On Whitman: Do I contradict myself?

I find it impossible to read Walt Whitman's poetry and not come away uplifted from his generous, omniscient, expansive, transcendent voice:

"I pass death with the dying, and birth with the new-washed babe .... and am not contained between my hat and boots"

 A 19th century house-builder-poet whose work I turn to when the 24-hour news cycle goes nuts:

Do I contradict myself?
Very well, then, I contradict myself;
(I am large—I contain multitudes.)

The perfect way to detox after a dose of Fox News:

I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and self-contain’d;
I stand and look at them long and long.
They do not sweat and whine about their condition;
They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins;	685
They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God;
Not one is dissatisfied—not one is demented with the mania of owning things;
Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago;
Not one is respectable or industrious over the whole earth.