... echoes, ripples, buzz’d whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and vine; my respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing of blood and air through my lungs
(from Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass).
“With a sudden movement she bowed his head and joined her lips to his and he read the meaning of her movements in her frank uplifted eyes. It was too much for him.He closed his eyes, surrendering himself to her, body and mind, conscious of nothing in the world but the dark pressure of her softly parting lips.They pressed upon his brain as upon his lips as though they were the vehicle of a vague speech; and between them he felt an unknown and timid pressure, darker than the swoon of sin, softer than sound or odour.
James Joyce, Chapter II, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man