Walt Withman, Song of myself
I believe
in you my soul, the other I am must not abase itself to you, And you must not
be abased to the other. 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 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
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