söndag 26 mars 2017
Poesi på en söndag
All truths wait in all things,
They neither hasten their own delivery nor resist it,
They do not need the obstetric forceps of the surgeon,
The insignificant is as big to me as any,
(What is less or more than touch)?
Logic and sermons never convince,
The damp of the night drives deeper into my soul.
(Only what proves itself to every man and woman is so,
Only what nobody denies is so.)
A minute and a drop of me settle my brain,
I believe the soggy clods shall become lovers and lamps,
And a compend of compends is the meat of man or woman,
And a summit and flower there is the feeling they have for
And they are to branch boundlessly out of that lesson until it
And until one and all shall delight us, and we them.
Från Songs of Myself, Leaves of Grass