Mutate , page 6

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

Thy saviours countless, latent within thyself, thy bibles
     incessant within thyself, equal to any, divine as any,
Thy soaring course thee formulating,

Ensemble, Evolution, Freedom

O how the immortal phantoms crowd around me!
I see the vast alembic ever working, I see and know
      the flames that heat the world,
In each house is the ovum, it comes forth after
      a thousand years. Fill me with albescent honey, bend down to me,
Take now the enclosing theme of all, the solvent and
     the setting,
Love that is pulse of all, the sustenance and the pang,
No other words but words of love, no other thought but love.
Give me for once its prophecy and joy.
The ocean fill'd with joy--the atmosphere all joy!
Joy! joy! all over joy!

That which eludes this verse and any verse,
Unheard by sharpest ear, unform'd in clearest eye or
     cunningest mind,
It and its radiations constantly glide.
As some dissolving delicate film of dreams,
hiding yet lingering.
From unsuspected parts a fierce and momentary proof,
(The sun there at the centre though conceal'd,
Electric life forever at the centre,)
Breaks forth a lightning flash.
In wafted clouds, in myriads large, or squads of twos or
     threes or single ones they come,
And silently gather round me.

O love, solve all, fructify all with the last chemistry.
Give me exhaustless, make me a fountain,
Screaming electric, the atmosphere using,