Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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NOT heaving from my ribbed breast only,

Not in sighs at night, in rage, dissatisfied with myself,

Not in those long-drawn, ill-suppressed sighs,

Not in many an oath and promise broken,

Not in my wilful and savage soul's volition,

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Not in the subtle nourishment of the air,

Not in this beating and pounding at my temples and
wrists,

Not in the curious systole and diastole within, which
will one day cease,

Not in many a hungry wish, told to the skies only,

Not in cries, laughter, defiances, thrown from me
when alone, far in the wilds,

Not in husky pantings through clenched teeth,

Not in sounded and resounded words—chattering
words, echoes, dead words,

Not in the murmurs of my dreams while I sleep,

Nor the other murmurs of these incredible dreams of
every day,

Nor in the limbs and senses of my body, that take you
and dismiss you continually—Not there,

Not in any or all of them, O adhesiveness! O pulse
of my life!

Need I that you exist and show yourself, any more
than in these songs.

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