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;
Page:Leaves of Grass (1860).djvu/351
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Calamus.
343
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