SHUT not your doors to me, proud libraries,
For that which was lacking on all your well-filld shelves, yet needed most, I bring;
Forth from the army, the war emerginga book I have made,
The words of my book nothingthe drift of it everything;
A book separate, not linkd with the rest, nor felt by the intellect,
But you, ye untold latencies, will thrill to every page;
Through Space and Time fused in a chant, and the flowing, eternal Identity,
To Nature, encompassing these, encompassing Godto the joyous, electric All,
To the sense of Deathand accepting, exulting in Death, in its turn, the same as life,
The entrance of Man I sing.
Shut Not Your Doors, &c.
written byWalt Whitman
© Walt Whitman