Roots and leaves themselves alone are these;
  Scents brought to men and women from the wild woods, and from the
  Breast-sorrel and pinks of love—fingers that wind around tighter
        than vines,
  Gushes from the throats of birds, hid in the foliage of trees, as the
        sun is risen;
  Breezes of land and love—breezes set from living shores out to you
        on the living sea—to you, O sailors!
  Frost-mellow’d berries, and Third-month twigs, offer’d fresh to young
        persons wandering out in the fields when the winter breaks up,
  Love-buds, put before you and within you, whoever you are,
  Buds to be unfolded on the old terms;
  If you bring the warmth of the sun to them, they will open, and bring
        form, color, perfume, to you;
  If you become the aliment and the wet, they will become flowers,
        fruits, tall blanches and trees.
Other works by Walt Whitman...