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22-Dec-2016 07:15

5 I believe in you my soul, the other I am must not abase itself to you, And you must not be abased to the other.

The youngster and the red-faced girl turn aside up the bushy hill, I peeringly view them from the top.

What do you think has become of the young and old men?

And what do you think has become of the women and children?

I pass death with the dying and birth with the new-wash'd babe, and am not contain'd between my hat and boots, And peruse manifold objects, no two alike and every one good, The earth good and the stars good, and their adjuncts all good.

I am not an earth nor an adjunct of an earth, I am the mate and companion of people, all just as immortal and fathomless as myself, (They do not know how immortal, but I know.) Every kind for itself and its own, for me mine male and female, For me those that have been boys and that love women, For me the man that is proud and feels how it stings to be slighted, For me the sweet-heart and the old maid, for me mothers and the mothers of mothers, For me lips that have smiled, eyes that have shed tears, For me children and the begetters of children. you are not guilty to me, nor stale nor discarded, I see through the broadcloth and gingham whether or no, And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot be shaken away.

To elaborate is no avail, learn'd and unlearn'd feel that it is so.