Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

Leaves of Grass (1856)

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13—Poem of Procreation.

A WOMAN waits for me—she contains all,
nothing is lacking,

Yet all were lacking, if sex were lacking, or if
the moisture of the right man were lacking.

Sex contains all,

Bodies, souls, meanings, proofs, purities, delica-
cies, results, promulgations,

Songs, commands, health, pride, the maternal
mystery, the semitic milk,

All hopes, benefactions, bestowals,

All the passions, loves, beauties, delights of the
earth,

All the governments, judges, gods, followed per-
sons of the earth,

These are contained in sex, as parts of itself
and justifications of itself.

Without shame the man I like knows and avows
the deliciousness of his sex,

Without shame the woman I like knows and
avows hers.

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O I will fetch bully breeds of children yet!

They cannot be fetched, I say, on less terms than
mine,

Electric growth from the male, and rich ripe fibre
from the female, are the terms.

I will dismiss myself from impassive women,

I will go stay with her who waits for me, and
with those women that are warm-blooded and
sufficient for me,

I see that they understand me, and do not deny
me,

I see that they are worthy of me—so I will be
the robust husband of those women!

They are not one jot less than I am,

They are tanned in the face by shining suns and
blowing winds,

Their flesh has the old divine suppleness and
strength,

They know how to swim, row, ride, wrestle,
shoot, run, strike, retreat, advance, resist,
defend themselves,

They are ultimate in their own right—they are
calm, clear, well-possessed of themselves.

I draw you close to me, you women!

I cannot let you go, I would do you good,

I am for you, and you are for me, not only for our
own sake, but for others' sakes,

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Enveloped in you sleep greater heroes and bards,

They refuse to awake at the touch of any man but
me.

It is I, you women—I make my way,

I am stern, acrid, large, undissuadable—but I
love you,

I do not hurt you any more than is necessary for
you,

I pour the stuff to start sons and daughters fit for
These States—I press with slow rude muscle,

I brace myself effectually—I listen to no en-
treaties,

I dare not withdraw till I deposite what has so
long accumulated within me.

Through you I drain the pent-up rivers of myself,

In you I wrap a thousand onward years,

On you I graft the grafts of the best-beloved of
me and of America,

The drops I distil upon you are drops of fierce
and athletic girls, and of new artists, musi-
cians, singers,

The babes I beget upon you are to beget babes in
their turn,

I shall demand perfect men and women out of my
love-spendings,

I shall expect them to interpenetrate with others,
as I and you interpenetrate now,

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I shall count on the fruits of the gushing showers
of them, as I count on the fruits of the gush-
ing showers I give now,

I shall look for loving crops from the birth, life,
death, immortality I plant so lovingly now.

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