream at my eyes,
That they turn from gazing after and down the road,
And forthwith cipher and show me to a cent,
Exactly the contents of one and exactly the contents of two, and which is ahead?

I am satisfied . . . . I see, dance, laugh, sing;

Clear and sweet is my soul . . . . and clear and sweet is all that is not my soul.

I have heard what the talkers were talking . . . . the talk of the beginning and the end,
But I do not talk of the beginning or the end.

There was never any more inception than there is now,
Nor any more youth or age than there is now;
And will never be any more perfection than there is now,
Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.

You shall listen to all sides and filter them for yourself

The feeling of health . . . . the full-noon trill . . . . the song of me rising from bed and meeting the sun

For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you. I loafe and invite my soul,

I mind how we lay in June, such a transparent summer morning;
You settled your head athwart my hips and gently turned over upon me,
And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue to my barestript heart,
And reached till you felt my beard, and reached till you held my feet.