Song of Myself

by Walt Whitman

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? Eternity lies in bottomless reservoirs . . . . its buckets are rising forever and ever, They pour and they pour and they exhale away. 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 or 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 accomplished, 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 traveled—and still I mount and mount. Rise after rise bow the phantoms behind me, Afar down I see the huge first Nothing, the vapor from the nostrils of death, I know I was even there . . . . I waited unseen and always, And slept while God carried me through the lethargic mist, And took my time . . . . and took no hurt from the foetid carbon. Long I ...