I am the poet of the Body and I am the poet of the Soul, The pleasures of heaven are with me and the pains of hell are with me, The first I graft and… - Walt Whitman

I dote on myself...there is that lot
of me, and all so luscious.
Each moment and whatever happens
thrills me with joy.

Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space.

HOW solemn, as one by one,
As the ranks returning, all worn and sweaty — as the men file by where I stand;
As the faces, the masks appear — as I glance at the faces, studying the masks;
(As I glance upward out of this page, studying you, dear friend, whoever you are;)
How solemn the thought of my whispering soul, to each in the ranks, and to you;
I see behind each mask, that wonder, a kindred soul;
O the bullet could never kill what you really are, dear friend,
Nor the bayonet stab what you really are:
... The soul! yourself I see, great as any, good as the best,
Waiting, secure and content, which the bullet could never kill,
Nor the bayonet stab, O friend!