All The World Is Full

For I Think It Is The Case With Genius That It Is Not When Quiescent So Very Much Above Mediocrity As The Difference Between The Two Might Lead Us To Think, But That It Has The Power And Privilege Of Rising From That Level To A Height Utterly Far From Mediocrity: In Other Words That Its Greatness Is That It Can Be So Great.

That Piecemeal Peace Is Poor Peace. What Pure Peace Allows Alarms Of Wars, The Daunting Wars, The Death Of It?

O The Mind, Mind Has Mountains; Cliffs Of Fall Frightful, Sheer, No-man-fathomed. Hold Them Cheap May Who Ne'er Hung There. Nor Does Long Our Small Durance Deal With That Steep Or Deep.

When I Compare Myself, My Being-myself, With Anything Else Whatever, All Things Alike, All In The Same Degree, Rebuff Me With Blank Unlikeness.

But . . . I May As Well Say What I Should Not Otherwise Have Said, That I Always Knew In My Heart Walt Whitman’s Mind To Be More Like My Own Than Any Other Man’s Living. As He Is A Very Great Scoundrel This Is Not A Pleasant Confession.