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CALAMUS.

1.

IN paths untrodden,

In the growth by margins of pond-waters,

Escaped from the life that exhibits itself,

From all the standards hitherto published—from          the pleasures, profits, conformities,

Which too long I was offering to feed to my Soul

Clear to me now, standards not yet published—          clear to me that my Soul,

That the Soul of the man I speak for, feeds, rejoices          only in comrades;

Here, by myself, away from the clank of the world,

Tallying and talked to here by tongues aromatic,

No longer abashed—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,

Resolved to sing no songs to-day but those of manly          attachment,

Projecting them along that substantial life,

Bequeathing, hence, types of athletic love,

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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 of my nights and days,

To celebrate the need of comrades.

2.

SCENTED herbage of my breast,

Leaves from you I yield, 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 dis-          cover 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 burning and throbbing—surely all will one day be          accomplished;

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,

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Yet you are very beautiful to me, you faint-tinged          roots—you make me think of Death,

Death is beautiful from you—(what indeed is beau-          tiful, 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 de-          clines to prefer,

I am not sure but the high Soul of lovers welcomes          death most;

Indeed, O Death, I think now these leaves mean pre-          cisely the same as you mean;

Grow up taller, sweet leaves, that I may see! Grow          up out of my breast!

Spring away from the concealed heart there!

Do not fold yourselves so in your pink-tinged roots,          timid leaves!

Do not remain down there so ashamed, herbage of my          breast!

Come, I am determined 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,

Away! I will say what I have to say, by itself,

I will escape from the sham that was proposed to me,

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;

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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 together above all          —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 conveyed to me that you are the pur-          ports 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.

3.

1   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.

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2   Who is he that would become my follower?

Who would sign himself a candidate for my affec-          tions? Are you he?

3   The way is suspicious—the result slow, uncertain,          may-be destructive;

You would have to give up all else—I alone would          expect to be your God, sole and exclusive,

Your novitiate would even then be long and ex-          hausting,

The whole past theory of your life, and all conformity          to the lives around you, would have to be aban-          doned;

Therefore release me now, before troubling yourself          any further—Let go your hand from my          shoulders,

Put me down, and depart on your way.

4   Or else, only by stealth, in some wood, for trial,

Or back of a rock, in the open air,

(For in any roofed 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.

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5   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.

6   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 after-          ward—I will certainly elude you,

Even while you should think you had unquestionably          caught me, behold!

Already you see I have escaped from you.

7   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.

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4.

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, picked from the fields, have accu-          mulated,

Wild-flowers and vines and weeds come up through          the stones, and partly cover them—Beyond these          I pass,

Far, far in the forest, before I think where I get,

Solitary, smelling the earthy smell, stopping now and          then in the silence,

Alone I had thought—yet soon a silent troop gathers          around me,

Some walk by my side, and some behind, and some          embrace my arms or neck,

They, the spirits of friends, dead or alive—thicker          they come, a great crowd, and I in the middle,

Collecting, dispensing, singing in spring, there I wan-          der with them,

Plucking something for tokens—something for these,          till I hit upon a name—tossing toward whoever          is near me,

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Here! lilac, with a branch of pine,

Here, out of my pocket, some moss which I pulled 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 pond-side,

(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, compassed 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.

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5.

1   STATES!

Were you looking to be held together by the lawyers?

By an agreement on a paper? Or by arms?

2   Away!

I arrive, bringing these, beyond all the forces of          courts and arms,

These! to hold you together as firmly as the earth          itself is held together.

3   The old breath of life, ever new,

Here! I pass it by contact to you, America.

4   O mother! have you done much for me?

Behold, there shall from me be much done for you.

5   There shall from me be a new friendship—It shall          be called after my name,

It shall circulate through The States, indifferent of          place,

It shall twist and intertwist them through and around          each other—Compact shall they be, showing          new signs,

Affection shall solve every one of the problems of          freedom,

Those who love each other shall be invincible,

They shall finally make America completely victo-          rious, in my name.

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6   One from Massachusetts shall be comrade to a Mis-          sourian,

One from Maine or Vermont, and a Carolinian and          an Oregonese, shall be friends triune, more pre-          cious to each other than all the riches of the          earth.

7   To Michigan shall be wafted perfume from Florida,

To the Mannahatta from Cuba or Mexico,

Not the perfume of flowers, but sweeter, and wafted          beyond death.

8   No danger shall balk Columbia's lovers,

If need be, a thousand shall sternly immolate them-          selves for one,

The Kanuck shall be willing to lay down his life for          the Kansian, and the Kansian for the Kanuck,          on due need.

9   It shall be customary in all directions, in the houses          and streets, to see manly affection,

The departing brother or friend shall salute the re-          maining brother or friend with a kiss.

10   There shall be innovations,

There shall be countless linked hands—namely, the          Northeasterner's, and the Northwesterner's, and          the Southwesterner's, and those of the interior,          and all their brood,

These shall be masters of the world under a new          power,

They shall laugh to scorn the attacks of all the re-          mainder of the world.

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11   The most dauntless and rude shall touch face to face          lightly,

The dependence of Liberty shall be lovers,

The continuance of Equality shall be comrades.

12   These shall tie and band stronger than hoops of iron,

I, extatic, O partners! O lands! henceforth with the          love of lovers tie you.

13   I will make the continent indissoluble,

I will make the most splendid race the sun ever yet          shone upon,

I will make divine magnetic lands.

14   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.

15   For you these, from me, O Democracy, to serve you,          ma femme!

For you! for you, I am trilling these songs.

6.

NOT heaving from my ribbed breast only,

Not in sighs at night, in rage, dissatisfied with myself,

Not in those long-drawn, ill-suppressed sighs,

Not in many an oath and promise broken,

Not in my wilful and savage soul's volition,

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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, defiances, thrown from me          when alone, far in the wilds,

Not in husky pantings through clenched 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.