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342 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.



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 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 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,