Not Heaving from My RibbÃ¢â‚¬â„¢d Breast Only. by Walt Whitman
NOT heaving from my ribbâ€™d breast only; Not in sighs at night, in rage, dissatisfied with myself; Not in those long-drawn, ill-supprest sighs; Not in many an oath and promise broken; Not in my wilful and savage soulâ€™s volition; Not in the subtle nourishment of the air; Not in this beating and pounding at my temples and wrists; Not in the curious systole and diastole within, which will one day cease; Not in many a hungry wish, told to the skies only; Not in cries, laughter, defiances, thrown from me when alone, far in the wilds; Not in husky pantings through clenchâ€™d teeth; Not in sounded and resounded wordsâ€”chattering words, echoes, dead words; Not in the murmurs of my dreams while I sleep, Nor the other murmurs of these incredible dreams of every day; Nor in the limbs and senses of my body, that take you and dismiss you continuallyâ€”Not there; Not in any or all of them, O adhesiveness! O pulse of my life! Need I that you exist and show yourself, any more than in these songs.