Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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¹ O ME, man of slack faith so long!

Standing aloof—denying portions so long;

Me with mole's eyes, unrisen to buoyancy and vision
—unfree,

Only aware to-day of compact, all-diffused truth,

Discovering to-day there is no lie, or form of lie,
and can be none, but grows just as inevitably
upon itself as the truth does upon itself,

Or as any law of the earth, or any natural production
of the earth does.

² (This is curious, and may not be realized immedi-
ately—But it must be realized;

I feel in myself that I represent falsehoods equally
with the rest,

And that the universe does.)

³ Where has failed a perfect return, indifferent of lies
or the truth?

Is it upon the ground, or in water or fire? or in the
spirit of man? or in the meat and blood?

⁴ Meditating among liars, and retreating sternly into
myself, I see that there are really no liars or
lies after all,

And that nothing fails its perfect return—And that
what are called lies are perfect returns,

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And that each thing exactly represents itself, and
what has preceded it,

And that the truth includes all, and is compact, just
as much as space is compact,

And that there is no flaw or vacuum in the amount
of the truth—but that all is truth without ex-
ception,

And henceforth I will go celebrate anything I see
or am,

And sing and laugh, and deny nothing.

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