The male is not less the soul nor more, he
   too is in his place,
 He too is all qualities, he is action and 
   power,
 The flush of the known universe is in him,
 Scorn becomes him well, and appetite and 
   defiance become him well,
 The wildest largest passions, bliss that is
   utmost, sorrow that is utmost become
   him well, pride is for him,
 The full-spread pride of man is calming and
   excellent to the soul, 
 Knowledge becomes him, he likes it always,
   he brings every thing to the test of 
   himself,
 Whatever the survey, whatever the sea and
   the sail he strikes soundings at last only 
   here,
 (Where else does he strike soundings except
   here?)

The man's body is sacred and the woman's 
   body is sacred,
 No matter who it is, it is sacred -- is it the
   meanest one in the laborers' gang?
 Is it one of the dull-faced immigrants just
   landed on the wharf?
 Each belongs here or anywhere just as much
   as the well-off, just as much as you,
 Each has his or her place in the procession.

(All is a procession,
 The universe is a procession with measured
   and perfect motion.)

Do you know so much yourself that you call
   the meanest ignorant?
 Do you suppose you have a right to a good
   sight, and he or she has no right to a
   sight?
 Do you think matter has cohered together
   from its diffuse float, and the soil is on
   the surface, and water runs and 
   vegetation sprouts,
 For you only, and not for him and her?