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

243. Gods

THOUGHT of the Infinite—the All!

Be thou my God.

Lover Divine, and Perfect Comrade!

Waiting, content, invisible yet, but certain,

Be thou my God.

Thou—thou, the Ideal Man!

Fair, able, beautiful, content, and loving,

Complete in Body, and dilate in Spirit,

Be thou my God.

O Death—(for Life has served its turn;)

Opener and usher to the heavenly mansion!

Be thou my God.

Aught, aught, of mightiest, best, I see, conceive, or know,

(To break the stagnant tie—thee, thee to free, O Soul,)

Be thou my God.

Or thee, Old Cause, when’er advancing;

All great Ideas, the races’ aspirations,

All that exalts, releases thee, my Soul!

All heroisms, deeds of rapt enthusiasts,

Be ye my Gods!

Or Time and Space!

Or shape of Earth, divine and wondrous!

Or shape in I myself—or some fair shape, I, viewing, worship,

Or lustrous orb of Sun, or star by night:

Be ye my Gods.