OF THE TERRIBLE DOUBT OF APPEARANCES.
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 con-
found 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 an-
swer'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.
Walt Whitman, Calamus, Leaves of Grass
