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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.

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