Walt Whitman Poems

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FAST-ANCHOR’D, eternal, O love! O woman I love!
O bride! O wife! more resistless than I can tell, the thought of you!
—Then separate, as disembodied, or another born,
Ethereal, the last athletic reality, my consolation;
I ascend—I float in the regions of your love, O man,
O sharer of my roving life.

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