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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, eruditions, 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          most 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 re-          spond 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, 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 be-          lieve 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 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 pre-          cisely the same as you mean;

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

View Page 123 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 ac-          cord 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.

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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 exhausting,

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

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,

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, 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 hus-          band's kiss,

For I am the new husband, and I am the comrade.

5   Or, if you will, thrusting me beneath your clothing,

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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—l          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 vaunt-          ingly 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.

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,

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Now along the pond-side—now wading in a little, fear-          ing 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 troop gathers around          me,

Some walk by my side, and some behind, and some em-          brace 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 in spring, 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 pond-side,

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

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,

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Indicating to each one what he shall have—giving some-          thing 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.

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.

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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.

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,

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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          any how, from entirely changed points of view;

—To me, these, and the like of these, are curiously an-          swer'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.

1   AND now, gentlemen,

A word I give to remain in your memories and minds,

As base, and finale too, for all metaphysics.

2   (So, to the students, the old professor,

At the close of his crowded course.)

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3   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;