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48

All I mark as my own, you shall offset it with your
 * own,

Else it were time lost listening to me.

I do not snivel that snivel the world over, That months are vacuums, and the ground but
 * wallow and filth,

That life is a suck and a sell, and nothing remains at
 * the end but threadbare crape, and tears.

Whimpering and truckling fold with powders for
 * invalids—conformity goes to the fourth-removed,

I cock my hat as I please, indoors or out.

Why should I pray? Why should I venerate and be
 * ceremonious?

Having pried through the strata, analyzed to a hair,
 * counsell'd with doctors, and calculated close,

I find no sweeter fat than sticks to my own bones.

In all people I see myself—none more, and not one a
 * barleycorn less,

And the good or bad I say of myself I say of them.

And I know I am solid and sound, To me the converging objects of the universe
 * perpetually flow,

All are written to me, and I must get what the
 * writing means.

I know I am deathless, I know this orbit of mine cannot be swept by a
 * carpenter's compass,