Spontaneous Me

  Spontaneous me, Nature,
  The loving day, the mounting sun, the friend I am happy with,
  The arm of my friend hanging idly over my shoulder,
  The hillside whiten'd with blossoms of the mountain ash,
  The same late in autumn, the hues of red, yellow, drab, purple, and
      light and dark green,
  The rich coverlet of the grass, animals and birds, the private
      untrimm'd bank, the primitive apples, the pebble-stones,
  Beautiful dripping fragments, the negligent list of one after
      another as I happen to call them to me or think of them,
  The real poems, (what we call poems being merely pictures,)
  The poems of the privacy of the night, and of men like me,
  This poem drooping shy and unseen that I always carry, and that all
      men carry,
  (Know once for all, avow'd on purpose, wherever are men like me, are
      our lusty lurking masculine poems,)
  Love-thoughts, love-juice, love-odor, love-yielding, love-climbers,
      and the climbing sap,
  Arms and hands of love, lips of love, phallic thumb of love, breasts
      of love, bellies press'd and glued together with love,
  Earth of chaste love, life that is only life after love,
  The body of my love, the body of the woman I love, the body of the
      man, the body of the earth,
  Soft forenoon airs that blow from the south-west,
  The hairy wild-bee that murmurs and hankers up and down, that gripes the
      full-grown lady-flower, curves upon her with amorous firm legs, takes
      his will of her, and holds himself tremulous and tight till he is
      satisfied;
  The wet of woods through the early hours,
  Two sleepers at night lying close together as they sleep, one with
      an arm slanting down across and below the waist of the other,
  The smell of apples, aromas from crush'd sage-plant, mint, birch-bark,
  The boy's longings, the glow and pressure as he confides to me what
      he was dreaming,
  The dead leaf whirling its spiral whirl and falling still and
      content to the ground,
  The no-form'd stings that sights, people, objects, sting me with,
  The hubb'd sting of myself, stinging me as much as it ever can any
      one,
  The sensitive, orbic, underlapp'd brothers, that only privileged
      feelers may be intimate where they are,
  The curious roamer the hand roaming all over the body, the bashful
      withdrawing of flesh where the fingers soothingly pause and
      edge themselves,
  The limpid liquid within the young man,
  The vex'd corrosion so pensive and so painful,
  The torment, the irritable tide that will not be at rest,
  The like of the same I feel, the like of the same in others,
  The young man that flushes and flushes, and the young woman that
      flushes and flushes,
  The young man that wakes deep at night, the hot hand seeking to
      repress what would master him,
  The mystic amorous night, the strange half-welcome pangs, visions, sweats,
  The pulse pounding through palms and trembling encircling fingers,
      the young man all color'd, red, ashamed, angry;
  The souse upon me of my lover the sea, as I lie willing and naked,
  The merriment of the twin babes that crawl over the grass in the
      sun, the mother never turning her vigilant eyes from them,
  The walnut-trunk, the walnut-husks, and the ripening or ripen'd
      long-round walnuts,
  The continence of vegetables, birds, animals,
  The consequent meanness of me should I skulk or find myself indecent,
      while birds and animals never once skulk or find themselves indecent,
  The great chastity of paternity, to match the great chastity of maternity,
  The oath of procreation I have sworn, my Adamic and fresh daughters,
  The greed that eats me day and night with hungry gnaw, till I saturate
      what shall produce boys to fill my place when I am through,
  The wholesome relief, repose, content,
  And this bunch pluck'd at random from myself,
  It has done its work—I toss it carelessly to fall where it may.





One Hour to Madness and Joy

  One hour to madness and joy! O furious! O confine me not!
  (What is this that frees me so in storms?
  What do my shouts amid lightnings and raging winds mean?)
  O to drink the mystic deliria deeper than any other man!
  O savage and tender achings! (I bequeath them to you my children,
  I tell them to you, for reasons, O bridegroom and bride.)

  O to be yielded to you whoever you are, and you to be yielded to me
      in defiance of the world!
  O to return to Paradise! O bashful and feminine!
  O to draw you to me, to plant on you for the first time the lips of
      a determin'd man.

