“Blind, loving, wrestling touch! sheath’d, hooded, sharp-tooth’d touch!”

Blind, loving, wrestling touch! sheath’d, hooded, sharp-tooth’d touch!
Did it make you ache so, leaving me?

Parting, track’d by arriving—perpetual payment of perpetual loan;
Rich, showering rain, and recompense richer afterward.

Sprouts take and accumulate—stand by the curb prolific and vital:
Landscapes, projected, masculine, full-sized and golden

Section 29 of Walt Whitman’s Song of Myself.