Page:Leaves of Grass (1860).djvu/92

84 They descend in new forms from the tips of his
 * fingers,

They are wafted with the odor of his body or breath
 * —they fly out of the glance of his eyes.

Flaunt of the sunshine, I need not your bask,—lie
 * over!

You light surfaces only—I force surfaces and depths
 * also.

Earth! you seem to look for something at my hands, Say, old Top-knot! what do you want?

Man or woman! I might tell how I like you, but
 * cannot,

And might tell what it is in me, and what it is in
 * you, but cannot,

And might tell that pining I have—that pulse of my
 * nights and days.

Behold! I do not give lectures or a little charity,
 * What I give, I give out of myself.

You there, impotent, loose in the knees, Open your scarfed chops till I blow grit within you, Spread your palms, and lift the flaps of your pockets; I am not to be denied—I compel—I have stores
 * plenty and to spare,

And anything I have I bestow.

I do not ask who you are—that is not important to
 * me,

You can do nothing, and be nothing, but what I will
 * infold you.