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I singing in spring collect for lovers,

(For who but I should understand lovers and all their sorrow and joy?

And who but I should be the poet of comrades?)

Collecting I traverse the garden the world, but soon I pass the gates,

Now along the pond-side, now wading in a little, fearing not the wet,

Now by the post-and-rail fences where the old stones thrown there, pick'd from the fields, have accumulated,

(Wild-flowers and vines and weeds come up through the stones and partly cover them, beyond these I pass,)

Far, far in the forest, or sauntering later in summer, before I think where I go,

Solitary, smelling the earthy smell, stopping now and then in the silence,

Alone I had thought, yet soon a troop gathers around me,

Some walk by my side and some behind, and some embrace my arms or neck,

They the spirits of dear friends dead or alive, thicker they come, a great crowd, and I in the middle,

Collecting, dispensing, singing, there I wander with them,

Plucking something for tokens, tossing toward whoever is near me,

Here, lilac, with a branch of pine, 