Leaves of Grass

do not press my fingers across my mouth, I keep as delicate around the bowels as around the head and heart, Copulation is no more rank to me than death is. I believe in the flesh and the appetites, Seeing, hearing, feeling, are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle. Divine am I inside and out, and I make holy whatever I touch or am tou

And as to you Life I reckon you are the leavings of many deaths, (No doubt I have died myself ten thousand times before.)

Blind loving wrestling touch, sheath'd hooded sharp-tooth'd touch! Did it make you ache so, leaving me?

All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses, And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.

(I am large, I contain multitudes.)

Eidolons

love-flesh swelling

I have said that the soul is not more than the body, And I have said that the body is not more than the soul, And nothing, not God, is greater to one than one's self is,

And there is no object so soft but it makes a hub for the wheel'd universe,