  O the puzzle, the thrice-tied knot, the deep and dark pool, all
      untied and illumin'd!
  O to speed where there is space enough and air enough at last!
  To be absolv'd from previous ties and conventions, I from mine and
      you from yours!
  To find a new unthought-of nonchalance with the best of Nature!
  To have the gag remov'd from one's mouth!
  To have the feeling to-day or any day I am sufficient as I am.

  O something unprov'd! something in a trance!
  To escape utterly from others' anchors and holds!
  To drive free! to love free! to dash reckless and dangerous!
  To court destruction with taunts, with invitations!
  To ascend, to leap to the heavens of the love indicated to me!
  To rise thither with my inebriate soul!
  To be lost if it must be so!
  To feed the remainder of life with one hour of fulness and freedom!
  With one brief hour of madness and joy.





Out of the Rolling Ocean the Crowd

  Out of the rolling ocean the crowd came a drop gently to me,
  Whispering I love you, before long I die,
  I have travel'd a long way merely to look on you to touch you,
  For I could not die till I once look'd on you,
  For I fear'd I might afterward lose you.

  Now we have met, we have look'd, we are safe,
  Return in peace to the ocean my love,
  I too am part of that ocean my love, we are not so much separated,
  Behold the great rondure, the cohesion of all, how perfect!
  But as for me, for you, the irresistible sea is to separate us,
  As for an hour carrying us diverse, yet cannot carry us diverse forever;
  Be not impatient—a little space—know you I salute the air, the
      ocean and the land,
  Every day at sundown for your dear sake my love.





Ages and Ages Returning at Intervals

  Ages and ages returning at intervals,
  Undestroy'd, wandering immortal,
  Lusty, phallic, with the potent original loins, perfectly sweet,
  I, chanter of Adamic songs,
  Through the new garden the West, the great cities calling,
  Deliriate, thus prelude what is generated, offering these, offering myself,
  Bathing myself, bathing my songs in Sex,
  Offspring of my loins.





We Two, How Long We Were Fool'd

  We two, how long we were fool'd,
  Now transmuted, we swiftly escape as Nature escapes,
  We are Nature, long have we been absent, but now we return,
  We become plants, trunks, foliage, roots, bark,
  We are bedded in the ground, we are rocks,
  We are oaks, we grow in the openings side by side,
  We browse, we are two among the wild herds spontaneous as any,
  We are two fishes swimming in the sea together,
  We are what locust blossoms are, we drop scent around lanes mornings
      and evenings,
  We are also the coarse smut of beasts, vegetables, minerals,
  We are two predatory hawks, we soar above and look down,
  We are two resplendent suns, we it is who balance ourselves orbic
      and stellar, we are as two comets,
  We prowl fang'd and four-footed in the woods, we spring on prey,
  We are two clouds forenoons and afternoons driving overhead,
  We are seas mingling, we are two of those cheerful waves rolling
      over each other and interwetting each other,
  We are what the atmosphere is, transparent, receptive, pervious, impervious,
  We are snow, rain, cold, darkness, we are each product and influence
      of the globe,
  We have circled and circled till we have arrived home again, we two,
  We have voided all but freedom and all but our own joy.





O Hymen! O Hymenee!

  O hymen! O hymenee! why do you tantalize me thus?
  O why sting me for a swift moment only?
  Why can you not continue? O why do you now cease?
  Is it because if you continued beyond the swift moment you would
      soon certainly kill me?





I Am He That Aches with Love

  I am he that aches with amorous love;
  Does the earth gravitate? does not all matter, aching, attract all matter?
  So the body of me to all I meet or know.





Native Moments

  Native moments—when you come upon me—ah you are here now,
  Give me now libidinous joys only,
  Give me the drench of my passions, give me life coarse and rank,
  To-day I go consort with Nature's darlings, to-night too,
  I am for those who believe in loose delights, I share the midnight
      orgies of young men,
  I dance with the dancers and drink with the drinkers,
  The echoes ring with our indecent calls, I pick out some low person
      for my dearest friend,
  He shall be lawless, rude, illiterate, he shall be one condemn'd by
      others for deeds done,
  I will play a part no longer, why should I exile myself from my companions?
  O you shunn'd persons, I at least do not shun you,
  I come forthwith in your midst, I will be your poet,
  I will be more to you than to any of the rest.





