Walt Whitman (1819–1892). Leaves of Grass. 1900.
303. Primeval my Love for the Woman I Love
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O bride! O wife! more resistless, more enduring than I can tell, the thought of you!
Then separate, as disembodied, the purest born,
The ethereal, the last athletic reality, my consolation,
I ascend—I float in the regions of your love, O man,
O sharer of my roving life.