27. Song of Myself (Walt Whitman, 1819-1892)

To be in any form, what is that?
(Round and round we go, all of us, and ever come back thither,)
If nothing lay more develop'd the quahaug in its callous shell were
enough.

Mine is no callous shell,
I have instant conductors all over me whether I pass or stop,
They seize every object and lead it harmlessly through me.

I merely stir, press, feel with my fingers, and am happy,
To touch my person to some one else's is about as much as I can
stand.

More: Song of Myself

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From Leaves of Grass, 1855 or thereabouts (Whitman published a lot of editions of this book).

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