Human bodies are words, myriads of words; In the best poems reappears the body, man's or woman's, well-shaped, natural, gay; - Walt Whitman

Song of myself
A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green
stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt,
Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see
and remark, and say Whose?

Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation.

I am he who walks the States with a barb'd tongue, questioning every one I meet,

What is a man anyhow? what am I? what are you?