Walt Whitman (1819–1892). Leaves of Grass. 1900.

150. All is Truth

O ME, man of slack faith so long!

Standing aloof—denying portions so long;

Only aware to-day of compact, all-diffused truth;

Discovering to-day there is no lie, or form of lie, and can be none, but grows as inevitably upon itself as the truth does upon itself,

Or as any law of the earth, or any natural production of the earth does.

(This is curious, and may not be realized immediately—But it must be realized;

I feel in myself that I represent falsehoods equally with the rest,

And that the universe does.)

Where has fail’d a perfect return, indifferent of lies or the truth?

Is it upon the ground, or in water or fire? or in the spirit of man? or in the meat and blood?

Meditating among liars, and retreating sternly into myself, I see that there are really no liars or lies after all,

And that nothing fails its perfect return—And that what are called lies are perfect returns,

And that each thing exactly represents itself, and what has preceded it,

And that the truth includes all, and is compact, just as much as space is compact,

And that there is no flaw or vacuum in the amount of the truth—but that all is truth without exception;

And henceforth I will go celebrate anything I see or am,

And sing and laugh, and deny nothing.