A WOMAN waits for me—she contains
all, nothing is lacking,
Yet all were lacking, if sex were
lacking, or if the moisture of the right man were
lacking.
Sex contains all,
Bodies, Souls, meanings, proofs,
purities, delicacies, results, promulgations,
Songs, commands, health, pride,
the maternal mystery, the seminal milk;
All hopes, benefactions,
bestowals,
All the passions, loves,
beauties, delights of the earth,
All the governments, judges,
gods, follow’d persons of the earth,
These are contain’d in sex, as
parts of itself, and justifications of itself.
Without shame the man I like
knows and avows the deliciousness of his sex,
Without shame the woman I like
knows and avows hers.
Now I will dismiss myself from
impassive women,
I will go stay with her who waits
for me, and with those women that are warm-blooded and
sufficient for me;
I see that they understand me,
and do not deny me;
I see that they are worthy of
me—I will be the robust husband of those women.
They are not one jot less than I
am,
They are tann’d in the face by
shining suns and blowing winds,
Their flesh has the old divine
suppleness and strength,
They know how to swim, row, ride,
wrestle, shoot, run, strike, retreat, advance, resist,
defend themselves,
They are ultimate in their own
right—they are calm, clear, well-possess’d of
themselves.
I draw you close to me, you
women!
I cannot let you go, I would do
you good,
I am for you, and you are for me,
not only for our own sake, but for others’ sakes;
Envelop’d in you sleep greater
heroes and bards,
They refuse to awake at the touch
of any man but me.
It is I, you women—I make my way,
I am stern, acrid, large,
undissuadable—but I love you,
I do not hurt you any more than
is necessary for you,
I pour the stuff to start sons
and daughters fit for These States—I press with slow
rude muscle,
I brace myself effectually—I
listen to no entreaties,
I dare not withdraw till I deposit
what has so long accumulated within me.
Through you I drain the pent-up
rivers of myself,
In you I wrap a thousand onward
years,
On you I graft the grafts of the
best-beloved of me and America,
The drops I distil upon you shall
grow fierce and athletic girls, new artists, musicians,
and singers,
The babes I beget upon you are to
beget babes in their turn,
I shall demand perfect men and
women out of my love-spendings,
I shall expect them to
interpenetrate with others, as I and you interpenetrate now,
I shall count on the fruits of
the gushing showers of them, as I count on the fruits of
the gushing showers I give now,
I shall look for loving crops
from the birth, life, death, immortality, I plant so
lovingly
now.
Walt
Whitman
(USA
1819-1892)
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