Mutate, Page 3

     lifted out of context from
          LEAVES OF GRASS * (by Walt Whitman)

Currents for starting a continent new,
Overtures sent to the solid out of the liquid,
To glide with thee O soul, o'er all
Gathering these hints, the preludes

That we all labor together transmuting the same charge
     and succession
We few equals indifferent of lands, indifferent of times
Till we saturate time and eras

+

     Whither, O mocking Life?
Yet, soul, be sure the first intent remains, and shall
     be carried out;
(Perhaps even now the time has arrived.)

Passage indeed, O soul, to primal thought,
To realms of budding bibles.

O soul, repressless, I with thee, and thou with me,
The circumnavigation of the world begin;
Of wo/man, the voyage of his/her mind's return,
To reason's early paradise,
Back, back to wisdom's birth, to innocent intuitions,
Again with fair Creation.

O we can wait no longer
We too take ship, O soul,
Joyous, we too launch out on trackless seas,
Fearless, for unknown shores, on waves of ecstasy to sail,
Amid the wafting winds, (thou pressing me to thee, I thee to me,
     O soul,)
Caroling free, singing our song of God,
Chanting our chant of pleasant exploration;
     like waters flowing.

Passage to more than India