Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

contents | previous | next

IN paths untrodden,

In the growth by margins of pond-waters,

Escaped from the life that exhibits itself,

From all the standards hitherto published—from
the pleasures, profits, conformities,

Which too long I was offering to feed to my Soul

Clear to me now, standards not yet published—
clear to me that my Soul,

That the Soul of the man I speak for, feeds, rejoices
only in comrades;

Here, by myself, away from the clank of the world,

Tallying and talked to here by tongues aromatic,

No longer abashed—for in this secluded spot I can
respond as I would not dare elsewhere,

Strong upon me the life that does not exhibit itself,
yet contains all the rest,

Resolved to sing no songs to-day but those of manly
attachment,

Projecting them along that substantial life,

Bequeathing, hence, types of athletic love,

View Page 342

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.

contents | previous | next