Gentlemen look on this curious creature,
Whatever the bids of the bidders they cannot be high enough for him,
For him the globe lay preparing quintillions of years without one animal or plant,
For him the revolving cycles truly and steadily rolled.

In that head the allbaffling brain,
In it and below it the making of the attributes of heroes.

Examine these limbs, red or black or white….they are very cunning in tendon and nerve;
They shall be stript that you may see them.

Exquisite senses, lifelit eyes, pluck, volition,
Flakes of breastmuscle, pliant backbone and neck, flesh not flabby, goodsized arms and legs,
And wonders within there yet.

Within there runs his blood….the same old blood….the same running blood;
There swells and jets his heart….There all passions and desires…all reachings and aspirations:
Do you think they are not there because they are not expressed in parlors and lecture-rooms?

Walt Whitman, “I Sing the Body Electric”, in Leaves of Grass