And a now, my favourite poem: OF THE TERRIBLE DOUBT OF APPEARANCES. 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,) naught of what they appear, or naught any how, from entirely changed points of view; --To me, these, and the like of these, are curiously answerd 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. Walt Whitman
Posted on: Wed, 03 Dec 2014 15:48:52 +0000
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