Page:Leaves of Grass (1860).djvu/350

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342
Leaves of Grass.

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.



2.

Scented 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,