i tell these things in confidence

this hour i tell things in confidence;

i might not tell everybody, but I will tell you.

i believe in you, my soul—the other i am must not abase itself to you;

and you must not be abased to the other.

and i know that the hand of God is the promise of my own,

and i know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own;

i pass death with the dying, and birth with the new-wash’d babe,

and am not contain’d between my hat and boots;

and i know i am solid and sound;

to me the converging objects of the universe perpetually flow;

all are written to me, and i must get what the writing means.

i know i am deathless;

i know this orbit of mine cannot be swept by the carpenter’s compass;

i know i am august;

i do not trouble my spirit to vindicate itself or be understood;

i see that the elementary laws never apologize;

i exist as i am—that is enough;

one world is aware, and by far the largest to me, and that is myself;

and whether I come to my own to-day, or in ten thousand or ten million years,

i can cheerfully take it now, or with equal cheerfulness i can wait.

i laugh at what you call dissolution;

and i know the amplitude of time.

all words walt whitman leaves of grass