Leaves of Grass. Walt Whitman

Singing the song of procreation,

       Singing the need of superb children and therein superb grown people,

       Singing the muscular urge and the blending,

       Singing the bedfellow's song, (O resistless yearning!

       O for any and each the body correlative attracting!

       O for you whoever you are your correlative body! O it, more than all

       else, you delighting!)

       From the hungry gnaw that eats me night and day,

       From native moments, from bashful pains, singing them,

       Seeking something yet unfound though I have diligently sought it

       many a long year,

       Singing the true song of the soul fitful at random,

       Renascent with grossest Nature or among animals,

       Of that, of them and what goes with them my poems informing,

       Of the smell of apples and lemons, of the pairing of birds,

       Of the wet of woods, of the lapping of waves,

       Of the mad pushes of waves upon the land, I them chanting,

       The overture lightly sounding, the strain anticipating,

       The welcome nearness, the sight of the perfect body,

       The swimmer swimming naked in the bath, or motionless on his back

       lying and floating,

       The female form approaching, I pensive, love-flesh tremulous aching,

       The divine list for myself or you or for any one making,

       The face, the limbs, the index from head to foot, and what it arouses,

       The mystic deliria, the madness amorous, the utter abandonment,

       (Hark close and still what I now whisper to you,

       I love you, O you entirely possess me,

       O that you and I escape from the rest and go utterly off, free and lawless,

       Two hawks in the air, two fishes swimming in the sea not more

       lawless than we;)

       The furious storm through me careering, I passionately trembling.

       The oath of the inseparableness of two together, of the woman that

       loves me and whom I love more than my life, that oath swearing,

       (O I willingly stake all for you,

       O let me be lost if it must be so!

       O you and I! what is it to us what the rest do or think?

       What is all else to us? only that we enjoy each other and exhaust

       each other if it must be so;)

       From the master, the pilot I yield the vessel to,

       The general commanding me, commanding all, from him permission taking,

       From time the programme hastening, (I have loiter'd too long as it is,)

       From sex, from the warp and from the woof,

       From privacy, from frequent repinings alone,

       From plenty of persons near and yet the right person not near,

       From the soft sliding of hands over me and thrusting of fingers

       through my hair and beard,

       From the long sustain'd kiss upon the mouth or bosom,

       From the close pressure that makes me or any man drunk, fainting

       with excess,

       From what the divine husband knows, from the work of fatherhood,

       From exultation, victory and relief, from the bedfellow's embrace in

       the night,

       From the act-poems of eyes, hands, hips and bosoms,

       From the cling of the trembling arm,

       From the bending curve and the clinch,

       From side by side the pliant coverlet off-throwing,

       From the one so unwilling to have me leave, and me just as unwilling

       to leave,

       (Yet a moment O tender waiter, and I return,)

       From the hour of shining stars and dropping dews,

       From the night a moment I emerging flitting out,

       Celebrate you act divine and you children prepared for,

       And you stalwart loins.

I Sing the Body Electric

       Table of Contents

      1

       I sing the body electric,

       The armies of those I love engirth me and I engirth them,

       They will not let me off till I go with them, respond to them,

       And discorrupt them, and charge them full with the charge of the soul.

       Was it doubted that those who corrupt their own bodies conceal themselves?

       And if those who defile the living are as bad as they who defile the dead?

       And if the body does not do fully as much as the soul?

       And if the body were not the soul, what is the soul?

       2

       The love of the body of man or woman balks account, the body itself

       balks account,

       That of the male is perfect, and that of the female is perfect.

       The expression of the face balks account,

       But the expression of a well-made man appears not only in his face,

       It is in his limbs and joints also, it is curiously in the joints of

       his hips and wrists,

       It is in his walk, the carriage of his neck, the flex of his waist

       and knees, dress does not hide him,

       The strong sweet quality he has strikes through the cotton and broadcloth,

       To see him pass conveys as much as the best poem, perhaps more,

       You linger to see his back, and the back of his neck and shoulder-side.

       The sprawl and fulness of babes, the bosoms and heads of women, the

       folds of their dress, their style as we pass in the street, the

       contour of their shape downwards,

       The swimmer naked in the swimming-bath, seen as he swims through

       the transparent green-shine, or lies with his face up and rolls

       silently to and from the heave of the water,

       The bending forward and backward of rowers in row-boats, the

       horse-man in his saddle,

       Girls, mothers, house-keepers, in all their performances,

       The group of laborers seated at noon-time with their open

       dinner-kettles, and their wives waiting,

       The female soothing a child, the farmer's daughter in the garden or

       cow-yard,

       The young fellow hosing corn, the sleigh-driver driving his six

       horses through the crowd,

       The wrestle of wrestlers, two apprentice-boys, quite grown, lusty,

       good-natured, native-born, out on the vacant lot at sundown after work,