Walt Whitman – Of the Terrible Doubt of Appearances

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 confound 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) nought of what they 
 appear, or nought anyhow, from entirely changed points 
 of view;
To me these and the like of these are curiously answer'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.

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