When he whom I love travels with me, or sits a long while holding me by the hand,
When the subtle air, the impalpable, the sense that words and reason hold not, surround us
Then I am charged with untold and untellable wisdom—I am silent—I require
I cannot answer the question of appearances, or that of identity beyond the grave;
But I walk or sit indifferent—I am satisfied,
He ahold of my hand has completely satisfied me.
Text: Walt Whitman, Of the Terrible Doubt of Appearances, excerpt
Image: Unknown, via Miss Magnolia Thunderpussy/Ipernity