I believe in you my soul, the other I am
must not abase itself to you,
And you must not be abased to the other.
Loafe with me on the grass,
loose the stop from your throat,
Not words, not music or rhyme I want,
not custom or lecture,
not even the best,
Only the lull I like,
the hum of your valved voice.

leaves of grass - whitman