from “Song of Myself” Walt Whitman 1. I celebrate myself, and sing myself, And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.... My tongue, every atom of my blood, form’d from this soil, this air.... 51. 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...