um pedaço de poesia

(Walt Whitman, 1819-1892)

[2]
Houses and rooms are full of perfumes…. the shelves are crowded
with perfumes,
I breathe the fragrance myself, and know it and like it,
The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it.

The atmosphere is not a perfume…. it has no taste of the
distillation…. it is odorless,
It is for my mouth forever…. I am in love with it,
I will go to the bank, by the wood and become undisguised and
naked,
I am mad for it to be in contact with me.

The smoke of my own breath,
Echoes, ripples, and buzzed whispers…. loveroot, silkthread, crotch and vine,
My respiration and inspiration…. the beating of my heart…. the
passing of blood and air through my lungs,
The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore and dark-
colored sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn,
The sound of the belched words of my voice…. words loosed to the
eddies of the wind,
A few light kisses…. a few embraces…. a reaching around of
arms,
The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag,
The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields and hillsides,
The feeling of health…. the full-noon trill…. the song of me
rising from bed and meeting the sun.

Have you reckoned a thousand acres much? Have you reckoned the earth much?
Have you practiced so long to learn to read?
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?

Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of
all poems,
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun…. there are
millions of suns left,
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand…. nor look
through the eyes of the dead…. nor feed on the spectres in books,
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,

You shall listen to all sides and filter them for yourself.

(from Song of Myself in the first edition of Leaves of Grass [1855])