IN paths untrodden,In the growth by margins of pond-waters,Escaped from the life that exhibits itself,From all the standards hitherto publish'd—from the pleasures, profits, eruditions, conformities,Which too long I was offering to feed my soul;Clear to me, now, standards not yet publish'd—clear to me that my Soul,That the Soul of the man I speak for, feeds, rejoices most in comrades;Here, by myself, away from the clank of the world,Tallying and talk'd to here by tongues aromatic,No longer abash'd—for in this secluded spot I can re- spond as I would not dare elsewhere,Strong upon me the life that does not exhibit itself, yet contains all the rest,Resolv'd to sing no songs to-day but those of manly attachment,Projecting them along that substantial life,Bequeathing, hence, types of athletic love,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.