eyes of the dead

“
  The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields
      and hill-sides,
  The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising
      from bed and meeting the sun.
  Have you reckon’d a thousand acres much? have you reckon’d the earth much?
  Have you practis’d so long to learn to read?
  Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?
  Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of
      all poems,
  You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions
      of suns left,)
  You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through
      the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books,
  You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,
  You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self.
  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.
  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.
  Showing the best and dividing it from the worst age vexes age,
  Knowing the perfect fitness and equanimity of things, while they
      discuss I am silent, and go bathe and admire myself.
  Welcome is every organ and attribute of me, and of any man hearty and clean,
  Not an inch nor a particle of an inch is vile, and none shall be
      less familiar than the rest.
  I am satisfied--I see, dance, laugh, sing;
  As the hugging and loving bed-fellow sleeps at my side through the night,
      and withdraws at the peep of the day with stealthy tread,
  Leaving me baskets cover’d with white towels swelling the house with
      their plenty,
  Shall I postpone my acceptation and realization and scream at my eyes,
”
—Walt Whitman
Multitudes are Seeded by Leaves of Grass.
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