And you must not be abased to the other.
loaf 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 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 pluned your tongue
to my bare-stript 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 elder hand 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 all women my sisters and lovers,
And that kelson of creation is love.
Walt Whitman
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