walt whitman

O the joy of my soul leaning pois'd on itself, receiving
    identity through materials and loving them, observing
    characters and absorbing them,
My soul vibrate back to me from them, from sight,
    hearing, touch, reason, articulation, comparison, memory,
    and the like,
The real life of my sense and flesh transcending my sense
    and flesh,
My body done with materials, my sight done with my
    material eyes,
Proved to me this day beyond cavil that it is not my material
    eyes which finally see,
Nor my material body which finally loves, walks, laughs,
    shouts, embraces, procreates.

From 'A Song of Joys', lines 98-103