All goes onward and outward … and nothing collapses

I'm not a very religious person. I wasn't raised with any sort of religious doctrine, and it took me a long time to arrive at the belief system I've got today. I wouldn't even call it a belief system, really. I'm just in love with Walt Whitman.

He puts so aptly, so perfectly into language, the things that make my heart swell; the sense of being related, connected, to every thing that is. He was just so in love with everything, the same way I am. When he says, "every atom belonging to me/ as good belongs to you," I just want to wrap the page around my heart and say, "Yes."

Walt Whitman was born 193 years ago today.

A child said, What is the grass?

A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me with full  hands;
How could I answer the child … I do not know what it  is any more than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropped,
Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say Whose?

Or I guess the grass is itself a child … the produced babe of the vegetation.

Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I receive them the same.

And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.

Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them;
It may be you are from old people and from women, and from offspring taken soon out of their mother's laps,
And here you are the mother's laps.

This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.

O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues!
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing.

I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their laps.

What do you think has become of the young and old men?
What do you think has become of the women and children?

They are alive and well somewhere;
The smallest sprouts show there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it,
And ceased the moment life appeared.

All goes onward and outward … and nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.