If I could wrap the forest in my arms…

I would, with due course,

have abundant charm.

Had life dealt me another hand…

I would be synthetically impoverished…

As in the cloth,

in which I stand.

A mere entity,

am I.

Nothing to relish.

Nothing to deny.

Nonetheless…

I will crawl before the ever-present gift.

The elms.

The oaks.

The creatures.

The wooded abyss.

I will stumble and scramble.

Until my last breath.

Before nature…

I avow my devotion.

Though it render no romantic notion.

 

This is what you shall do; Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and with the mothers of families, read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life, re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul, and your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body.  

Walt Whitman

 

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