"All truths wait in all things, They neither hasten their own delivery nor resist it, They do not need the obstetric forceps of the surgeon, The insi… - Walt Whitman

My respiration and inspiration.... the beating of my
heart....
the passing of blood and air through my lungs,
The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the
shore and
darkcolored sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn,
The sound of the belched words of my voice....
words loosed to
the eddies of the wind,
A few light kisses.... a few embraces.... a reaching
around of
arms,
The play of shine and shade on the trees as the
supple boughs
wag,
The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or
along the fields
and hillsides,
The feeling of health.... the full-noon trill.... the song
of me
rising from bed and meeting the sun.
Have you reckoned a thousand acres much? Have
you reckoned
the earth much?
Have you practiced so long to learn to read?
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of
poems?

I know perfectly well my own egotism,
And know my omnivorous words, and cannot say any less,
And would fetch you whoever you are flush with myself.

I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning,
How you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turn'd over upon me,
And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue to my bare-stript heart,
And reach'd till you felt my beard, and reach'd till you held my feet.