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Whitman, Walt, 1819-1892

"Complete Prose Works Specimen Days and Collect, November Boughs and Goodbye My Fancy"

With science, the old theology of the East, long in its
dotage, begins evidently to die and disappear. But (to my mind)
science--and may-be such will prove its principal service--as
evidently prepares the way for One indescribably grander--Time's young
but perfect offspring--the new theology--heir of the West--lusty and
loving, and wondrous beautiful. For America, and for today, just the
same as any day, the supreme and final science is the science of
God--what we call science being only its minister--as Democracy is, or
shall be also. And a poet of America (I said) must fill himself with
such thoughts, and chant his best out of them. And as those were the
convictions and aims, for good or bad, of "Leaves of Grass," they are
no less the intention of this volume. As there can be, in my opinion,
no sane and complete personality, nor any grand and electric
nationality, without the stock element of religion imbuing all the
other elements, (like heat in chemistry, invisible itself, but the
life of all visible life,) so there can be no poetry worthy the name
without that element behind all. The time has certainly come to begin
to discharge the idea of religion, in the United States, from mere
ecclesiasticism, and from Sundays and churches and church-going, and
assign it to that general position, chiefest, most indispensable, most
exhilarating, to which the others are to be adjusted, inside of all
human character, and education, and affairs. The people, especially
the young men and women of America, must begin to learn that religion,
(like poetry,) is something far, far different from what they
supposed.


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