Once I Pass'd Through a Populous City

  Once I pass'd through a populous city imprinting my brain for future
      use with its shows, architecture, customs, traditions,
  Yet now of all that city I remember only a woman I casually met
      there who detain'd me for love of me,
  Day by day and night by night we were together—all else has long
      been forgotten by me,
  I remember I say only that woman who passionately clung to me,
  Again we wander, we love, we separate again,
  Again she holds me by the hand, I must not go,
  I see her close beside me with silent lips sad and tremulous.





I Heard You Solemn-Sweet Pipes of the Organ

  I heard you solemn-sweet pipes of the organ as last Sunday morn I
      pass'd the church,
  Winds of autumn, as I walk'd the woods at dusk I heard your long-
      stretch'd sighs up above so mournful,
  I heard the perfect Italian tenor singing at the opera, I heard the
      soprano in the midst of the quartet singing;
  Heart of my love! you too I heard murmuring low through one of the
      wrists around my head,
  Heard the pulse of you when all was still ringing little bells last
      night under my ear.





Facing West from California's Shores

  Facing west from California's shores,
  Inquiring, tireless, seeking what is yet unfound,
  I, a child, very old, over waves, towards the house of maternity,
      the land of migrations, look afar,
  Look off the shores of my Western sea, the circle almost circled;
  For starting westward from Hindustan, from the vales of Kashmere,
  From Asia, from the north, from the God, the sage, and the hero,
  From the south, from the flowery peninsulas and the spice islands,
  Long having wander'd since, round the earth having wander'd,
  Now I face home again, very pleas'd and joyous,
  (But where is what I started for so long ago?
  And why is it yet unfound?)





As Adam Early in the Morning

  As Adam early in the morning,
  Walking forth from the bower refresh'd with sleep,
  Behold me where I pass, hear my voice, approach,
  Touch me, touch the palm of your hand to my body as I pass,
  Be not afraid of my body.





BOOK V. CALAMUS

In Paths Untrodden

  In paths untrodden,
  In the growth by margins of pond-waters,
  Escaped from the life that exhibits itself,
  From all the standards hitherto publish'd, from the pleasures,
      profits, conformities,
  Which too long I was offering to feed my soul,
  Clear to me now standards not yet publish'd, clear to me that my soul,
  That the soul of the man I speak for rejoices in comrades,
  Here by myself away from the clank of the world,
  Tallying and talk'd to here by tongues aromatic,
  No longer abash'd, (for in this secluded spot I can respond as I
      would not dare elsewhere,)
  Strong upon me the life that does not exhibit itself, yet contains
      all the rest,
  Resolv'd to sing no songs to-day but those of manly attachment,
  Projecting them along that substantial life,
  Bequeathing hence types of athletic love,
  Afternoon this delicious Ninth-month in my forty-first year,
  I proceed for all who are or have been young men,
  To tell the secret my nights and days,
  To celebrate the need of comrades.





Scented Herbage of My Breast

  Scented herbage of my breast,
  Leaves from you I glean, I write, to be perused best afterwards,
  Tomb-leaves, body-leaves growing up above me above death,
  Perennial roots, tall leaves, O the winter shall not freeze you
      delicate leaves,
  Every year shall you bloom again, out from where you retired you
      shall emerge again;
  O I do not know whether many passing by will discover you or inhale
      your faint odor, but I believe a few will;
  O slender leaves! O blossoms of my blood! I permit you to tell in
      your own way of the heart that is under you,
  O I do not know what you mean there underneath yourselves, you are
      not happiness,
  You are often more bitter than I can bear, you burn and sting me,
  Yet you are beautiful to me you faint tinged roots, you make me
      think of death,
  Death is beautiful from you, (what indeed is finally beautiful
      except death and love?)
  O I think it is not for life I am chanting here my chant of lovers,
      I think it must be for death,
  For how calm, how solemn it grows to ascend to the atmosphere of lovers,
  Death or life I am then indifferent, my soul declines to prefer,
  (I am not sure but the high soul of lovers welcomes death most,)
  Indeed O death, I think now these leaves mean precisely the same as
      you mean,
  Grow up taller sweet leaves that I may see! grow up out of my breast!
  Spring away from the conceal'd heart there!
  Do not fold yourself so in your pink-tinged roots timid leaves!
  Do not remain down there so ashamed, herbage of my breast!
  Come I am determin'd to unbare this broad breast of mine, I have
      long enough stifled and choked;
  Emblematic and capricious blades I leave you, now you serve me not,
  I will say what I have to say by itself,
  I will sound myself and comrades only, I will never again utter a
      call only their call,
  I will raise with it immortal reverberations through the States,
  I will give an example to lovers to take permanent shape and will
      through the States,
  Through me shall the words be said to make death exhilarating,
  Give me your tone therefore O death, that I may accord with it,
  Give me yourself, for I see that you belong to me now above all, and
      are folded inseparably together, you love and death are,
  Nor will I allow you to balk me any more with what I was calling life,
  For now it is convey'd to me that you are the purports essential,
  That you hide in these shifting forms of life, for reasons, and that
      they are mainly for you,
  That you beyond them come forth to remain, the real reality,
  That behind the mask of materials you patiently wait, no matter how long,
  That you will one day perhaps take control of all,
  That you will perhaps dissipate this entire show of appearance,
  That may-be you are what it is all for, but it does not last so very long,
  But you will last very long.





Whoever You Are Holding Me Now in Hand

  Whoever you are holding me now in hand,
  Without one thing all will be useless,
  I give you fair warning before you attempt me further,
  I am not what you supposed, but far different.

  Who is he that would become my follower?
  Who would sign himself a candidate for my affections?

  The way is suspicious, the result uncertain, perhaps destructive,
  You would have to give up all else, I alone would expect to be your
      sole and exclusive standard,
  Your novitiate would even then be long and exhausting,
  The whole past theory of your life and all conformity to the lives
      around you would have to be abandon'd,
  Therefore release me now before troubling yourself any further, let
      go your hand from my shoulders,
  Put me down and depart on your way.

  Or else by stealth in some wood for trial,
  Or back of a rock in the open air,
  (For in any roof'd room of a house I emerge not, nor in company,
  And in libraries I lie as one dumb, a gawk, or unborn, or dead,)
  But just possibly with you on a high hill, first watching lest any
      person for miles around approach unawares,
  Or possibly with you sailing at sea, or on the beach of the sea or
      some quiet island,
  Here to put your lips upon mine I permit you,
  With the comrade's long-dwelling kiss or the new husband's kiss,
  For I am the new husband and I am the comrade.

  Or if you will, thrusting me beneath your clothing,
  Where I may feel the throbs of your heart or rest upon your hip,
  Carry me when you go forth over land or sea;
  For thus merely touching you is enough, is best,
  And thus touching you would I silently sleep and be carried eternally.

  But these leaves conning you con at peril,
  For these leaves and me you will not understand,
  They will elude you at first and still more afterward, I will
      certainly elude you.
  Even while you should think you had unquestionably caught me, behold!
  Already you see I have escaped from you.

  For it is not for what I have put into it that I have written this book,
  Nor is it by reading it you will acquire it,
  Nor do those know me best who admire me and vauntingly praise me,
  Nor will the candidates for my love (unless at most a very few)
      prove victorious,
  Nor will my poems do good only, they will do just as much evil,
      perhaps more,
  For all is useless without that which you may guess at many times
      and not hit, that which I hinted at;
  Therefore release me and depart on your way.





For You, O Democracy

  Come, I will make the continent indissoluble,
  I will make the most splendid race the sun ever shone upon,
  I will make divine magnetic lands,
       With the love of comrades,
         With the life-long love of comrades.

  I will plant companionship thick as trees along all the rivers of America,
      and along the shores of the great lakes, and all over the prairies,
  I will make inseparable cities with their arms about each other's necks,
       By the love of comrades,
         By the manly love of comrades.

  For you these from me, O Democracy, to serve you ma femme!
  For you, for you I am trilling these songs.





