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Rh Knowledge becomes him—he likes it always—he
 * brings everything to the test of himself,

Whatever the survey, whatever the sea and the sail,
 * he strikes soundings at last only here,

Where else does he strike soundings, except here? The man's body is sacred, and the woman's body is
 * sacred,

No matter who it is, it is sacred; Is it a slave? Is it one of the dull-faced immigrants
 * just landed on the wharf?

Each belongs here or anywhere just as much as the
 * well-off—just as much as you,

Each has his or her place in the procession.

All is a procession, The universe is a procession, with measured and
 * beautiful motion.

Do you know so much yourself, that you call the slave
 * or the dull-face ignorant?

Do you suppose you have a right to a good sight, and
 * he or she has no right to a sight?

Do you think matter has cohered together from its
 * diffused float—and the soil is on the surface,
 * and water runs, and vegetation sprouts,

For you only, and not for him and her?

A man's body at auction! I help the auctioneer—the sloven does not half know
 * his business.

Gentlemen, look on this wonder! Whatever the bids of the bidders, they cannot be high
 * enough for it,