After all, the great lesson is that no special natural sights — -not Alps, Niagara, Yosemite or anything else — -is more grand or more beautiful than… - Walt Whitman

Bleib diesen Tag und diese Nacht mit mir, und du sollst den Ursprung aller Gedichte besitzen,
Sollst besitzen das Gut der Erde und der Sonne, (Millionen Sonnen bleiben noch übrig).
Sollst fürder Dinge nicht mehr nehmen aus zweiter und dritter Hand, noch sollst du sehen durch die Augen der Toten, noch dich nähren von den Schemen in Büchern,
Sollst auch nicht durch meine Augen blicken, noch die Dinge aus meiner Hand nehmen,
Sollst nach allen Seiten lauschen und die Dinge klären durch dich selbst.
(übersetzt von Franz Blei; Hymnen an die Erde)

Stranger, if you passing meet me and desire to speak to me, why should you not speak to me?
And why should I not speak to you?

Walt Whitman (1819–1892). Leaves of Grass. 1900.

To You

WHOEVER you are, I fear you are walking the walks of dreams,
I fear these supposed realities are to melt from under your feet and hands;
Even now, your features, joys, speech, house, trade, manners, troubles, follies, costume, crimes, dissipate away from you,
Your true Soul and Body appear before me,
They stand forth out of affairs — out of commerce, shops, law, science, work, forms, clothes, the house, medicine, print, buying, selling, eating, drinking, suffering, dying.

Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you, that you be my poem;
I whisper with my lips close to your ear,
I have loved many women and men, but I love none better than you.

O I have been dilatory and dumb;
I should have made my way straight to you long ago;
I should have blabb’d nothing but you, I should have chanted nothing but you.

I will leave all, and come and make the hymns of you;
None have understood you, but I understand you;
None have done justice to you — you have not done justice to yourself;
None but have found you imperfect — I only find no imperfection in you;
None but would subordinate you — I only am he who will never consent to subordinate you;
I only am he who places over you no master, owner, better, God, beyond what waits intrinsically in yourself.

Painters have painted their swarming groups, and the centre figure of all;
From the head of the centre figure spreading a nimbus of gold-color’d light;
But I paint myriads of heads, but paint no head without its nimbus of gold-color’d light;
From my hand, from the brain of every man and woman it streams, effulgently flowing forever.

O I could sing such grandeurs and glories about you!
You have not known what you are — you have slumber’d upon yourself all your life;
Your eye-lids have been the same as closed most of the time;
What you have done returns already in mockeries;
(Your thrift, knowledge, prayers, if they do not return in mockeries, what is their return?)

The