SHUT not your doors to me, proud libraries, <br /> For that which was lacking on all your well-fill'd shelves, yet <br /> needed most, I bring; <br /> Forth from the army, the war emerging--a book I have made, <br /> The words of my book nothing--the drift of it everything; <br /> A book separate, not link'd with the rest, nor felt by the intellect, <br /> But you, ye untold latencies, will thrill to every page; <br /> Through Space and Time fused in a chant, and the flowing, eternal <br /> Identity, <br /> To Nature, encompassing these, encompassing God--to the joyous, <br /> electric All, <br /> To the sense of Death--and accepting, exulting in Death, in its turn, <br /> the same as life, <br /> The entrance of Man I sing. 10<br /><br />Walt Whitman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/shut-not-your-doors-c/
