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346 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 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.