Song of Myself-part 7

Has anyone supposed it lucky to be born?
I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I
                  know it.
I pass death with the dying and birth with the new-washed
                  babe, and am not contained between my hat
                  and boots,
And peruse manifold objects, no two alike and everyone good,
The earth good and the stars good, and their adjuncts all good.
I am not an earth nor an adjunct of an earth,
I am the mate and companion of people, all just as immortal
                  and fathomless as myself,
(They do no know how immortal, but I know.)
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 sweetheart 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 through the broadcloth and gingham whether or no,
And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot be
                  shaken away.