Transformation

Every kind for itself and its own, for me mine male and 
     female,
For me those that have been boys and that love women,
For me the man that is proud and feels how it stings to be 
     slighted,
For me the sweet-heart and the old maid, for me mothers 
     and the mothers of mothers,
For me lips that have smiled, eyes that have shed tears,
For me children and the begetters of children.

Undrape! you are not guilty to me, nor stale nor discarded,
I see though the broadcloth and gingham whether or no,
And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot 
     be shaken away.

from Songs of Myself, 7, by Walt Whitman


Little things like this didn't use to bother me.