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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 rejoices in comrades,

Here by myself away from the clank of the world,

Tallying and talk'd to here by tongues aromatic,

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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.

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!

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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,

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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 com-          pany,

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.

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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,

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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,

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, defiances, 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.

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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 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 finalè 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,

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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 dissat-          isfied 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 shoul-          der 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,

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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 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          pond-side,

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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,

Wafted, sailing gracefully, to drop where they may;

Not these, O none of these more than the flames of me, consum-          ing, 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.

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 tableaus, your specta-          cles, 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 leaves 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,

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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 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 Japan, 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.

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I HEAR IT WAS CHARGED AGAINST ME.