These I Singing in Spring

  These I singing in spring collect for lovers,
  (For who but I should understand lovers and all their sorrow and joy?
  And who but I should be the poet of comrades?)
  Collecting I traverse the garden the world, but soon I pass the gates,
  Now along the pond-side, now wading in a little, fearing not the wet,
  Now by the post-and-rail fences where the old stones thrown there,
      pick'd from the fields, have accumulated,
  (Wild-flowers and vines and weeds come up through the stones and
      partly cover them, beyond these I pass,)
  Far, far in the forest, or sauntering later in summer, before I
      think where I go,
  Solitary, smelling the earthy smell, stopping now and then in the silence,
  Alone I had thought, yet soon a troop gathers around me,
  Some walk by my side and some behind, and some embrace my arms or neck,
  They the spirits of dear friends dead or alive, thicker they come, a
      great crowd, and I in the middle,
  Collecting, dispensing, singing, there I wander with them,
  Plucking something for tokens, tossing toward whoever is near me,
  Here, lilac, with a branch of pine,
  Here, out of my pocket, some moss which I pull'd off a live-oak in
      Florida as it hung trailing down,
  Here, some pinks and laurel leaves, and a handful of sage,
  And here what I now draw from the water, wading in the pondside,
  (O here I last saw him that tenderly loves me, and returns again
      never to separate from me,
  And this, O this shall henceforth be the token of comrades, this
      calamus-root shall,
  Interchange it youths with each other! let none render it back!)
  And twigs of maple and a bunch of wild orange and chestnut,
  And stems of currants and plum-blows, and the aromatic cedar,
  These I compass'd around by a thick cloud of spirits,
  Wandering, point to or touch as I pass, or throw them loosely from me,
  Indicating to each one what he shall have, giving something to each;
  But what I drew from the water by the pond-side, that I reserve,
  I will give of it, but only to them that love as I myself am capable
      of loving.





Not Heaving from My Ribb'd Breast Only

  Not heaving from my ribb'd breast only,
  Not in sighs at night in rage dissatisfied with myself,
  Not in those long-drawn, ill-supprest sighs,
  Not in many an oath and promise broken,
  Not in my wilful and savage soul's volition,
  Not in the subtle nourishment of the air,
  Not in this beating and pounding at my temples and wrists,
  Not in the curious systole and diastole within which will one day cease,
  Not in many a hungry wish told to the skies only,
  Not in cries, laughter, defiancies, thrown from me when alone far in
      the wilds,
  Not in husky pantings through clinch'd teeth,
  Not in sounded and resounded words, chattering words, echoes, dead words,
  Not in the murmurs of my dreams while I sleep,
  Nor the other murmurs of these incredible dreams of every day,
  Nor in the limbs and senses of my body that take you and dismiss you
      continually—not there,
  Not in any or all of them O adhesiveness! O pulse of my life!
  Need I that you exist and show yourself any more than in these songs.





Of the Terrible Doubt of Appearances

  Of the terrible doubt of appearances,
  Of the uncertainty after all, that we may be deluded,
  That may-be reliance and hope are but speculations after all,
  That may-be identity beyond the grave is a beautiful fable only,
  May-be the things I perceive, the animals, plants, men, hills,
      shining and flowing waters,
  The skies of day and night, colors, densities, forms, may-be these
      are (as doubtless they are) only apparitions, and the real
      something has yet to be known,
  (How often they dart out of themselves as if to confound me and mock me!
  How often I think neither I know, nor any man knows, aught of them,)
  May-be seeming to me what they are (as doubtless they indeed but seem)
      as from my present point of view, and might prove (as of course they
      would) nought of what they appear, or nought anyhow, from entirely
      changed points of view;
  To me these and the like of these are curiously answer'd by my
      lovers, my dear friends,
  When he whom I love travels with me or sits a long while holding me
      by the hand,
  When the subtle air, the impalpable, the sense that words and reason
      hold not, surround us and pervade us,
  Then I am charged with untold and untellable wisdom, I am silent, I
      require nothing further,
  I cannot answer the question of appearances or that of identity
      beyond the grave,
  But I walk or sit indifferent, I am satisfied,
  He ahold of my hand has completely satisfied me.





The Base of All Metaphysics

  And now gentlemen,
  A word I give to remain in your memories and minds,
  As base and finale too for all metaphysics.

