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THESE I, SINGING IN SPRING.

THESE, 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,


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Now along the pond-side—now wading in a little, fear-
ing not the wet,
Now by the post-and-rail fences, where the old stones
thrown there, pick'd from the fields, have accu-
mulated,
(Wild-flowers and vines and weeds come up through
the stones, and partly cover them—Beyond these
I pass,)
Far, far in the forest, 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 em-
brace 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 in spring, there I wander
with them,
Plucking something for tokens—tossing toward whoever
is near me;
Here! lilac, with a branch of pine,
Here, out of my pocket, some moss which I pull'd off a
live-oak in Florida, as it hung trailing down,
Here, some pinks and laurel leaves, and a handful of
sage,
And here what I now draw from the water, wading in
the pond-side,
(O here I last saw him that tenderly loves me—and re-
turns again, never to separate from me,
And this, O this shall henceforth be the token of com-
rades—this Calamus-root shall,
Interchange it, youths, with each other! Let none
render it back!)
And twigs of maple, and a bunch of wild orange, and
chestnut,
And stems of currants, and plum-blows, and the aro-
matic cedar:
These, I, compass'd around by a thick cloud of spirits,
Wandering, point to, or touch as I pass, or throw them
loosely from me,


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Indicating to each one what he shall have—giving some-
thing to each;
But what I drew from the water by the pond-side, that
I reserve,
I will give of it—but only to them that love, as I my-
self am capable of loving.

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