A poem by Walt Whitman

All submit to them, where they sit, inner, secure, unapproachable to analysis, in the Soul;
Not traditions not the outer authorities are the judges they are the judges of outer authorities, and of all traditions;
They corroborate as they go, only whatever corroborates themselves, and touches themselves;
For all that, they have it forever in themselves to corroborate far and near, without one exception.

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