  (So to the students the old professor,
  At the close of his crowded course.)

  Having studied the new and antique, the Greek and Germanic systems,
  Kant having studied and stated, Fichte and Schelling and Hegel,
  Stated the lore of Plato, and Socrates greater than Plato,
  And greater than Socrates sought and stated, Christ divine having
      studied long,
  I see reminiscent to-day those Greek and Germanic systems,
  See the philosophies all, Christian churches and tenets see,
  Yet underneath Socrates clearly see, and underneath Christ the divine I see,
  The dear love of man for his comrade, the attraction of friend to friend,
  Of the well-married husband and wife, of children and parents,
  Of city for city and land for land.





Recorders Ages Hence

  Recorders ages hence,
  Come, I will take you down underneath this impassive exterior, I
      will tell you what to say of me,
  Publish my name and hang up my picture as that of the tenderest lover,
  The friend the lover's portrait, of whom his friend his lover was fondest,
  Who was not proud of his songs, but of the measureless ocean of love
      within him, and freely pour'd it forth,
  Who often walk'd lonesome walks thinking of his dear friends, his lovers,
  Who pensive away from one he lov'd often lay sleepless and
      dissatisfied at night,
  Who knew too well the sick, sick dread lest the one he lov'd might
      secretly be indifferent to him,
  Whose happiest days were far away through fields, in woods, on hills,
      he and another wandering hand in hand, they twain apart from other men,
  Who oft as he saunter'd the streets curv'd with his arm the shoulder
      of his friend, while the arm of his friend rested upon him also.





When I Heard at the Close of the Day

  When I heard at the close of the day how my name had been receiv'd
      with plaudits in the capitol, still it was not a happy night for
      me that follow'd,
  And else when I carous'd, or when my plans were accomplish'd, still
      I was not happy,
  But the day when I rose at dawn from the bed of perfect health,
      refresh'd, singing, inhaling the ripe breath of autumn,
  When I saw the full moon in the west grow pale and disappear in the
      morning light,
  When I wander'd alone over the beach, and undressing bathed,
      laughing with the cool waters, and saw the sun rise,
  And when I thought how my dear friend my lover was on his way
      coming, O then I was happy,
  O then each breath tasted sweeter, and all that day my food
      nourish'd me more, and the beautiful day pass'd well,
  And the next came with equal joy, and with the next at evening came
      my friend,
  And that night while all was still I heard the waters roll slowly
      continually up the shores,
  I heard the hissing rustle of the liquid and sands as directed to me
      whispering to congratulate me,
  For the one I love most lay sleeping by me under the same cover in
      the cool night,
  In the stillness in the autumn moonbeams his face was inclined toward me,
  And his arm lay lightly around my breast—and that night I was happy.





Are You the New Person Drawn Toward Me?

  Are you the new person drawn toward me?
  To begin with take warning, I am surely far different from what you suppose;
  Do you suppose you will find in me your ideal?
  Do you think it so easy to have me become your lover?
  Do you think the friendship of me would be unalloy'd satisfaction?
  Do you think I am trusty and faithful?
  Do you see no further than this facade, this smooth and tolerant
      manner of me?
  Do you suppose yourself advancing on real ground toward a real heroic man?
  Have you no thought O dreamer that it may be all maya, illusion?





Roots and Leaves Themselves Alone

  Roots and leaves themselves alone are these,
  Scents brought to men and women from the wild woods and pond-side,
  Breast-sorrel and pinks of love, fingers that wind around tighter
      than vines,
  Gushes from the throats of birds hid in the foliage of trees as the
      sun is risen,
  Breezes of land and love set from living shores to you on the living
      sea, to you O sailors!
  Frost-mellow'd berries and Third-month twigs offer'd fresh to young
      persons wandering out in the fields when the winter breaks up,
  Love-buds put before you and within you whoever you are,
  Buds to be unfolded on the old terms,
  If you bring the warmth of the sun to them they will open and bring
      form, color, perfume, to you,
  If you become the aliment and the wet they will become flowers,
      fruits, tall branches and trees.





