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, 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 rejoices in comrades,Here by myself away from the clank of the world,Tallying and talk'd to here by tongues aromatic,
[ begin page 96 ]ppp.00707.104.jpgNo longer abash'd, (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,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.