Whoever you are, I fear you are walking the walks of dreams,
I fear these supposed realities are to melt from under your feet and
hands;
Even now, your features, joys, speech, house, trade, manners,
troubles, follies, costume, crimes, dissipate away from you,
Your true Soul and Body appear before me,
They stand forth out of affairs--out of commerce, shops, law,
science, work, forms, clothes, the house, medicine, print,
buying, selling, eating, drinking, suffering, dying.
Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you, that you be my poem;
I whisper with my lips close to your ear,
I have loved many women and men, but I love none better than you.
O I have been dilatory and dumb;
I should have made my way straight to you long ago;
I should have blabb'd nothing but you, I should have chanted nothing
but you.
I will leave all, and come and make the hymns of you;
None have understood you, but I understand you;
None have done justice to you--you have not done justice to yourself;
None but have found you imperfect--I only find no imperfection in
you;
None but would subordinate you--I only am he who will never consent
to subordinate you;
I only am he who places over you no master, owner, better, God,
beyond what waits intrinsically in yourself.
Painters have painted their swarming groups, and the centre figure of
all;
From the head of the centre figure spreading a nimbus of gold-color'd
light;
But I paint myriads of heads, but paint no head without its nimbus of
gold-color'd light;
From my hand, from the brain of every man and woman it streams,
effulgently flowing forever.
Walt Whitman
