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56 Whatever goes to the tilth of me, it shall be you! You my rich blood! Your milky stream, pale strippings
 * of my life.

Breast that presses against other breasts, it shall be
 * you!

My brain, it shall be your occult convolutions.

Root of washed sweet-flag! Timorous pond-snipe!
 * Nest of guarded duplicate eggs! it shall be
 * you!

Mixed tussled hay of head, beard, brawn, it shall
 * be you!

Trickling sap of maple! Fibre of manly wheat! it
 * shall be you!

Sun so generous, it shall be you! Vapors lighting and shading my face, it shall be
 * you!

You sweaty brooks and dews, it shall be you! Winds whose soft-tickling genitals rub against me, it
 * shall be you!

Broad, muscular fields! Branches of live oak! Loving
 * lounger in my winding paths! it shall be
 * you!

Hands I have taken—face I have kissed—mortal I
 * have ever touched! it shall be you.

I dote on myself—there is that lot of me, and all so
 * luscious,

Each moment, and whatever happens, thrills me with
 * joy.