And as to you death, and you bitter hug of mortality . . . . it is idle to try to alarm me - Walt Whitman

Man or woman, I might tell you how I like you, but cannot,
And might tell what it is in me and what it is in you, but cannot,
And might tell that pining I have, that pulse of my nights and days.
Behold, I do not give lectures or a little charity,
When I give, I give myself.

There was a child went forth every day,

And the first object he looked upon, that object he became...

You have not known what you are — you have slumber'd upon yourself all your life;
Your eye-lids have been the same as closed most of the time;
What you have done returns already in mockeries;
Your thrift, knowledge, prayers, if they do not return in mockeries, what is their return?
The mockeries are not you;
Underneath them, and within them, I see you lurk;