The only purport of the form thou art, the real I myself, An image, an eidolon. - Walt Whitman

Forth from the war emerging, a book I have made, The words of my book nothing, the drift of it every thing,

Undrape! you are not guilty to me, nor stale nor discarded,
I see through the broadcloth and gingham whether or no,
And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot be shaken away.

Gliding o’er all, through all,Through Nature, Time, and Space,
As a ship on the waters advancing,
The voyage of the soul — not life alone,
Death, many deaths I’ll sing.