Page:Leaves of Grass (1860).djvu/351

Rh 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 beautiful,
 * except Death and Love?)

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 concealed heart there! Do not fold yourselves so in your pink-tinged roots,
 * timid leaves!

Do not remain down there so ashamed, herbage of my
 * breast!

Come, I am determined 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;