I have perceived that to be with those I like is enough,
To stop in company with the rest at evening is enough,
To be surrounded by beautiful curious breathing laughing flesh is enough,
To pass among them . . to touch any one . . . . to rest my arm ever so lightly round
his or her neck for a moment — what is this then?
I do not ask any more delight — I swim in it as in a sea.
— Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass