Walt Whitman

LEAVES OF GRASS
(1891-92 issue)
complete book, e-book

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From Pent-Up Aching Rivers

 From pent-up aching rivers,
 From that of myself without which I were nothing,
 From what I am determin'd to make illustrious, even if I stand sole
 among men,
 From my own voice resonant, singing the phallus,
 Singing the song of procreation,
 Singing the need of superb children and therein superb grown people,
 Singing the muscular urge and the blending,
 Singing the bedfellow's song, (O resistless yearning!
 O for any and each the body correlative attracting!
 O for you whoever you are your correlative body! O it, more than all
 else, you delighting!)
 From the hungry gnaw that eats me night and day,
 From native moments, from bashful pains, singing them,
 Seeking something yet unfound though I have diligently sought it
 many a long year,
 Singing the true song of the soul fitful at random,
 Renascent with grossest Nature or among animals,
 Of that, of them and what goes with them my poems informing,
 Of the smell of apples and lemons, of the pairing of birds,
 Of the wet of woods, of the lapping of waves,
 Of the mad pushes of waves upon the land, I them chanting,
 The overture lightly sounding, the strain anticipating,
 The welcome nearness, the sight of the perfect body,
 The swimmer swimming naked in the bath, or motionless on his back
 lying and floating,
 The female form approaching, I pensive, love-flesh tremulous aching,
 The divine list for myself or you or for any one making,
 The face, the limbs, the index from head to foot, and what it arouses,
 The mystic deliria, the madness amorous, the utter abandonment,
 (Hark close and still what I now whisper to you,
 I love you, O you entirely possess me,
 O that you and I escape from the rest and go utterly off, free and (...)
(......)