Wednesday, May 12, 2010

to a stranger

Passing stranger, you do not know how longingly I look upon you;
You must be he I was seeking, or she I was seeking (it comes to me, as of a dream).
I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you.
All is recalled as we flit by each other, fluid, affectionate, chaste, matured;
You grew up with me, were a boy with me, or a girl with me;
I ate with you, and slept with you--your body has become not yours only,
Nor left my body mine only;
You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, as we pass--
You take of my beard, breast, hands in return;
I am not to speak to you--I am to think of you when I sit alone, or wake at night alone;
I am to wait--I do not doubt I am to meet you again;
I am to see to it that I do not lose you.

--Walt Whitman

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