Excerpt from "Song of Myself" by Walt Whitman

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 up to my barestript heart,
And reached till you felt my beard, and reached till you held my feet.

Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and joy and
knowledge that pass all the art and argument of the earth;
And I know that the hand of God is the elderhand of my own,
and I know that the spirit of God is the eldest brother of my own,
And that all the men ever born are also my brothers . . .
and the women my sisters and lovers,
And that a kelson of the creation is love;
And limitless are the leaves stiff or drooping in the fields,
And brown ants in the little wells beneath them,
And mossy scabs of the wormfence, and heaped stones,
and elder and mullen and pokeweed.

[6]
A child said, What is the grass? Fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child? . . . I know not what it is
any more than he.