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Leaves of Grass - Song of Myself by Walt Whitman
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51
BY
Walt Whitman


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The past and present wilt--I have fill'd them, emptied them.
And proceed to fill my next fold of the future.


Listener up there! what have you to confide to me?
Look in my face while I snuff the sidle of evening,
(Talk honestly, no one else hears you, and I stay only a minute longer.)


Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)


I concentrate toward them that are nigh, I wait on the door-slab.


Who has done his day's work? who will soonest be through with his supper?
Who wishes to walk with me?


Will you speak before I am gone? will you prove already too late?



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