Page:Leaves of Grass (1860).djvu/110

102  And as to you corpse, I think you are good manure,
 * but that does not offend me,

I smell the white roses sweet-scented and growing, I reach to the leafy lips—I reach to the polished
 * breasts of melons.

And as to you life, I reckon you are the leavings of
 * many deaths.

No doubt I have died myself ten thousand times
 * before.

I hear you whispering there, O stars of heaven, O suns! O grass of graves! O perpetual transfers and
 * promotions!

If you do not say anything, how can I say anything?

Of the turbid pool that lies in the autumn forest, Of the moon that descends the steeps of the soughing
 * twilight,

Toss, sparkles of day and dusk! toss on the black
 * stems that decay in the muck!

Toss to the moaning gibberish of the dry limbs.

I ascend from the moon, I ascend from the night, I perceive of the ghastly glimmer the sunbeams reflected, And debouch to the steady and central from the
 * offspring great or small.

There is that in me—I do not know what it is—but
 * I know it is in me.

Wrenched and sweaty—calm and cool then my body
 * becomes,

I sleep—I sleep long.