'whoever you are, i fear you are walking the walk of dreams,
i fear these supposed realities are to melt from under your feet and hands,
even now your features, joys, speech, house, trade, manners, troubles, follies, costume, crimes, dissipate away from you,
your true soul and body appear before me,
they stand forth out of affairs, out of commerce, shops, work, farms, clothes, the house, buying, selling, eating, drinking, suffering, dying.
whoever you are, now i place my hand upon you, that you be my poem,
i whisper with my lips close to your ear,
i have loved many women and men, but i love none better than you.'
// excerpt from 'to you' by walt whitman, leaves of grass