First the man is shaped in the woman, he can then be shaped in himself.

Despairing Cries

DESPAIRING cries float ceaselessly toward me, day and night,
The sad voice of Death-the call of my nearest lover, putting forth, alarmed, uncertain,
This sea I am quickly to sail, come tell me,
Come tell me where I am speeding-tell me my destination.
2 I understand your anguish, but I cannot help you,
I approach, hear, behold-the sad mouth, the look out of the eyes, your mute inquiry,
Whither I go from the bed I now recline on, come tell me;
Old age, alarmed, uncertain-A young womans voice appealing to me, for comfort,
A young mans voice, Shall I not escape?

From Leaves of Grass ~ Walt Whitman 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.      2 The smoke of my own breath;   Echoes, ripples, buzz'd whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and vine;   My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing of blood and air through my lungs;    The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore, and dark-colord sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn;   The sound of the belch'd words of my voice, words loos'd to the eddies of the wind;   A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms;   The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag;   The delight alone, or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields and hill-sides;    The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising from bed and meeting the sun.      Have you reckon'd a thousand acres much? have you reckon'd the earth much?   Have you practis'd so long to learn to read?   Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?      Stop this day and night with me, and you shall possess the origin of all poems;    You shall possess the good of the earth and sun-(there are millions of suns left;)   You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books;   You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me:   You shall listen to all sides, and filter them from yourself.                                                5 I believe in you, my Soul-the other I am must not abase itself to you;
And you must not be abased to the other.
Loafe with me on the grass-loose the stop from your throat;
Not words, not music or rhyme I want-not custom or lecture, not even the best;
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.
I mind how once we lay, such a transparent summer morning;
How you settled your head athwart my hips, and gently turnd over upon me,
And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue to my bare-stript heart,
And reachd till you felt my beard, and reach'd till you held my feet.
Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and knowledge that pass all the argument of the earth;
And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own,
And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own;
And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women my sisters and lovers;
And that a kelson of the creation is love;
And limitless are leaves, stiff or drooping in the fields;
And brown ants in the little wells beneath them;
And mossy scabs of the worm fence, and heapd stones, elder, mullen and poke-weed.