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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, feeds, 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 of my nights and days,

To celebrate the need of comrades.

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SCENTED HERBAGE OF MY BREAST.

SCENTED herbage of my breast,

Leaves from you I yield, I write, to be perused best          afterwards,

Tomb-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          accomplish'd;

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

Death is beautiful from you—(what indeed is beauti-          ful, 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 pre-          cisely the same as you mean;

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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;

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;

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 to-          gether—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 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,

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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.

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.

2   Who is he that would become my follower?

Who would sign himself a candidate for my affections?

3   The way is suspicious—the result uncertain, perhaps          destructive;

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

Your novitiate would even then be long and exhaust-          ing,

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, 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,

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And in libraries I lie as one dumb, a gawk, or unborn,          or dead,)

But just possibly with you on a high hill—first watch-          ing lest any person, for miles around, ap-          proach 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.

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 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.

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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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 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 go,

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—tossing toward who-          ever 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 pond-side,

(O here I last saw him that tenderly loves me—and          returns again, never to separate from me,

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And this, O this shall henceforth be the token of com-          rades—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 aro-          matic 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 my-          self am capable of loving.

A SONG.

1

COME, 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,          With the love of comrades,          With the life-long love of comrades.

2

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.

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3

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

For you! for you, I am trilling these songs,          In the love of comrades,          In the high-towering love of comrades.

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

Not in husky pantings through clench'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.

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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 con-          found 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,) naught of what they appear, or naught          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.

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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 measure-          less 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 sleep-          less 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, curved 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 fol-          low'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,

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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 undress-          ing, 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 differ-          ent 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?

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Do you see no further than this façade—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 from the 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—breezes set from living          shores out 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.

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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 the ripe          summer, bears lightly along white down-balls          of myriads of seeds,

Wafted, 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;

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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.

Of Him I Love Day and Night.

OF him I love day and night, I dream'd I heard he was          dead;

And I dream'd I went where they had buried him I love          —but he was not in that place;

And I dream'd I wander'd, searching among burial-          places, to find him;

And I found that every place was a burial-place;

The houses full of life were equally full of death, (this          house is now;)

The streets, the shipping, the places of amusement,          the Chicago, Boston, Philadelphia, the Manna-          hatta, were as full of the dead as of the living,

And fuller, O vastly fuller, of the dead than of the          living;

—And what I dream'd I will henceforth tell to every          person and age,

And I stand henceforth bound to what I dream'd;

And now I am willing to disregard burial-places, and          dispense with them;

And if the memorials of the dead were put up indif-          ferently everywhere, even in the room where I          eat or sleep, I should be satisfied;

And if the corpse of any one I love, or if my own          corpse, be duly render'd to powder, and pour'd          in the sea, I shall be satisfied;

Or if it be distributed to the winds, I shall be sat-          isfied.

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CITY OF ORGIES.

CITY of orgies, walks and joys!

City whom that I have lived and sung in your midst          will one day make you illustrious,

Not the pageants of you—not your shifting tableaux,          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 win-          dows, 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 fre-          quent 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, this unrefined face—these          gray eyes,

This beard—the white wool, unclipt upon my neck,

My brown hands, and the silent manner of me, with-          out charm;

Yet comes one, a Manhattanese, and ever at parting,          kisses me lightly on the lips with robust love,

And I, in the public room, or on the crossing of the          street, or on the ship's deck, kiss him in return;

We observe that salute of American comrades, land          and sea,

We are those two natural and nonchalant persons.