Urge and urge and urge,

Always the procreant urge of the world.

 

Out of the dimness opposite equals advance, always substance and

increase, always sex,

Always a knit of identity, always distinction, always a breed of life.

To elaborate is no avail, learn’d and unlearn’d feel that it is so.

 

Sure as the most certain sure, plumb in the uprights, well entretied,

braced in the beams,

Stout as a horse, affectionate, haughty, electrical,

I and this mystery here we stand.

 

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

soul.

 

Lack one lacks both, and the unseen is proved by the seen,

Till that becomes unseen and receives proof in its turn.

Leaves of Grass

SONG OF MYSELF 3

Walt Whitman

ME

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