biteLeaves of Grass
Leaves of GrassWalt Whitman
poetry · Item 829

O ripen’d joy of womanhood! O happiness at last! I am more than eighty years of age, I am the most venerable mother, How clear is my mind--how all people draw nigh to me! What attractions are these beyond any before? what bloom more than the bloom of youth? What beauty is this that descends upon me and rises out of me?