Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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NOT heat flames up and consumes,

Not sea-waves hurry in and out,

Not the air, delicious and dry, the air of the ripe sum-
mer, bears lightly along white down-balls of
myriads of seeds,

Wafted, sailing gracefully, to drop where they may;

Not these—O none of these, more than the flames of
me, consuming, burning for his love whom I love!

O none, more than I, hurrying in and out;

—Does the tide hurry, seeking something, and never
give up? O I the same;

O nor down-balls, nor perfumes, nor the high, rain-
emitting clouds, are borne through the open air,

Any more than my Soul is borne through the open
air,

Wafted in all directions, O love, for friendship, for
you.

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