Together making God, are gradually creating whole

The single soul.

Somebody called Walt Whitman—

Dead!

He is alive instead,

Alive as I am. When I lift my head,

His head is lifted. When his brave mouth speaks,

My lips contain his word. And when his rocker creaks

Ghostly in Camden, there I sit in it and watch my hand grow old

And take upon my constant lips the kiss of younger truth....

It is my joy to tell and to be told

That he, in all the world and me,

Cannot be dead,

That I, in all the world and him, youth after youth

Shall lift my head.

V

There is a vision, Celia, in your face....

Beauty had lived in India like a mad

And withdrawn prophetess, in Greece had set her pace

Between a laurelled lad

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