Appearances

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Title:     Appearances
Author: Walt Whitman [More Titles by Whitman]

Of the terrible doubt of appearances,

Of the uncertainty after all--that we may be deluded,

That maybe reliance and hope are but speculations after all,

That maybe identity beyond the grave is a beautiful fable only,

Maybe the things I perceive--the animals, plants, men, hills, shining and flowing waters,

The skies of day and night--colours, densities, forms--Maybe these are (as doubtless they are) only apparitions, and the real something has yet to be known;

(How often they dart out of themselves, as if to confound me and mock me!
How often I think neither I know, nor any man knows, aught of them!)

Maybe seeming to me what they are (as doubtless they indeed but seem) as from my present point of view--And might prove (as of course they would) naught of what they appear, or naught anyhow, from entirely changed points of view;

--To me, these, and the like of these, are curiously answered by my lovers, my dear friends.

When he whom I love travels with me, or sits a long while holding me by the hand,

When the subtle air, the impalpable, the sense that words and reason hold not, surround us and pervade us,

Then I am charged with untold and untellable wisdom--I am silent--I require nothing further,

I cannot answer the question of appearances, or that of identity beyond the grave;

But I walk or sit indifferent--I am satisfied,

He ahold of my hand has completely satisfied me.

[The end]
Walt Whitman's poem: Appearances

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