Excerpts from Whitman’s Leaves of Grass

I cannot define my satisfaction, yet it is so,
I cannot define my life, yet it is so.





THIS COMPOST.

I.

SOMETHING
startles me where I thought I was safest;
I withdraw from the still woods I loved;
I will not go now on the pastures to walk;
I will not strip the clothes from my body to meet my lover the sea;



SONGS OF PARTING
...
Or, if you will, thrusting me beneath your clothing,
Where I may feel the throbs of your heart, or rest upon your hip,
Carry me when you go forth over land or sea;
For thus, merely touching you, is enough—is best,


And thus, touching you, would I silently sleep and be carried eternally.