Not Heat Flames Up and Consumes

  Not heat flames up and consumes,
  Not sea-waves hurry in and out,
  Not the air delicious and dry, the air of ripe summer, bears lightly
      along white down-balls of myriads of seeds,
  Waited, sailing gracefully, to drop where they may;
  Not these, O none of these more than the flames of me, consuming,
      burning for his love whom I love,
  O none more than I hurrying in and out;
  Does the tide hurry, seeking something, and never give up? O I the same,
  O nor down-balls nor perfumes, nor the high rain-emitting clouds,
      are borne through the open air,
  Any more than my soul is borne through the open air,
  Wafted in all directions O love, for friendship, for you.





Trickle Drops

  Trickle drops! my blue veins leaving!
  O drops of me! trickle, slow drops,
  Candid from me falling, drip, bleeding drops,
  From wounds made to free you whence you were prison'd,
  From my face, from my forehead and lips,
  From my breast, from within where I was conceal'd, press forth red
      drops, confession drops,
  Stain every page, stain every song I sing, every word I say, bloody drops,
  Let them know your scarlet heat, let them glisten,
  Saturate them with yourself all ashamed and wet,
  Glow upon all I have written or shall write, bleeding drops,
  Let it all be seen in your light, blushing drops.





City of Orgies

  City of orgies, walks and joys,
  City whom that I have lived and sung in your midst will one day make
  Not the pageants of you, not your shifting tableaus, your
      spectacles, repay me,
  Not the interminable rows of your houses, nor the ships at the wharves,
  Nor the processions in the streets, nor the bright windows with
      goods in them,
  Nor to converse with learn'd persons, or bear my share in the soiree
      or feast;
  Not those, but as I pass O Manhattan, your frequent and swift flash
      of eyes offering me love,
  Offering response to my own—these repay me,
  Lovers, continual lovers, only repay me.





Behold This Swarthy Face

  Behold this swarthy face, these gray eyes,
  This beard, the white wool unclipt upon my neck,
  My brown hands and the silent manner of me without charm;
  Yet comes one a Manhattanese and ever at parting kisses me lightly
      on the lips with robust love,
  And I on the crossing of the street or on the ship's deck give a
      kiss in return,
  We observe that salute of American comrades land and sea,
  We are those two natural and nonchalant persons.





I Saw in Louisiana a Live-Oak Growing

  I saw in Louisiana a live-oak growing,
  All alone stood it and the moss hung down from the branches,
  Without any companion it grew there uttering joyous of dark green,
  And its look, rude, unbending, lusty, made me think of myself,
  But I wonder'd how it could utter joyous leaves standing alone there
      without its friend near, for I knew I could not,
  And I broke off a twig with a certain number of leaves upon it and
      twined around it a little moss,
  And brought it away, and I have placed it in sight in my room,
  It is not needed to remind me as of my own dear friends,
  (For I believe lately I think of little else than of them,)
  Yet it remains to me a curious token, it makes me think of manly love;
  For all that, and though the live-oak glistens there in Louisiana
      solitary in a wide in a wide flat space,
  Uttering joyous leaves all its life without a friend a lover near,
  I know very well I could not.





To a Stranger

  Passing stranger! you do not know how longingly I look upon you,
  You must be he I was seeking, or she I was seeking, (it comes to me
      as of a dream,)
  I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you,
  All is recall'd as we flit by each other, fluid, affectionate,
      chaste, matured,
  You grew up with me, were a boy with me or a girl with me,
  I ate with you and slept with you, your body has become not yours
      only nor left my body mine only,
  You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, as we pass, you
      take of my beard, breast, hands, in return,
  I am not to speak to you, I am to think of you when I sit alone or
      wake at night alone,
  I am to wait, I do not doubt I am to meet you again,
  I am to see to it that I do not lose you.





This Moment Yearning and Thoughtful

  This moment yearning and thoughtful sitting alone,
  It seems to me there are other men in other lands yearning and thoughtful,
  It seems to me I can look over and behold them in Germany, Italy,
      France, Spain,
  Or far, far away, in China, or in Russia or talking other dialects,
  And it seems to me if I could know those men I should become
      attached to them as I do to men in my own lands,
  O I know we should be brethren and lovers,
  I know I should be happy with them.