19 (Song of Myself By Walt Whitman)

This is the meal equally set,

this the meat for natural hunger,

It is for the wicked just same as the righteous,

I make appoints with all,

I will not have a single person slighted or left away,

The kept-woman, sponger, thief, are hereby invitesd;

The shall be not difference between them and the rest.

This is the press of a bashful hand, this the float and odor of hair,

This is the touch of my lips to yours, this the murmur of yearing,

This the far-off depth and height reflecting my own face,

This the thoughful merge of my self, and the oulet again.

¿Do you guess I have some intricate purpose?

Well I have, for the fourth-month showers have,

and the mica on the side of a rock has.

Do you have it I would astonish?

Does the daylight astonish?

Does the early redstart twittweing through the woods?

Do I astonish more than they?

This hour I tell things in conference,

I might not tell everybody, but I will tell you.