 | Leaves of grass. (1861-1861) |  |
91.
This is the press of a bashful hand—this is the float and odor of hair,This is the touch of my lips to yours—this is the murmur of yearning,
This is the far-off depth and height reflecting my own face,
This is the thoughtful merge of myself, and the outlet again.
| Leaves of grass. (1861-1861) | |