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Rh To troops out of me rising—they the tasks I have set
 * promulging,

To women certain whispers of myself bequeathing—
 * their affection me more clearly explaining,

To young men my problems offering—no dallier I—
 * I the muscle of their brains trying,

So I pass—a little time vocal, visible, contrary, Afterward, a melodious echo, passionately bent for—
 * death making me undying,

The best of me then when no longer visible—for
 * toward that I have been incessantly preparing.

What is there more, that I lag and pause, and crouch
 * extended with unshut mouth?

Is there a single final farewell?

My songs cease—I abandon them, From behind the screen where I hid, I advance personally.

This is no book, Who touches this, touches a man, (Is it night? Are we here alone?) It is I you hold, and who holds you, I spring from the pages into your arms—decease
 * calls me forth.

O how your fingers drowse me! Your breath falls around me like dew—your pulse
 * lulls the tympans of my ears,

I feel immerged from head to foot, Delicious—enough.