NOT heat flames up and consumes, <br /> Not sea-waves hurry in and out, <br /> Not the air, delicious and dry, the air of the ripe summer, bears <br /> lightly along white down-balls of myriads of seeds, <br /> Wafted, sailing gracefully, to drop where they may; <br /> Not these--O none of these, more than the flames of me, consuming, <br /> burning for his love whom I love! <br /> O none, more than I, hurrying in and out: <br /> --Does the tide hurry, seeking something, and never give up? O I the <br /> same; <br /> O nor down-balls, nor perfumes, nor the high, rain-emitting clouds, <br /> are borne through the open air, <br /> Any more than my Soul is borne through the open air, <br /> Wafted in all directions, O love, for friendship, for you. 10<br /><br />Walt Whitman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/not-heat-flames-up-and-consumes/
