Ezen a napon, ó, Lélek, csodás tükröt adok neked; Sokáig hevert a sötétben, piszokban és ködben – De a köd eloszlott, vaksága eltűnt; …Nézd csak, ó, … - Walt Whitman

Loafe with me on the grass.... loose the stop from
your throat,
Not words, not music or rhyme I want.... not custom
or lecture,
not even the best,
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.
I mind how we lay in June, such a transparent summer
morning;
You settled your head athwart my hips and gently
turned over
upon me,
And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and
plunged your
tongue to my barestript heart,
And reached till you felt my beard, and reached till
you held my
feet.

WOMEN sit, or move to and fro — some old, some young;
The young are beautiful — but the old are more beautiful than the young.

None has begun to think how divine he himself is and how certain the future is.