off till I go with them, respond to them,
And discorrupt them, and charge them full with the charge of
     the soul.

Was it doubted that those who corrupt their own bodies
     conceal themselves?

And if those who defile the living are as bad as they who defile
     the dead?
And if the body does not do fully as much as the soul?
And if the body were not the soul, what is the soul?

The love of the body of man or woman balks account, the body
     itself balks account,
That of the male is perfect, and that of the female is perfect.

The expression of the face balks account,
But the expression of a well-made man appears not only in
     his face,
It is in his limbs and joints also, it is curiously in the joints of
     his hips and wrists,
It is in his walk, the carriage of his neck, the flex of his waist
     and knees, dress does not hide him,
The strong sweet quality he has strikes through the cotton
     and broad-cloth,
To see him pass conveys as much as the best poem, perhaps
     more,
You linger to see his back, and the back of his neck and
     shoulder-side.

The sprawl and fulness of babes, the bosoms and heads of
     women, the folds of their dress, their style as we pass in
     the street, the contour of their shape downwards,
The swimmer naked in the swimming- bath, seen as he swims
     through the transparent green-shine, or lies with his face
     up and rolls silently to and fro in the heave of the water,
The bending forward and backward of rowers in row-boats,
     the horseman in his saddle,
Girls, mothers, house-keepers, in all their performances,
The group of laborers seated at noon-time with their open
     dinner kettles, and their wives waiting,
The female soothing a child, the farmer's daughter in the
     garden or cow-yard,
The young fellow hoeing corn, the sleigh-driver driving his
     six horses through the crowd,

The wrestle of wrestlers, two apprentice-boys, quite grown,
     lusty, good-natured, native-born, out on the vacant lot
     at sundown after work,
The coats and caps thrown down, the embrace of love and
     resistance,
The upper-hold and under-hold, the hair rumpled over and
     blinding the eyes;
The march of firemen in their own costumes, the play of masculine
     muscle through clean-setting trowsers and waist-straps,
    
The slow return from the fire, the pause when the bell strikes
     suddenly again, and the listening on the alert,
The natural, perfect, varied attitudes, the bent head, the
     curv'd neck and the counting;
Such-like I love — I loosen myself, pass freely, am at the
     mother's breast with the little child,
Swim with the swimmers, wrestle with wrestlers, march in
     line with the firemen, and pause, listen, count.

I knew a man, a common farmer, the father of five sons,
And in them the fathers of sons, and in them the fathers of
     sons.

This man was of wonderful vigor, calmness, beauty of person,
The shape of his head, the pale yellow and white of his hair
     and beard, the immeasurable meaning of his black eyes,
     the richness and breadth of his manners,
These I used to go and visit him to see, he was wise also,
He was six feet tall, he was over eighty years old, his sons
     were massive, clean, bearded, tan-faced, handsome,
They and his daughters loved him, all who saw him loved him,
They did not love him by allowance, they loved him with
     personal love,
He drank water only, the blood show'd like scarlet through
     the clear-brown skin of his face,
He was a frequent gunner and fisher, he sail'd his boat himself,
     a fine one presented to him by a ship-joiner, he had
     fowling-pieces presented to him by men that loved him,

When he went with his five sons and many grand-sons to
     hunt or fish, you would pick him out as the most beautiful
     and vigorous of the gang,
You would wish long and long to be with him, you would wish to
     sit by him in the boat that you and he might touch each other.