Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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HOLD it up sternly! See this it sends back! (Who is
it? Is it you?)

Outside fair costume—within ashes and filth,

No more a flashing eye—no more a sonorous voice or
springy step;

Now some slave's eye, voice, hands, step,

A drunkard's breath, unwholesome eater's face,
venerealee's flesh,

Lungs rotting away piecemeal, stomach sour and can-
kerous,

Joints rheumatic, bowels clogged with abomination,

Blood circulating dark and poisonous streams,

Words babble, hearing and touch callous,

No brain, no heart left—no magnetism of sex;

Such, from one look in this looking-glass ere you go
hence,

Such a result so soon—and from such a beginning!

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