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Rh What do you think has become of the young and old men? And what do you think has become of the women and children?

They are alive and well somewhere; The smallest sprout shows there is really no death, And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it, And ceased the moment life appeared.

All goes onward and outward .... and nothing collapses, And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.

Has any one supposed it lucky to be born? I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I know it.

I pass death with the dying, and birth with the new-washed babe .... and am not contained between my hat and boots, And peruse manifold objects, no two alike, and every one good, The earth good, and the stars good, and their adjuncts all good.

I am not an earth nor an adjunct of an earth, I am the mate and companion of people, all just as immortal and fathomless as myself; They do not know how immortal, but I know.

Every kind for itself and its own .... for me mine male and female, For me all that have been boys and that love women, For me the man that is proud and feels how it stings to be slighted, For me the sweetheart and the old maid .... for me mothers and the mothers of mothers, For me lips that have smiled, eyes that have shed tears, For me children and the begetters of children.

Who need be afraid of the merge? Undrape .... you are not guilty to me, nor stale nor discarded, I see through the broadcloth and gingham whether or no, And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless .... and can never be shaken away.

The little one sleeps in its cradle, I lift the gauze and look a long time, and silently brush away flies with my hand.

The youngster and the redfaced girl turn aside up the bushy hill, I peeringly view them from the top.

The suicide sprawls on the bloody floor of the bedroom, It is so .... I witnessed the corpse .... there the pistol had fallen.