From Song of Myself
I celebrate myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat,
Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture,
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.
I am the poet of the body,
and I am the poet of the soul.