From
Leaves of Grass, by
Walt Whitman:
Of the terrible doubt of appearances,
Of the
uncertainty after all, that we may be deluded,
That may-be reliance and
hope are but speculations after all,
That may-be
identity beyond the grave is a beautiful
fable
only,
May-be the things I perceive, the animals, plants, men, hills,
shining and flowing waters,
The skies of day and night, colors, densities, forms, may-be
these are (as doubtless they are) only apparitions, and
the real something has yet to be known,
(How often they dart out of themselves as if to confound me
and mock me!
How often I think neither I know, nor any man knows, aught
of them,)
May-be seeming to me what they are (as doubtless they
indeed but seem) as from my present point of view, and
might prove (as of course they would) nought of what
they appear, or nought anyhow, from entirely changed
points of view;
To me these and the like of these are curiously answer'd by
my lovers, my dear friends,
When he whom I love travels with me or sits a long while
holding me by the hand,
When the
subtle air, the
impalpable, the sense that words and
reason hold not, surround us and pervade us,
Then I am charged with untold and untellable
wisdom, I am
silent, I require nothing further,
I cannot answer the question of appearances or that of
identity beyond the grave,
But I walk or sit
indifferent, I am satisfied,
He ahold of my hand has completely satisfied me.