Or, if you will, thrusting me beneath your
Where I may feel the throbs of your heart, or
rest upon your hip,
Carry me when you go forth over land or sea;
For thus, merely touching you, is enough—
And thus, touching you, would I silently sleep
and be carried eternally.
But these leaves conning, you con at peril,
For these leaves, and me, you will not understand,
They will elude you at first, and still more
afterward—I will certainly elude you,
Even while you should think you had unquestionably
caught me, behold!
Already you see I have escaped from you.
- Walt Whitman, "Whoever You Are Holding Me Now in Hand"