Credit where credit's due - a geek blog I follow called Lifehacker reminded me that today is Walt Whitman's 192nd birthday. Please sound a barbaric YAWP in his honor.
An excerpt from Song of Myself:
It is time to explain myself—let us stand up.
| What is known I strip away, |
| I launch all men and women forward with me into the Unknown. |
| The clock indicates the moment—but what does eternity indicate? |
| We have thus far exhausted trillions of winters and summers, |
| There are trillions ahead, and trillions ahead of them. |
| Births have brought us richness and variety, |
| And other births will bring us richness and variety. |
| I do not call one greater and one smaller, |
| That which fills its period and place is equal to any. |
Were mankind murderous or jealous upon you, my brother, my
sister?
|
| I am sorry for you, they are not murderous or jealous upon me, |
| All has been gentle with me, I keep no account with lamentation, |
| (What have I to do with lamentation?) |
I am an acme of things accomplish'd, and I an encloser of things
to be.
|
| My feet strike an apex of the apices of the stairs, |
On every step bunches of ages, and larger bunches between the
steps,
|
| All below duly travel'd, and still I mount and mount. |
| Rise after rise bow the phantoms behind me, |
| Afar down I see the huge first Nothing, I know I was even there, |
| I waited unseen and always, and slept through the lethargic mist, |
| And took my time, and took no hurt from the fetid carbon. |
| Long I was hugg'd close—long and long. |
| Immense have been the preparations for me, |
| Faithful and friendly the arms that have help'd me. |
