Leaves of Grass

Blind loving wrestling touch, sheath'd hooded sharp-tooth'd touch! Did it make you ache so, leaving me?

love-flesh swelling

And as to you Life I reckon you are the leavings of many deaths, (No doubt I have died myself ten thousand times before.)

gossip of flames,

I have said that the soul is not more than the body, And I have said that the body is not more than the soul, And nothing, not God, is greater to one than one's self is,

(I am large, I contain multitudes.)

Eidolons

(Know once for all, avow'd on purpose, wherever are men like me, are our lusty lurking masculine poems,)

The wrestle of wrestlers, two apprentice-boys, quite grown, lusty, good-natured, native-born, out on the vacant lot at sundown after work, The coats and caps thrown down, the embrace of love and resistance, The upper-hold and under-hold, the hair rumpled over and blinding the eyes;