Page:Leaves of Grass (1860).djvu/69

At length let up again to feel the puzzle of puzzles,
And that we call Being.

175.To be in any form—what is that?
(Round and round we go, all of us, and ever come
back thither,)
If nothing lay more developed, the quahaug in its
callous shell were enough.

176.Mine is no callous shell,
I have instant conductors all over me, whether I pass
or stop,
They seize every object, and lead it harmlessly
through me.

177.I merely stir, press, feel with my fingers, and am
happy,
To touch my person to some one else's is about as
much as I can stand.

178.Is this then a touch? quivering me to a new identity,
Flames and ether making a rush for my veins,
Treacherous tip of me reaching and crowding to
help them,
My flesh and blood playing out lightning to strike
what is hardly different from myself,
On all sides prurient provokers stiffening my limbs,
Straining the udder of my heart for its withheld
drip,
Behaving licentious toward me, taking no denial,
Depriving me of my best, as for a purpose,
Unbuttoning my clothes, holding me by the bare
waist,