Do you? Well, then, it just shows you haven't got any self. It's a mush, not a woven thing. A hotch-potch, not a tissue. Your self.
Oh, Walter, Walter, what have you done with it? What have you done with yourself? With your own individual self? For it sounds as if it had all leaked out of you, leaked into the universe.
Post mortem effects. The individuality had leaked out of him.
No, no, don't lay this down to poetry. These are post mortem effects. And Walt's great poems are really huge fat tomb-plants, great rank graveyard growths.
All that false exuberance. All those lists of things boiled in one pudding-cloth! No, no!
I don't want all those things inside me, thank you.
"I reject nothing," says Walt.
If that is so, one must be a pipe open at both ends, so everything runs through.
Post mortem effects.
"I embrace ALL," says Whitman. "I weave all things into myself."