I celebrate myself, and sing 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. My tongue, every atom of my blood, formed from this soil, this air, born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same.

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 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. The smoke of my own breath, echoes, ripples, buzz'd whispers, the sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore and dark-color'd sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn.