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28 Not words, not music or rhyme I want — not custom
 * or lecture, not even the best,

Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.

I mind how once we lay, such a transparent summer
 * morning,

How you settled your head athwart my hips, and
 * gently turned over upon me,

And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and
 * plunged your tongue to my bare-stript heart,

And reached till you felt my beard, and reached till
 * you held my feet.

Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and
 * joy and knowledge that pass all the art and
 * argument of the earth,

And I know that the hand of God is the promise of
 * my own,

And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of
 * my own,

And that all the men ever born are also my brothers,
 * and the women my sisters and lovers,

And that a kelson of the creation is love, And limitless are leaves, stiff or drooping in the
 * fields,

And brown ants in the little wells beneath them, And mossy scabs of the worm-fence, and heaped
 * stones, elder, mullen, and pokeweed.

A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me
 * with full hands;

How could I answer the child? I do not know what
 * it is, any more than he.