Walt Whitman

LEAVES OF GRASS
(1891-92 issue)
complete book, e-book

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2

 As I wend to the shores I know not,
 As I list to the dirge, the voices of men and women wreck'd,
 As I inhale the impalpable breezes that set in upon me,
 As the ocean so mysterious rolls toward me closer and closer,
 I too but signify at the utmost a little wash'd-up drift,
 A few sands and dead leaves to gather,
 Gather, and merge myself as part of the sands and drift.
 
 O baffled, balk'd, bent to the very earth,
 Oppress'd with myself that I have dared to open my mouth,
 Aware now that amid all that blab whose echoes recoil upon me I have
 not once had the least idea who or what I am,
 But that before all my arrogant poems the real Me stands yet
 untouch'd, untold, altogether unreach'd,
 Withdrawn far, mocking me with mock-congratulatory signs and bows,
 With peals of distant ironical laughter at every word I have written,
 Pointing in silence to these songs, and then to the sand beneath.
 
 I perceive I have not really understood any thing, not a single
 object, and that no man ever can,
 Nature here in sight of the sea taking advantage of me to dart upon
 me and sting me,
 Because I have dared to open my mouth to sing at all.