terça-feira, maio 17, 2011

I am mad for it to be in contact with me.


I celebrate myself;  
And what I assume you shall assume;  
For every atom belonging to me, as good belongs to you.  
I loafe and invite my Soul;  
I lean and loafe at my ease, observing a spear of summer grass.
Houses and rooms are full of perfumes—the shelves are crowded with perfumes;  
I breathe the fragrance myself, and know it and like it;  
The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it.  
The atmosphere is not a perfume—it has no taste of the distillation—it is odorless;  
It is for my mouth forever—I am in love with it;
I will go to the bank by the wood, and become undisguised and naked;  
I am mad for it to be in contact with me.  

Walt Whitman.  Leaves of Grass.

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