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Rh to rustle for you, do my words refuse to glisten and rustle for you. Unashamed, Whitman will celebrate the body, for

And with equal frankness he will describe and celebrate love:

Not love as the hypocrites of literature understand it—not platonism paralleled by secret lust—but love as healthy human beings understand it, love born of body and soul alike, composed of physical action, touch, and pressure, ennobled by fatherhood and motherhood, and by the divine thought of the generations that are to spring from one embrace. He has then no cause for shame that he loves the body as well as the soul:

Nothing shall be hidden: the whole body shall be sung. His voice, at least, will sing “the song of procreation.” But it is creative love that he sings, not lust: