Walt Whitman

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

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43

 I do not despise you priests, all time, the world over,
 My faith is the greatest of faiths and the least of faiths,
 Enclosing worship ancient and modern and all between ancient and modern,
 Believing I shall come again upon the earth after five thousand years,
 Waiting responses from oracles, honoring the gods, saluting the sun,
 Making a fetich of the first rock or stump, powowing with sticks in
 the circle of obis,
 Helping the llama or brahmin as he trims the lamps of the idols,
 Dancing yet through the streets in a phallic procession, rapt and
 austere in the woods a gymnosophist,
 Drinking mead from the skull-cap, to Shastas and Vedas admirant,
 minding the Koran,
 Walking the teokallis, spotted with gore from the stone and knife,
 beating the serpent-skin drum,
 Accepting the Gospels, accepting him that was crucified, knowing
 assuredly that he is divine,
 To the mass kneeling or the puritan's prayer rising, or sitting
 patiently in a pew,
 Ranting and frothing in my insane crisis, or waiting dead-like till
 my spirit arouses me,
 Looking forth on pavement and land, or outside of pavement and land,
 Belonging to the winders of the circuit of circuits.
 
 One of that centripetal and centrifugal gang I turn and talk like
 man leaving charges before a journey.
 
 Down-hearted doubters dull and excluded,
 Frivolous, sullen, moping, angry, affected, dishearten'd, (...)
(......)