For my enemy is dead. (A man divine as myself is dead.)

So my roommate has complained about the allusions I make in the subject line of my post.

I am sorry if anyone else can't follow my schizophrenic intertexuality. The sub. line is Walt Whitman. The next line of the poem is:

“I draw near. Bend down and touch lightly with my lips. The white face in the coffin.”

That line has always reminded me of the poem by Heine: Der Doppelgänger, in which the man wandering the street comes upon his double in the moonlight:

“Du Doppelgänger, du bleicher Geselle!” (translation: you double, you pale fellow!)

This poem has always reminded me of one thing. The thing I despise and loathe the most in the world. And when I find it in a person, I put my hand on their shoulder to turn them…and I find that it is me.

Der Mond zeigt mir meine eigne Gestalt. (The moon shows me my own form.)